✮ SEX EDUCATION: where your hot professor teaches you how to cum!
⋆ LESSON 1: GUIDANCE ON HOW TO TOUCH YOURSELF
you're on his lap, your back is pressed against his chest, your legs draped over his. "wider, baby." you spread, your skirt is bunched around your waist. your soaked panties are already on his desk. he made you take them off the moment you walked in, holding them up to the light and tsking at the wet spot.
"there," he says, satisfied. "now i can see everything." his hands grip the soft skin behind your knees and push your legs even further apart. you're completely open, completely exposed, your bare pussy on full display, glistening in the lamplight. you can feel the wetness pooling beneath you, soaking into his trousers, into his chair. "fuck, look at you. you're already dripping, good girl." you whimper and try to close your legs, but his grip tightens. "ah-ah. keep them open. this is a lesson, remember? you need to watch. you need to learn."
you force yourself to stay still, your pussy throbbing under his gaze. "touch yourself." you hesitate. your hand hovers over your own body, trembling. "i said touch yourself, baby. two fingers. start with your folds. feel how wet my good girl is." your hand moves. your fingers slide through your wetness, and the sensation makes you gasp. you're so wet that your fingers glide effortlessly, your own arousal coating them. "that's it. feel how wet you are? you've been thinking about it, haven't you, baby?" "yes," you whisper. "every night?" "yes, professor." "tell me what you did." "i—" your fingers are moving in slow circles around your clit now, and it's hard to think. "i touched myself. in bed. thinking about you." "good girl. show me how."
your middle finger sliding down to circle your entrance, then back up to your clit. "mmnh..." your hips buck against your own hand. "faster, baby."
you speed up. the wet sounds fill the room, your head falls back against his shoulder, and you feel his breath against your ear. "now two fingers inside, good girl. fill that pretty pussy for me." you slide them in, and the stretch makes you gasp. your walls clench around your own fingers, but it's not enough. it's never enough. you can feel how tight you are, how desperate. "that's it. fuck yourself on your fingers. imagine it's my cock, baby. imagine it's me splitting you open." "ah— ah— hnnggh! professor—" "look at you," he murmurs. "so desperate. such a good student, fucking herself on her own fingers. you'd take my cock just like that, wouldn't you? all desperate and whimpering." "yes! yes!" you're fucking yourself faster now, your hips lifting to meet your own hand. "that's my good girl, play with your clit now. use your thumb. circle it." your thumb finds your clit, and the it makes you cry out. you're so sensitive, so swollen, every touch sending sparks through your body.
"ah—hah! professor! i'm— i'm close—" "good. cum for me, baby. cum on your fingers like the good pretty girl you are." but something stops you, you're right there, teetering on the edge. your fingers pump desperately, your thumb rubs frantically, but you just can't. "i— i can't— nnghhh! " your voice breaks. "i can't without you, professor. please. please, i need your fingers. i need you."
his grip on your legs tightens so hard it might bruise. you can feel how hard he is against your lower back, his cock pressing into your spine. "if i touch you, baby, it's no longer for education. do you understand that? if i put my fingers inside this tight little pussy, it's because i want to. not because i'm teaching you. do you really want that?" "yes," you sob. "yes, i want that. i don't care. please! i don't care about the lesson... hah! i just want you—"
"say it again." "i want you to touch me. i want your fingers inside me. please, professor, please— i need you—" "that's all i needed to hear, babygirl." his fingers slide into you over yours. two of them — thick, massive. he pushes past your fingers, deeper, and the stretch is blinding. you scream, but his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling it.
"shh, shh," he breathes in your ear, but he doesn't stop. his fingers move inside you with yours, fucking you open. "take it. take it all, baby." "mmmnnnghh! hir— nnnghh!" "that's it. feel how thick i am? feel how your pussy stretches around me? this is what you've been begging for, good girl." his fingers are so much bigger than yours. they fill you completely, pressing against your walls, curling exactly where you need them. and then his thumb finds your clit, presses down, circles. "fuck— ah!.. haaah— professor!"
your legs kick, but he holds them wide, keeps you open, keeps you taking it. you're sobbing against his hand, drool running down your chin, completely destroyed. "that's it. that's my good girl. you're going to cum on my fingers now. you're going to soak my hand, baby. say thank you." "th— thank you—" "louder." "thank you, sir!—"
your orgasm rips through you, your back arches, your head falls back against his shoulder, and you cum hard, your walls clenching around his fingers, your own fingers, everything. your vision whites out. a long, guttural moan tears from your throat as he works you through it, his thumb still circling your clit, his fingers still pumping, never stopping.
"fuck," he mutters, watching you fall apart. "that's it. that's it. good fucking girl. look at you cumming all over my hand. such a pretty sight." when you finally come down, you're shaking. your hand falls away, when he slowly withdraws his fingers, shiny with your cum, and brings them to his mouth. he sucks them clean, one by one, eyes never leaving yours. the sight makes your pussy clench again. "you're a fast learner, babygirl."
⋆ LESSON 2: LET HIM DROWN IN YOU!
his desk is cold against your bare ass. he's cleared it — pushed aside stacks of papers, a laptop, a mug of pens, some students' project folders — and lifted you onto it like you weigh nothing. your legs are spread wide, your heels resting on the edge, your pussy fully exposed and dripping, the papers beneath you are getting wet, but neither of you gives a single fuck.
"you asked me how this would help you learn," he says, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you even wider. "the truth is, baby, it doesn't." you blink. "what?" "i just want to eat this pretty pussy. i've been thinking about it since the first time you sat on my lap. that sweet little cunt grinding on my thigh. i need to taste it."
"then—" "you need to know what a good eating out feels like. so you know what to expect." he grins against your inner thigh. "but mostly because i can't stop thinking about your taste." and then his mouth is on you. he doesn't start slow. he dives in, tongue flat against your entire pussy, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long, wet stroke. you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. "ah! fuckfuckk! professor!"
"mmmnh— fuck—" he hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck. his tongue circles your clit, flicks it, sucks it into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to spit on your pussy — a wet, obscene glob that slides down your folds — and then he's back, spreading it with his tongue, mixing his spit with your wetness.
"that's it. taste so fucking good, baby. sweet, wet and perfect. this is what a good pussy tastes like. remember that." "nnngh!— ah— hnnggh—hiro—" his fingers spread your folds open, and he dives deeper, his tongue pushing inside you. you feel it fucking you, curling, tasting your walls, and you're already so close, your thighs trembling around his head. "cum for me, baby," he says against your clit. "first one. give it to me." "i— i—" "cum. now."
his tongue flicks your clit fast, hard, and you cum with a scream, your back arching off the desk. he doesn't stop. he licks through it, groaning against your sensitive pussy drinking everything you give him. "mmmngh— yes. there we go, good girl. that's one."
your legs are shaking, you think it's over. well, it's not. he goes back in, sucking your clit between his lips, rubbing it with the flat of his tongue. his fingers slide inside you, curling, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "i can't! — another one— it's too haah! much—" "you can, pretty girl and you will. look at this pussy. she's not done yet."
his mouth descends again, and this time he's rougher. he presses his face hard into your pussy, his nose grinding against your clit, his tongue fucking you deep. he talks to it, low and breathless, his lips brushing against your folds. "such a pretty pussy. so wet for me, baby. you love this, don't you? having your professor on his knees eating you out in his office while others' works get ruined under your wet ass. you love it."
"yes! i love it! oh my go—i love it! professor—" "tell my pussy you love it." "i love it! i love my pussy— i love your mouth on it—" "then cum again, good girl." he pinches your clit between his teeth — just enough pressure, and the second orgasm rips through you. your legs clamp around his head, but he doesn't move. he stays buried in your cunt, lapping at you, groaning against you. "mmmngh. mmnh—" until you're twitching and oversensitive, sobbing from the intensity.
when you finally go limp, he looks up at you. his face is destroyed — wet, shiny, your cum dripping from his chin, his lips, his nose, his eyebrows. he doesn't wipe it off. "one more, baby."
⋆ LESSON 3: GET ABSOLUTELY POUNDED BY HIS BIG COCK
he points to his desk — the lower one, where his teaching assistant usually sits, covered in student papers. "on all fours." you don't hesitate. your palms hit the wood, your spine arches, your ass pushes back toward him, grinding in the air. you're wearing a dress tonight — short, thin, no panties, and you know he can see everything. your pussy is already dripping, your arousal slicking your thighs.
"look at you," he breathes. "soaking wet and i haven't even touched you yet." "please," you whimper. "please, professor, i can't wait anymore! i need you—" "you'll wait until i say you're ready, good girl." he drops to his knees behind you. his hands spread your cheeks apart, and you feel his breath on your cunt, hot and damp. "i've already made you cum twice tonight, remember? on my tongue, on my fingers. so this won't hurt, baby. i made sure you're ready."
"yes— yes—" but his mouth isn't finished. he leans in, licks a long stripe up your slit, and you moan, your arms nearly buckling. "for luck." "professor— i can't! mmnh! i've already—" "shut up and take it." his tongue slides inside you just to try it again. "good girl," he says, standing up. "now you're ready."
he unbuckles his belt, the sound of the metal jingling makes your pussy clench. his trousers drop just enough to free his cock — thick, hard, leaking, the head glistening with pre-cum. he strokes himself, and you watch him over your shoulder, drooling, your mouth open.
"tell me what you want, baby." "i want your cock, professor. please. inside me." "how badly, pretty girl?" "so badly i can't think. i can't breathe. please— i've been so good— i've learned everything— please just fuck me—" he steps forward. the head of his cock presses against your entrance, and you push back, trying to take him, but he holds your hips still.
"slow, baby or it'll hurt. i'm big and you're tight. breathe." "nnnngh... please—" he pushes in, just the head. you scream, but it's late, the building is empty, no one can hear you. he's so big — bigger than you imagined, bigger than his fingers, and the stretch is blinding, burning, perfect.
"breathe, baby. breathe for me." you gasp and he pushes deeper. "ah! mmnghh!!— fuck! professor!" "that's it. taking it. taking all of this cock. such a good fucking girl." he slides in to the hilt, and you feel like you're being ripped apart. his balls press against your clit, and he's so deep inside you that your walls clench around him, trying to adjust to his size.
"look at you," he groans. "taking my whole cock. this tight little pussy was made for me, babygirl." "move— please— move—" and he does. at first he's gentle — slow, deep thrusts that let you feel every inch. his hands grip your hips, guiding you, teaching you. you can feel every ridge of his cock, every vein.
"rock back into me, baby. meet my thrusts. that's it. feel how good it is when you move together." "harder, please! haah! harder!" "yeah? you want me to fuck this sweet pussy proper?" "yes, please!" he slams into you. hard. the desk screeches against the floor. papers scatter. a lamp wobbles and falls. "fuckkkfuck! hiromi!" "that's it— that's my good little slut— take this cock."
his hips pound into you, his balls slapping against your clit. he reaches around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. your legs give out, but he holds you up, one arm around your waist, still fucking you, never stopping. "i'm gonna! gonna cum nngh! wanna—" "not yet."
he pulls you up against his chest. his cock stays buried in you, and now he's fucking you from behind, upright, one hand on your hip, one hand on your throat, squeezing just slightly. "you feel that? that's what a real cock feels like, baby. that's what you've been begging for all these weeks." "yes yes! mmmhnah! thank you, thank you professor!" "thank me by cumming. cum on my cock. soak it."
he slams into you, and his fingers work your clit, your head falls back against his shoulder, making you cum with a scream that echoes through the empty building — "ahhh— fuckkk, yesyes, so good! "fuccck, yes— cum for me— cum on my cock." your walls clench around him, and he groans. "nnnnggh— fuckkk— baby mmmnhh— gonna cum, where do you want it?"
"i'm on the pill," you gasp. "cum inside me, professor. please. please, i want to feel it." "yeah? you want me to fill this tight little pussy? you want to walk around campus tomorrow feeling my cum dripping out of you, baby?" "yes! haahhh! pleasepleaseplease!" "gonna! i'm gonna— fuck—"
he slams into you one last time. his cock pulses, and you feel it — hot, thick, flooding you. he groans your name and you feel him twitch inside you as he fills you, his cum spilling deep into your cunt. "fucckkk that's my baby, mmhnh... sweetest pussy, all mine." when he's done, he doesn't pull out. he stays inside you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slicked and shaking. lessons completed.
more? ──── art cr. @ yunonoai on x sparkle cr: @kthice
synopsis: your best friend's older brother finally added you on instagram. what's a little harm in flirting with him through instagram notes?
inspired by the ig notes au trend on tiktok!
part 1 part 2
a/n: pt 3 is finally done omfg. again, hope it doesn't disappoint anyone, I tried to flesh out their relationship before commitment. anyway off to make frat gojoooooo (with a hint of him being a sugar daddy) (spoiler?)
when the boy who always calls you "angel" refuses to admit his feelings, you're left with no choice but to say yes to someone else—forcing him to realize too late that losing you was never part of the game.
starring. nagi seishiro x fem!reader ft. mikage reo
genre: fluff, romance, mild angst, cupid!reo, reo is stressed, nagi's so dense
wc: 10.3k
You first met Nagi Seishiro through your best friend, Mikage Reo — Hakuho High School’s golden boy.
If there was anyone who could juggle soccer captaincy, straight A’s, an overflowing social life, and still find time to tease you before homeroom, it was Reo. He had the kind of smile that made people trust him too easily and the kind of confidence that made teachers both adore and resent him.
Everyone adored him.
But you never did — not like that.
You and Reo had known each other since you were five, since he’d tried to share his pudding at daycare and got it smeared across his designer uniform when you slapped it away. From then on, it was chaos and camaraderie: late-night calls for math homework, popcorn fights during cram sessions, and long car rides in the Mikage family limo with your knees knocking under shared blankets.
You were like siblings — something even Reo’s fangirls at school refused to believe.
“Why would I date Reo?” you’d asked once, horrified. “That’s like dating my cousin.”
Reo, overhearing it from across the hall, only shrugged. “That’s her way of saying I’m the more attractive one.”
It was all harmless teasing — always had been.
But then came him.
The day Reo introduced you to Nagi, you had no expectations. You were just tagging along to another of his after-practice hangouts, this time near the gym’s side benches, where he said a “new recruit” was waiting.
You weren’t prepared for the tall, white-haired boy who barely spared you a glance when you arrived.
“This is Nagi Seishiro,” Reo had said with a proud grin, clapping a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “Monster on the field. Zero social skills. Doesn’t care about anything except games.”
Nagi looked up from his phone — not because he wanted to, but because Reo had nudged him. His eyes were dull, like nothing around him sparked much interest. The only life in him came from the game lighting up his screen.
Reo gestured to you. “This is Angel.”
You blinked. “Excuse me—”
“It’s what I call her. Don’t question it.”
Nagi’s gaze lingered for a second. “Angel, huh.”
His voice was flat, disinterested. But oddly enough… he repeated the name like it mattered.
That was all he said before looking back down at his phone.
You’d never met someone so unimpressed with the world.
And yet — somehow — you found yourself drawn to him anyway.
Maybe it was the way he moved like everything was too much trouble, yet still found his way next to you. Or maybe it was the quiet comfort of his presence, how even in silence, he never made you feel alone. There was something hypnotic about his stillness — as if chaos couldn’t touch him. And when you were around him, it couldn’t touch you either.
It started subtly.
Nagi never called you by your name. Just Angel.
Not once had he asked if it was okay. He just picked it up the way someone picks up a new favorite song — without effort, without question. It was like a default setting in his brain. Automatic. Natural. Like he couldn’t imagine calling you anything else.
It didn’t help, though. Not when he kept giving you mixed signals.
Nagi might’ve looked distracted all the time, his gaze often glued to his phone or drifting to the clouds during class — but he always paid attention to you. He remembered the details you told him: your favorite snack during exam season, the exact way you liked your tea, the movie you wanted to watch next. Once, you’d casually mentioned how your feet always got cold in the library, and the next time you studied together, he brought an extra pair of fuzzy socks like it was no big deal.
He didn’t say much. Never did. But he showed up in ways that made your heart ache.
Like the way he’d always wander over to you after hours of football practice, the sky fading pink above Hakuho High’s rooftop or the sun casting long shadows on the back field. Sweaty and slow-moving, he’d drop his duffle bag beside you with a grunt, flopping onto the grass like gravity had finally won.
Sometimes he’d tug at your sleeve in that lazy, silent way of asking for attention — head resting on your thigh as if it were the most obvious pillow in the world. No warning. No asking. Just trust.
And you always let him.
You’d card your fingers through his soft white hair, and he’d hum, quiet and content, almost like a cat purring. The world seemed to dull when he was like that — when his breathing evened out and his body melted into yours like he belonged there.
Sometimes, he’d shift closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck, voice barely a whisper.
“Sleepy, Angel.”
Just two words. But you’d feel them for hours after.
You’d sit there frozen, breath caught in your throat, heart thundering like it was trying to break out of your ribs. And he — unbothered, eyes half-lidded and heavy — would fall asleep to the sound of your racing pulse.
He didn’t realize what he was doing to you.
Or maybe he did. You could never really tell.
Because when the sun dipped low enough, and the rest of the team started filing out, Nagi would lift his head, yawn, and walk off like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just cracked your heart open with one word, one look, one casual lean into your shoulder.
It wasn’t fair — how someone so unattached could still have that kind of power over you.
It wasn’t fair that you started hoping he’d do it again.
Because every time he touched you like that — every time he called you Angel in that soft, half-asleep tone — it felt like a dream you weren’t allowed to wake up from.
And yet, you never stopped waiting for the next time.
Oh, but it didn’t stop with lazy afternoons and fleeting moments of closeness. Not even close.
There were other moments — quieter ones, tucked between school and soccer practice, when it was just you, Reo, and Nagi heading off-campus for food. Reo would always act like he was treating royalty, leading you both with swagger and flair, his platinum card practically flashing in the sunlight.
He’d announce, “My treat, obviously,” before you even stepped into the restaurant. Mikage Reo: Hakuho High’s golden boy, heir to the building you were sitting in, and yet still the same loud, dramatic idiot you grew up with.
But your focus was never on him.
Because Nagi, without fail, would always slide into the seat beside you. Even if Reo sat next to you first, Nagi would stand there, towering, blinking once before saying, “Move.” And Reo — used to his antics — would just sigh and scoot without complaint.
He didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
And every time Nagi settled beside you, your heart did that stupid thing again — tripped over itself, stumbled into your ribs, and reminded you that you were already too far gone.
It always happened the same way.
You’d be mid-bite or mid-conversation when suddenly, his fingers would find yours beneath the table. Not a brush. Not an accidental touch. A full-on interlock. As if your hand was made to fit into his.
Sometimes, his grip was light, absent-minded — his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your palm while he focused on his rice bowl. Sometimes, it was firmer, grounding. Like he needed to hold on to something, and for some reason, that something was always you.
One time, he caught your hand before you could even sit down, pulling it into his lap casually.
“Your hand’s warm,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with that usual drowsy calm. “And soft.”
Like it was the most obvious observation in the world. Like it meant nothing.
But it didn’t mean nothing to you.
It never did.
Because every time he said something like that—quiet and thoughtless, like a dream slipping through your fingers—it burrowed deeper into your heart. And left you wondering: Does he even know what he’s doing to me?
Across the table, Reo would catch your eye with a smirk.
He’d rest his chin in his hand, grinning like a fox. “You two should just date already,” he’d say one afternoon, loud enough for Nagi to hear.
You choked on your drink.
Nagi didn’t even flinch. “Too much work,” he replied without missing a beat—but his grip on your hand didn’t loosen.
Your stomach twisted. And Reo? He looked at you knowingly, as if he could see the spiral in your mind before you even admitted it to yourself.
You wanted to believe there was something there. That the touches meant something. That the nickname wasn’t just a habit. That the way he leaned into your shoulder and closed his eyes wasn’t just comfort—it was you.
But Nagi never said anything.
And you were too scared to ask.
Because what if it really was just who he was? What if the closeness you treasured so deeply… wasn’t special to him at all?
You hated how much the uncertainty hurt.
Hated how you still looked for his name on your phone screen.
Hated how your heart reacted to every small thing he did—like it hadn’t learned how to protect itself.
Because no matter how casual he made it seem… holding Nagi’s hand always felt like the closest thing to home.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part.
Because when something starts to feel like home, you forget it was never promised to you. You start expecting it—counting on it—imagining things that were never said out loud. You start building a future in the quiet spaces between words he never meant for you to read into.
You told yourself you were fine with the silence. That you could live in the in-between. But your heart knew better. It ached louder every time Nagi pulled you a little closer… and said nothing at all.
So now—suffocating in feelings you never meant to have—you were sprawled like a corpse on the oversized couch in Reo’s ridiculous penthouse living room.
Hakuho High’s golden boy, born with a silver spoon and a rooftop garden, was currently snacking on something that cost more than your weekly lunch allowance and watching you fall apart with the patience of someone used to your drama.
“Fuck it!” you screamed into one of his designer pillows, muffled but heartfelt. “I hate him. I hate his stupid hair, and his lazy slouch, and the way he breathes like the world is boring and calls me angel like he didn’t just short-circuit my entire central nervous system.”
Reo didn’t even flinch. “So,” he said casually, tossing another popcorn kernel into his mouth, “you’re saying you’re fine.”
You let out a long, wounded groan into the cushions. “You ruined my life, Mikage.”
“Oh, is that what I did?” he said, utterly unfazed. “You were so normal before Nagi, huh? Always emotionally stable, never crying over how ‘his voice sounds like fresh snow falling on a winter night.’”
Your head snapped up. “I never said that.”
He smirked. “You did. Last week. When he called you at midnight to ask what time practice was and you replayed the voicemail six times.”
Your cheeks burned. “That’s… not the point!”
“No, you’re right. The point is, I introduced you two. I should get matchmaking royalties.”
You sat up, dramatically throwing off his fancy blanket. “You should’ve never introduced him to me, Reo!”
Reo gave you a shit-eating grin. “Why? Because he’s hot, mysterious, emotionally unavailable, and clearly soft for you? Yeah, sorry. That’s on me.”
You groaned and flopped back onto the couch. “He’s not soft for me.”
“Oh, right. My bad,” he said, mock-serious. “He just randomly holds your hand during lunch, naps with his head in your lap, and only calls you angel. Totally meaningless.”
“It feels meaningless when he never says anything about it!”
Reo got up, made his way to the mini fridge, and tossed you a can of something carbonated and unnecessarily expensive. “Sei’s weird,” he said, plopping back into his seat. “He doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t exactly do all that with everyone.”
You cracked open the drink and took a long sip, sighing. “I feel like I’m going insane.”
“No, this is just karma for every time you made fun of me in middle school when I had a crush.”
You threw a cushion at him.
He caught it easily. “Look. You and Nagi? It’s a slow burn. Like, glacial. Like, two rocks eroding in a riverbed over several centuries.”
You gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I am helping,” he said smugly. “I’m listening to your crisis, offering top-tier beverages, and reminding you that he called you angel during conditioning drills, which means even when he’s sweating to death, you’re still on his mind.”
You paused. “You think?”
Reo leaned back, his expression softer now. “I know.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Then why hasn’t he said anything? Why hasn’t he… done anything?”
Reo hesitated for a beat, then shrugged. “He probably doesn’t know what he’s feeling yet.”
You blinked. “How do you not know you like someone?”
Reo looked at you knowingly. “Have you met Nagi?”
“…Fair.”
The two of you sat in silence for a bit, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across the marble floors. The penthouse was too fancy, too big—but in this moment, it felt oddly safe.
Then, quietly, you said, “I think I like him.”
Reo didn’t tease you that night. He just smiled—crooked and quiet—and let the weight of your words settle in the silence between you.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
And for one brief moment, you felt lighter. Like something in your chest had finally been named, and now you could breathe around it.
But that peace didn’t last.
Because after that night at his penthouse, Reo didn’t just return to being your best friend.
He became your personal tormentor.
Not in the mean-spirited way—not really. But in that classic Mikage Reo fashion, he took your emotional meltdown, filed it under “important best friend information,” and proceeded to use it for sport.
Subtle at first.
A comment here. A smirk there.
“Your boyfriend’s under the tree again,” he’d say casually during soccer practice, flinging his towel over his shoulder and pointing across the field with his chin. “Probably waiting for you to come fan him or something.”
You didn’t even bother responding the first few times. But Reo? He thrived on reactions. So the quieter you were, the more relentless he became.
“He’s literally using your hoodie as a pillow right now,” he snorted during one break. “What is he, a stray cat? Did you feed him once and now he won’t leave?”
You tried to ignore him, really, you did.
But it was hard to play it cool when Nagi Seishiro—cool, aloof, half-asleep Nagi—kept gravitating toward you like you were the only person on the planet worth orbiting.
When he’d wander over during water breaks, barely say anything, and drop to the grass beside you with a heavy sigh.
When he’d tug at the hem of your sleeve like a child, muttering, “Move a little, Angel,” so he could comfortably lay his head on your lap.
The first time he did it, you froze.
You had no idea what to do with your hands, with your face, with the ridiculous tempo your heart had launched into.
And when he nuzzled into the crook of your neck and whispered, “Warm. ’M comfy here,” you were sure you’d ascended into another dimension.
Reo, from several feet away, didn’t miss a beat.
“Are you serious right now?” he called out, deadpan. “You’re using her as a human mattress? Sei, we’re in the middle of practice.”
Nagi, eyes still closed, responded with a half-lidded shrug. “We’re on break.”
Reo turned to you, hands on hips like a disappointed parent. “Why do you let him do that?”
You glared at him. “Do I look like I can stop him?”
Reo opened his mouth, then paused, expression flickering to something amused and oddly fond. “You don’t, actually. Which is kinda impressive.”
From then on, he only got worse.
During lunch, he made a habit of sliding Nagi’s bento closer to you before anyone sat down.
“Feed him,” Reo would say, like a waiter taking your order. “Or he won’t eat. Apparently your hands make everything taste better.”
Nagi, seated beside you like it was law, didn’t even look up from his game.
“True,” he said flatly, holding out his chopsticks expectantly. “Angel feeds me better.”
Your face combusted.
Reo nearly fell off his seat from laughing.
And somehow—somehow—this became routine.
If Nagi didn’t get to sit next to you, he’d just drag his chair over. If you were holding your phone, he’d take it and lean against your shoulder while scrolling aimlessly. If you were quiet, he’d lean into you, cheek against your hair, and murmur, “Tell me something. I like hearing your voice.”
Every small thing turned sacred. Every tiny touch set you on fire.
And Reo? He stoked the flames.
It was like living in a dream you weren’t allowed to name. A day-by-day slow burn that left you suspended in something warm and fragile. You didn’t know if Nagi meant any of it the way you hoped he did. He never said anything. Never changed his expression. Just kept calling you Angel and reaching for you like you belonged to him.
And the worst part?
You kept letting him.
You wanted to believe it meant something.
You needed to believe it did.
But the not knowing—it festered. The what-ifs, the maybe-he-does, maybe-he-doesn’t… they turned every smile into a battlefield, every silence into a storm.
You didn’t realize how exhausted you were from hoping until it all came to a head on a regular, sleepy afternoon at Hakuho High.
The sky was bluer than usual. The breeze was soft. You had a bottle of your favorite drink in hand after a long lecture, your thoughts drifting—mostly about how quiet Nagi had been lately. Distant, even.
You were behind the gym, just starting to unscrew the cap of your drink, when someone approached you.
“Hey.”
You blinked up, surprised. He was a third-year—tall, broad-shouldered, sharp features softened by the slight smile he wore. You recognized him vaguely. Vice-captain of the basketball team. The type girls whispered about in the corridors.
“I know this is sudden,” he started, scratching the back of his neck, “but… are you dating Nagi Seishiro?”
Your grip tightened around your drink. The question hit harder than it should have.
You blinked. “Huh?”
“You guys are always together,” he said, shrugging. “It kinda looks like it. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes, so I figured I’d ask first.”
You didn’t know how to answer.
Because no—he never asked you out. But yes—he held your hand like it meant something. He napped on your lap. Called you Angel. Looked for you in crowds.
But that wasn’t love, was it? At least… not the kind that gets voiced.
So you shook your head.
“No,” you said softly. “We’re not.”
The word sat heavy on your tongue, like something bitter you were finally forced to swallow. Even saying it aloud—confirming that there was nothing between you and Nagi—hurt more than you thought it would.
The boy blinked, surprised. “Oh. Then… Reo?”
You blinked back, caught off guard. “What?”
He laughed nervously, raising both hands in surrender. “Sorry—just, the way you and Mikage always bicker. I figured maybe you two were, you know… childhood friends-to-lovers or whatever.”
You stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.
Then came the deadpan: “Heck no.”
It was more disgust than denial, and it left your mouth before you could filter it.
The guy laughed again—this time, genuinely. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing. “Reo’s like… my brother. That would be disgusting.”
“That clears things up.” He smiled, easing a little. “Then… maybe we could go for coffee this weekend?”
There was a pause.
And then, before you could give yourself a reason not to, you nodded.
“Sure,” you said. “Why not?”
It wasn’t a confession.
It wasn’t a first kiss.
But it was the first time you admitted—if only to yourself—that maybe you couldn’t wait around for Nagi forever.
What you didn’t know, standing there in the soft shadow of the school gym, was that someone had seen the entire thing. From the moment the boy asked if you were dating Nagi, down to the way you wrinkled your nose at the mention of Reo.
And that someone’s stomach dropped like a stone.
Because while you were saying no…
Nagi was across the path—hearing every word like it was a slap to the face.
He didn’t stick around to hear your answer to the guy’s next question. He didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Something in him recoiled the moment he saw you standing there—with him—smiling the way you usually smiled at him.
He walked away, fast and quiet.
The weight of his limbs was heavier than usual. His hoodie felt too warm against his skin, and his hands stayed shoved deep into the pockets like he was trying to bury the strange, twisting ache crawling up his chest.
He went back to the soccer field, eyes blank, lips pressed into a line.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t even look at Reo when the other boy offered him a water bottle.
He just stood in the grass, shoulders stiff, waiting for the whistle to blow.
Why would he feel like this?
You can date who you want. You’re your own person. You always were.
And besides—you were right.
You two weren’t together.
You weren’t his girlfriend.
You were just… his Angel.
His nap partner. His hand to hold. His favorite seat under the sakura tree after a long day of classes. The one who laughed at his flat jokes. The one who listened even when he didn’t respond. The one he could always find in the stands, no matter how far away.
His… friend.
That’s all it was, right?
Just a friend.
So why did the idea of someone else having your attention—the thought of you laughing at someone else’s bad jokes, someone else’s hand holding yours—make his throat tighten like this?
Why did he feel like his chest was full of static?
Why did practice suddenly feel impossible to focus on?
Why did everything burn?
He was Nagi Seishiro—apathetic, unbothered, uninterested in everything except convenience and quiet. He didn’t do emotions. Didn’t care about people.
And yet…
Why?
Why did it feel like he was about to lose something he didn’t even realize he was holding?
The thought wouldn’t leave him alone.
It echoed in his head, over and over, louder than the screech of cleats against the turf, louder than the whistle, louder than Reo yelling plays from the opposite end of the field.
You’d said it so clearly. So easily.
“No, we’re not.”
You weren’t lying. But something in your voice—he couldn’t forget it. It didn’t sound like relief. It sounded like… surrender.
Why did that hurt so damn much?
He pressed forward in the scrimmage, a pass skimming just past his foot because he moved a second too late. His reflexes were off. His instincts dulled. The field felt too narrow. His jersey clung to his back. The usual lightness in his body was gone, replaced by a heavy, dragging weight he couldn’t shake.
He missed another pass.
And another.
He shoved his hands into his hair in frustration, growling quietly, “Tch.”
A few teammates stared. They didn’t say anything, but the tension rippled.
Nagi didn’t care.
No, that was a lie.
He did care.
That was the worst part.
For the first time in a long time, he cared too much and didn’t know how to handle it.
Across the field, Reo watched carefully.
He had known Nagi since first year. Knew the way his best friend moved, the tempo of his rhythm on the field, the lazy but calculated precision of his mind. He’d watched Nagi play sick, play exhausted, even play pissed off—and still look good doing it.
But this?
This wasn’t the usual indifference.
This wasn’t fatigue.
This was Nagi unraveling.
Quietly. Subtly. But painfully.
He could see it in the way Nagi’s shoulders stiffened with every misstep. The way his hands balled into fists whenever the ball rolled too far. The way he didn’t even look toward the bleachers—where you usually sat watching, sometimes waving, always smiling.
You weren’t there today.
And Reo had a feeling Nagi knew exactly why.
But the worst part? He didn’t do anything about it.
Not the next day.
Not the day after that.
Not even when your eyes lingered on him longer than necessary—waiting, hoping, hurting.
Instead, Nagi distanced himself.
No explanation. No text. No lazy “Angel” in the hallway, no sudden weight of his head on your shoulder like he used to do after class. He didn’t take the seat next to you during lunch anymore, even when Reo subtly saved it. He didn’t offer you sips of his convenience store soda, or absentmindedly thread your fingers with his under the cafeteria table.
It was as if someone had pressed pause on everything that felt safe and familiar.
And you noticed. Of course you noticed.
How could you not?
The boy who once made you feel like the center of his world was now acting like you barely existed in it.
You tried to brush it off at first—told yourself he was just tired from soccer, or spacing out like he always did, or maybe he just needed time. You knew Nagi could be… detached. Aloof. He was never the type to chase or cling. That was just how he was.
But this? This was different.
He wasn’t just distracted.
He was avoiding you.
The realization settled in your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake off, especially when Reo—your oldest friend, your partner in chaos since grade school—confirmed the one thing you dreaded to hear.
It was late in the afternoon when it happened. You were at the Mikage penthouse again, your designated post-school escape on days that felt too heavy. You were lying on your back, legs tossed over the armrest of Reo’s imported Italian couch, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
Reo was scrolling through his phone beside you, one socked foot pressed against your shin lazily. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the central air and the occasional clink of ice in your untouched drinks.
“He knows the vice captain asked you out.”
Your stomach dropped.
You turned your head slowly toward Reo, your voice barely above a whisper. “Nagi?”
Reo nodded, still scrolling. “He was nearby when it happened. Didn’t say anything, but I saw his face after. He walked back to the field like he was ready to murder someone.”
You sat up fully now, heart pounding. “Is that why he’s been avoiding me?”
Reo sighed like it physically pained him to deal with the emotional incompetence of his best friend. “Most likely. I mean, it’s either that or he suddenly forgot how to function around people—which, okay, is also a possibility with him.”
You swallowed, the pieces falling into place too fast for comfort. “But… why would he avoid me?”
Reo finally looked at you, his expression unreadable for once.
The teasing had fallen from his features like snow off a rooftop—quiet, unexpected. His voice, when he finally spoke, came soft but firm.
“Because he’s a dumbass.”
You blinked. “I—what?”
He raised an eyebrow at you, like he couldn’t believe he had to spell it out.
“He likes you, idiot.”
The words hit you harder than they should have.
They knocked the air out of your lungs and left you staring at Reo like he’d just casually told you gravity stopped working.
“I—” Your mouth opened, then shut again. You shook your head. “No. No, he doesn’t.”
Reo let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Yes, he does. He just doesn’t realize it the way you want him to yet. That doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
You frowned, your voice quieter now. “Then why is he avoiding me?”
Reo studied you carefully. “Because he’s never felt this kind of thing before. He’s confused. Freaked out, probably. And when Sei gets overwhelmed, he doesn’t push forward—he hides. Retreats.”
You looked away, your fingers curling into the hem of your sweater. “It hurts.”
Reo’s gaze softened. “I know. And it’s killing me watching both of you act like this when it’s so obvious you mean the world to each other.”
You sighed, slumping back against the couch cushions. Your heart felt heavy, bruised in a way that wasn’t physical. Like something was wilting inside your chest—soft and unseen, but so achingly present. “What do I do, Reo?”
He didn’t answer right away. For once, he wasn’t being theatrical or smug. No exaggerated hand gestures or sarcastic comments. Just silence, and a look in his eyes that said he was weighing his words carefully.
Finally, Reo spoke. His voice was gentler than you expected.
“I’m not playing favorites here, but… you already did your part.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I mean, come on,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “You like him. You know it. I know it. Hell, half of Hakuho probably knows it. You’ve shown him in every way that counts. It’s not your responsibility to make him see that he likes you back.”
Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Reo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on yours. “Sei’s not good with emotions. He feels things, yeah—but he doesn’t always know what he’s feeling. He zones out, pulls away, avoids it like it’s a hard level in a game he doesn’t want to clear.”
Your heart stung. “Then what if he never clears it?”
“Then that’s on him,” Reo said, and there was no hesitation in his voice this time. “Not you. You’ve been patient. You’ve been honest, even if you haven’t said the exact words. If he lets you walk away without realizing what you mean to him… that’s his loss.”
The words echoed in your chest, louder than you wanted them to.
Because deep down, you didn’t want to walk away. Not even a little. Not even when he made you feel invisible. But Reo was right—loving someone didn’t mean setting yourself on fire to light their path. And maybe… maybe it was time Nagi realized that.
You closed your eyes, trying to blink away the sting behind your lashes. “I hate this.”
Reo offered a soft laugh and nudged your knee with his. “I know. Love sucks sometimes. Especially when it comes with a six-foot-tall emotional brick wall.”
You cracked a smile, just barely. “Thanks for the reminder.”
He grinned. “Anytime, Angel.”
And despite the ache still lodged somewhere in your ribs, his words settled into your heart like a gentle promise.
That no matter how messy this all became, you weren’t completely alone in it.
Reo was there—annoying, overconfident, occasionally too invested—but always in your corner. He never let you spiral too far without yanking you back with a half-serious joke or a reality check disguised as sarcasm. And knowing that… made breathing a little easier.
You stayed in his penthouse longer than you meant to that night. He made you tea without asking, switched the mood lighting to a calmer tone, and played some playlist he called “Healing for the Emotionally Exhausted.” You didn’t even have the energy to roll your eyes.
You stared out the window while the city lights blinked back at you like stars—distant and quiet. Your thoughts drifted again to Nagi. To the way his hair fell into his eyes when he leaned over his phone. The weight of his head when he laid it in your lap after practice. The warmth in his voice when he murmured, “Sleepy, Angel.”
You clutched a pillow to your chest and sank deeper into Reo’s velvet couch.
Had it always been this one-sided?
Or was Nagi really just scared?
You didn’t know.
But tomorrow… you were going to try. Even if it wasn’t with him.
Then the day of the date came.
You didn’t wear anything flashy—just your usual clothes with a touch more care. Hair brushed out, light gloss on your lips, perfume you knew Reo teased you about for being too sweet. You stared at yourself in the mirror longer than usual before heading out, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Normal. Just a simple afternoon. Just… something new.
The vice captain was already waiting near the front gates of Hakuho, dressed neatly in the school’s after-hours uniform with a pleasant, easy smile. He wasn’t Nagi. His energy was steadier, more grounded. Not sleepy or unpredictable—but warm in his own right.
He greeted you with a polite, “You look nice,” and offered to carry your bag.
You smiled. Tried to mean it.
But something in your chest tugged.
You walked to the nearby café together, talked about classes, mutual friends, upcoming tournaments. He was kind. Charming, even. You knew girls at school talked about him a lot—and it wasn’t hard to see why. He was attentive without being overbearing, curious about your thoughts, laughing easily at your jokes.
But it wasn’t Nagi’s laugh.
It wasn’t Nagi’s quiet stare.
It wasn’t Nagi at all.
And the vice captain could see it.
Maybe not immediately—but somewhere between you pushing food around your plate and your gaze flickering toward the glass windows every time a white-haired figure passed, he figured it out.
He set his drink down gently and leaned back.
“You still like him, don’t you?”
You froze. The words landed softly, not like a confrontation, but like an observation. A truth laid bare.
You looked at your half-eaten dessert, then slowly nodded. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think I always have.”
He chuckled—low and not bitter. Just amused in a tired sort of way.
“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I kinda figured when you spent the first ten minutes watching the sidewalk instead of me.”
Your cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be.” He held up a hand, waving it off with a smile. “Seriously. I knew what I was walking into. Guess I hoped maybe you’d give me a chance to make you forget him.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and saw no resentment in his expression. Just understanding.
“I really appreciate that you still came,” he added. “Even knowing your heart’s kind of… already somewhere else.”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat and nodded. “Thank you. For being kind.”
He smiled. “He better realize what he has before someone else does.”
And somewhere across the city, under the molten streaks of the setting sun, Nagi Seishiro was pacing the length of Hakuho High’s empty soccer field. The sky above him glowed in soft orange and deep violet, but he didn’t look up once. His feet dragged across the turf like his body was moving on its own—slow, heavy, as if weighed down by something he couldn’t shake off.
Reo’s voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and impossible to ignore.
“You feel something, don’t you?”
Nagi hadn’t answered. He didn’t know how. Because how do you name a feeling you’ve never bothered to understand?
He wasn’t built for messy emotions. He preferred ease—predictable gameplay, soft pillows, long naps. But you? You weren’t easy. You were the one variable he hadn’t figured out. The one thing that made his chest ache when you smiled and made his head go silent when you laughed. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t try to.
Not until he saw it.
That day.
You were standing behind the gym, light bouncing off your hair as you spoke to the vice captain. Nagi hadn’t meant to linger. He was just walking by—heading to grab a juice box or waste a few more minutes before practice.
But then the vice captain asked you something. And Nagi stopped.
“Are you dating Nagi Seishiro?”
It was a simple question, harmless to anyone else. But to Nagi, it sounded like a pin being pulled from a grenade. His steps faltered. He didn’t turn around, didn’t breathe too loudly, just stood half-hidden behind the wall’s edge, frozen like a bug caught in amber.
You hesitated. Just for a beat.
Then your answer came, soft and unsteady. “No. We’re not.”
And Nagi couldn’t explain why that answer—the very truth he’d never had the guts to change—felt like a sucker punch to the chest.
He left before he could hear what came next. Because in his chest, a feeling he’d spent months ignoring had finally started screaming. And it didn’t sound like indifference. It sounded like jealousy. Like regret.
And maybe—just maybe—like heartbreak.
He never knew your answer.
Not from you.
But by the time lunch ended and the hallways quieted, he didn’t have to.
Whispers chased him like ghosts—fragments of your name laced with quiet gasps and knowing smirks.
“She said yes.”
“To the vice captain, right?”
“She finally gave up on Nagi, huh?”
Each word chipped at something inside him. Something he’d never named, never dared to look at too closely.
And now it was bleeding through the cracks.
Practice came like muscle memory. But there was no rhythm. No focus. His passes were too hard. His touches too sharp. A snap in his movements that wasn’t like him. He missed a shot he’d normally sink with his eyes closed.
Reo said his name—twice, maybe three times—but Nagi didn’t answer.
Eventually, they left him there. Even Reo.
The sun dipped lower, dragging shadows across the field, and still, Nagi didn’t move. His limbs sprawled carelessly across the grass, as if exhaustion had pinned him down and frustration had tied the knot. He stared at the sky, expression unreadable, fingers tangled in blades of green.
Everything felt wrong. Off.
His chest was tight again, like it had been all day. Like he’d swallowed something too big, and now it wouldn’t leave.
She said yes.
To someone else.
The thought circled like a vulture.
You found him alone on the soccer field, long after the others had packed up and left.
The lights from the school building flickered faintly in the distance, casting long shadows across the grass where Nagi lay stretched out like a boy made of bone-deep exhaustion. His jersey clung to his skin, a streak of sweat running down his temple. His eyes, however, were still wide open—staring up at the sky like it could answer the ache twisting in his chest.
He didn’t look at you when you approached. But you saw the way his hand twitched in the grass. Like he knew you were coming.
“Nagi.”
Your voice didn’t tremble, but it came out quieter than you’d expected. You stood above him for a moment, waiting, hoping—but he didn’t respond.
You slowly sat beside him, knees drawn up to your chest, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.
“I said yes,” you said after a long silence, eyes on the horizon. “To someone else.”
He didn’t move. But his jaw shifted, the tiniest tick beneath his cheekbone.
“I said yes to a date because I was tired of wondering what this was,” you continued, voice starting to shake despite your best efforts. “Tired of waiting for you to say something. Anything.”
Still nothing. Only the sound of distant cicadas and the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears.
“Do you even remember what you said the day we met?” you asked quietly. “You didn’t say my name once. Just called me Angel. Like it was automatic. Like it didn’t matter who I was, just that I was there.”
You laughed bitterly under your breath, your fingers clenching. “I tried not to let it mean anything. I tried not to hope. But then you’d rest your head on my shoulder and whisper like I was your safe place. You’d hold my hand and tell me it was soft, warm. You made me feel like I was… something.”
Your breath hitched. You turned to face him fully, and finally—finally—Nagi turned his head to look at you.
His expression was unreadable. But you could see it—the fear just beneath the surface. The conflict. The guilt.
Your voice cracked when you spoke again. “Do you like me, Nagi?”
The question hung between you like smoke.
He blinked. Once. Then again. And slowly, he sat up, arms bracing behind him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Your chest caved in.
It wasn’t anger that flared in you. It was heartbreak. The slow, sinking realization that the boy you wanted so badly didn’t even know if he wanted you back.
“You don’t know,” you repeated, breathless, eyes burning.
He looked away, fingers digging into the grass. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” you said, voice shaking harder now. “It is that simple. You either feel something for me or you don’t. And if you don’t, that’s okay—” your voice broke. “—but you can’t keep treating me like I’m your world if you can’t even figure out your own heart.”
Nagi’s head snapped back toward you, eyes wide, as if your words had physically struck him.
“You can’t nuzzle into my neck and fall asleep on my lap and whisper ‘Angel’ like I’m the only one who matters—and then say you don’t know. That’s not fair.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
You took a shaky step back. “I let myself believe you did. I let myself fall for you—slowly, painfully. Every time you remembered the little things I said, every time you showed up even in your quiet way, I thought maybe…”
You trailed off, swallowing hard. “But you never said it. You never gave me anything real to hold on to. And now I’m the idiot who said yes to someone else, but all I can think about is you.”
He was silent. Still. His silver hair caught in the breeze, eyes locked on yours like he wanted to say something—needed to—but couldn’t bring himself to cross that threshold.
You shook your head, blinking fast. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting for someone who doesn’t even know if he wants me.”
You turned.
And this time, Nagi didn’t stop you.
But as your figure disappeared across the field—shoulders trembling, arms wrapped tightly around yourself—something inside him cracked like ice splitting under too much weight.
And for the first time, Nagi Seishiro wasn’t sure if he was tired…
Or if this was the first time he was finally awake.
Because something in your voice had snapped him out of the haze he’d been living in—the gentle fog of comfort he’d built around himself like a second skin. You were gone now, walking away from him, and yet your words still echoed in his ears louder than any stadium ever had.
You can’t treat me like I’m your world if you don’t even know your own heart.
It rang like a siren in his skull.
The soccer field felt too open after that. Too wide. Too cold. His limbs buzzed with restless energy he didn’t know what to do with. So he moved on instinct, feet dragging him away from the grass and the guilt and the silence you left behind.
The next time he blinked, he was standing in front of Reo’s building.
The Mikage Tower—an architectural flex of polished glass and inherited legacy—loomed above him like a monolith. Nagi hadn’t even realized where he was heading until the security at the front recognized him and let him through wordlessly, like he belonged there. Maybe he did. He came here often enough. But today, the elevator ride felt different. The music sounded too sharp. The walls too reflective. He could see himself in them—eyes unfocused, jaw clenched tight.
By the time he reached the penthouse, the door was already swinging open.
Reo looked like he’d been expecting him.
“Figured you’d show up eventually,” Reo said, arms crossed loosely over his chest, eyes sweeping over Nagi with a familiar, no-bullshit expression. “You looked like you were about to combust during practice.”
Nagi walked past him in silence, dropping onto the nearest couch like a sack of limbs. He stared at the ceiling as if the answers might be etched into the marble tiles.
Reo shut the door and followed, sitting across from him. “So… you wanna talk?”
“No,” Nagi muttered.
Reo leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. You wanna sulk here until you rot into the cushions, then?”
“Maybe.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
Then Nagi spoke again, voice low, like he hated even admitting it. “She went on the date.”
Reo blinked. “You mean you let her go on the date.”
Nagi’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t let her do anything. She can do what she wants.”
“She wanted you, dumbass,” Reo snapped, sitting forward now, arms braced on his knees. “She waited—waited—for you to pull your head out of your ass. You were the one who kept acting like she mattered and then saying nothing.”
Nagi ran a hand down his face, dragging his palm over his eyes like he could rub the thoughts away. “I didn’t know I liked her.”
Reo scoffed. “You knew. You just didn’t realize that’s what it was. You’ve never cared about anyone like that before, so you didn’t recognize it.”
“I felt…” Nagi trailed off, words catching in his throat. “Like something was ripping out of me when I saw him ask her. I wanted to hit something. Or sleep forever. I didn’t like it.”
“That’s what jealousy feels like, Sei,” Reo said quietly. “That’s what heartbreak feels like when you’re too late.”
Nagi let his head fall back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “She said she liked me. And I told her… I told her I don’t know.”
Reo stared at him like he’d just confessed to committing a felony.
“The fuck?” he hissed, dragging a hand through his already-mussed hair. “Why did you say I don’t know, idiot?”
“I panicked,” Nagi muttered, his voice flat and low, like he hated himself for it. “She was standing there, looking at me like—like I meant something, and I just… froze.”
Reo scoffed, launching himself off the couch to pace across the penthouse. “Unbelievable. You—you lay in her lap. You call her angel. You hold her hand like it’s the only thing grounding you to this planet and then when she finally tells you she likes you, you give her I don’t know?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Nagi said, scrubbing a palm over his face again. “I didn’t think she liked me like that. I didn’t know I felt that way—until she walked away.”
“Bullshit,” Reo snapped, rounding back to face him. “You knew. You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to know because then you’d actually have to do something about it.”
Nagi flinched at that.
Reo’s voice softened just a little. “You think I didn’t notice? The way you’d act around her? You’re not subtle, man. You’d go quiet when she laughed with someone else. You’d light up when she brought you those caramel milk drinks from the vending machine. You’d look at her like she was the only goddamn person in a world full of people you couldn’t be bothered to care about.”
Nagi’s throat worked around something thick. He stared down at his hands like they were foreign to him. “I didn’t know I could feel like that,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I was built for it.”
Reo sighed again, slower this time, and sat back down beside him. “No one is. Not really. But when it’s her… when it’s someone like her… you figure it out. Or you lose her.”
And that—that—was what scared Nagi the most.
He could sleep through classes. He could ignore most people. He could drift through life half-awake.
But the idea of you walking away for good? That terrified him more than he knew how to admit.
Because it wasn’t indifference he felt.
It wasn’t confusion.
It was love.
And now—he might’ve already been too late.
You hadn’t spoken to him since the last time he left you with nothing but silence. Three days had passed, and the distance between you and Nagi had grown so vast, it may as well have been oceans. Not a glance. Not a breath shared. Not even the subtle magnetic pull that used to hum beneath your skin whenever he was near.
It was like he had vanished.
Or worse—you had learned how to exist without him.
You didn’t yell. You didn’t pout. You didn’t cry. But you also didn’t smile when he passed by. You didn’t look up when he walked into the room. And if you were forced to stand within arm’s reach, like during practice or at lunch, you kept yourself composed with a sort of numb grace that cut him deeper than any outburst ever could.
He had never known how much he craved your attention until it was gone.
And now, here he was—locked inside the clubroom with you because Reo, fed up with watching you both suffer in silence, decided to take matters into his own hands.
The door slammed shut behind you. A soft metallic click confirmed it was locked.
“Reo?” you said sharply, turning back.
“I’m not opening it,” came Reo’s smug reply from the other side. “Not until you idiots talk. Or make out. Either one.”
“Reo!” you growled, rushing to the handle. It didn’t budge. “This isn’t funny!”
“Not meant to be,” he said. “Consider this an intervention. Figure it out. I’ll be back… eventually.”
And then his footsteps faded.
You stood frozen for a moment, facing the door, before you slowly turned to face the boy across the room.
Nagi stood by the windows, bathed in fading sunlight, his white hair catching every bit of golden glow like a halo. But he didn’t look like an angel. Not now. He looked exhausted. Haunted. Like someone still trying to understand why the hell his chest wouldn’t stop aching.
He didn’t look at you.
So you stayed by the door, arms crossed. A wall of silence stretched between you, heavy and brittle, ready to snap.
“Say something,” you finally muttered, your voice tired, your throat sore from swallowing your feelings for days.
He flinched. You didn’t miss it.
“I didn’t ask him to do this,” he said quietly.
“But you’re not stopping it either.”
Another silence.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Then let’s get it over with.”
He finally turned. His eyes met yours.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said.
You laughed—but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. “But you did.”
He stepped forward, cautious. “When I said I didn’t know… it wasn’t because I don’t feel anything.”
You narrowed your eyes, but said nothing.
“It was because I felt too much,” he admitted, voice quieter now, almost like he was afraid it would break if he raised it any higher. “I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“And what, you thought silence would make it better?”
“No,” he whispered. “I thought if I said it out loud, it’d ruin everything. I was scared.”
You blinked at him, your heart aching all over again. “Scared of what? That I’d say it back?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His jaw clenched.
“I liked it,” you said, voice cracking. “The attention. The nicknames. You holding my hand. Laying on my lap. Acting like I was the only person who mattered. I liked it—because I liked you. But you don’t get to do all that and then tell me you don’t know.”
You weren’t yelling. You weren’t crying. But your pain filled every word.
“You don’t get to act like I’m your whole world, Nagi, if you don’t even know what I am to you.”
That landed like a punch to the gut.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His voice was low, almost hoarse. “I do know now.”
You didn’t move.
He took another step. “I know I’m stupid. That I missed the moment I should’ve told you. That I let you walk away.”
Still, you didn’t say a word.
“I thought I was okay with being your friend,” he whispered, gaze dropping to the floor. “Until I saw someone else try to be more.”
He looked up then, and his eyes held the kind of desperation that only comes when you realize something too late.
“I heard people talking. Saying you said yes. That you were going out with him. And I swear—my chest hurt so bad I couldn’t even breathe.”
You finally moved. Just barely. Your fingers curled into the hem of your shirt, grounding yourself.
“I don’t want to be just your almost,” you said.
He froze.
“I don’t want to keep waiting for maybes. I confessed, and you froze. And that told me everything I needed to know.”
“I was wrong,” he said. “I was scared. But I’m not anymore.”
You looked at him, eyes searching. “Then prove it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was thick—full of history, full of missed chances, full of every time he called you angel like it meant everything and nothing all at once. Nagi stood there like he’d been thrown into the eye of a storm he created, a thousand unsaid words flashing behind those pale lashes and sleepy eyes.
But there was nothing sleepy about the way he looked at you now.
Slowly, like the weight of your words had finally dragged him back to earth, he took a step toward you. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, checking—once, twice, maybe even a third time—for hesitation.
There was none.
So when he reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your face, it felt like the world tilted. His touch was tentative at first, like you were made of something he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold. And then—he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect either. His lips were warm, unsure at first, like he was still learning what it meant to feel everything he’d avoided. But the moment you leaned into him, he melted.
His other hand found your waist, sliding around to hold you steady as if he needed the anchor. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the heat of him.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed against your mouth. “I should’ve said something sooner.”
You kissed him back, just as soft. Just as broken.
“You didn’t,” you whispered. “You never do.”
Nagi pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer than you’d ever seen them—open, raw, like the wall between you was finally cracking. “I didn’t know how,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “It was easier to pretend. That if I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t lose you.”
You blinked at him, chest tightening. “But you did.”
That broke something in him.
He kissed you again, harder this time—but not in a way that hurt. It was desperation, barely concealed by the tremble in his hands as they held you close. His lips moved with a kind of apology his voice couldn’t carry.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he muttered between kisses. “I swear, Angel… I’ll make it up to you.”
His forehead fell against yours, breaths mingling as his arms slid around your waist tighter, like you might disappear again if he loosened his grip.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered. “I just—every time I saw you with someone else, I felt like I was choking on my own heartbeat.”
Your eyes watered. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I thought I could live with just being your friend,” he confessed, voice cracking. “But I can’t. Not anymore. Not after hearing you say yes to someone else. Not after realizing that someone else might get to hold your hand. Kiss you. Call you theirs.”
You closed your eyes, tears clinging to your lashes.
“Do you still want me?” he asked, his voice suddenly small. Uncertain. Like a boy rather than the prodigy the school worshipped. Like someone afraid he’d ruined the one thing he wanted most.
You nodded.
And he kissed you again.
This time it was slower. Not desperate—but deliberate. Tender. Like he was tracing every inch of what he could’ve lost. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, his lips moving with careful reverence.
“You feel like home,” he whispered against your skin, voice breaking. “I didn’t realize it until I walked away from the one place I ever felt safe.”
You held him back just as tightly.
Then—
Click.
The door creaked open behind you, light spilling into the dimly lit clubroom. You both turned your heads slightly—breathless, lips pink, tangled in each other—only to find Reo leaning against the doorframe with a smug smirk plastered across his face.
“Well, shit,” he drawled, arms crossed. “I was joking when I said you two better kiss.”
Your face burned, and you turned toward the wall, hiding your expression in Nagi’s shoulder. Nagi didn’t even flinch. He simply pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around your waist and resting his chin on your head like he’d claimed you completely now—and didn’t care who saw.
Reo raised an eyebrow and backed out of the room with both hands lifted. “You’re welcome, by the way. That’s the last time I play matchmaker for emotionally repressed athletes.”
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Silence settled again—but this time it was warm. Safe.
Nagi didn’t let go.
He just held you like he’d waited his whole life to.
And in the quiet that followed, with your heartbeat finally slowing, you whispered into the space between his collarbone and jaw, “Then don’t let me go again.”
His answer came in the form of another kiss—slow, aching, sure.
This time, it didn’t feel like the end of anything.
It felt like the very beginning.
Bonus scene.
Reo sauntered out of the kitchen with a plate of fruit and two croissants balanced in one hand, his expression so smug it bordered on criminal.
“Wow,” he said dramatically, flopping onto the couch like it was a throne. “So you finally confessed. In my clubroom. After months of the most agonizing, tension-filled friendship I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. Honestly? About damn time.”
You sat curled up on the other end of the plush couch, mug of cocoa nestled in your hands, half-tucked into a throw blanket that definitely wasn’t yours. Your face flushed at the memory, and you ducked your head, hiding behind the steam. Nagi was sprawled across the floor with his head resting in your lap, white hair messy, fingers lazily interlaced with yours as if he refused to let you go even in sleep.
“Reo…” you muttered. “You’re never going to let us live it down, are you?”
He grinned over the rim of his juice glass. “Absolutely not. This is what I live for. I carried this friends-to-lovers campaign on my back like Atlas holding up the sky.”
Nagi grunted softly, shifting closer to your stomach and nuzzling in. “Too loud…”
Reo rolled his eyes, but fondness softened the motion. “Still a baby,” he said under his breath, before turning back to you. “Anyway. You’re welcome.”
“For what?” you asked warily.
Reo gestured with both hands like he was presenting fine art. “For being the only reason you two aren’t still stuck in the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ stage while making everyone else around you suffer.”
Your cheeks burned hotter.
Nagi, still barely awake, mumbled against the hem of your hoodie, “Didn’t wanna suffer anymore.”
Reo raised a brow. “Oh, so now you talk about your feelings?”
Another grunt. Nagi tugged on your hand and pulled it close to his chest. “Told her everything last night.”
Reo looked at you with mock horror. “Everything-everything?”
You laughed into your mug. “Reo.”
“I mean, I did say make out as a joke,” he continued, dramatically reclining back into the couch, “but you two took it as a challenge.”
Nagi tugged the blanket you were using, covering part of himself with it like a turtle burrowing deeper. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you left.”
“Oh, I was mentally high-fiving myself all the way to the vending machine,” Reo said smugly. “Finally. Emotional constipation, cured. You’re welcome.”
You gave him a dry look. “Should I get you a medal or something?”
He beamed. “Please do. Make it engraved. Cupid Mikage, or something with sparkles.”
Despite your embarrassment, you smiled. It was easy now. So much lighter than yesterday. Your shoulders didn’t feel weighed down by the what-ifs anymore. Just quiet, humming contentment.
Nagi stirred again, his hand slowly brushing circles against your palm. “Don’t leave today.”
Reo snorted from the other end. “Bro. She’s wearing my hoodie and holding your soul. She’s not going anywhere.”
You playfully kicked Reo’s foot. “You’re such a menace.”
“Hey,” he said, mock-wounded. “I locked you two in a room so you’d stop emotionally blue-balling yourselves. That’s love.”
Nagi pulled your hand to his chest again and mumbled, barely audible, “You’re mine.”
You blinked, glancing down at him.
“Hmm?” you murmured, brushing his bangs out of his face.
“Mine,” he said again, slower. “You’re… mine.”
Reo gagged from across the room. “I’m right here, guys. Show some mercy to the lonely rich kid who third-wheeled your entire relationship into existence.”
You laughed—fully this time. A soft, real, bright sound that filled the room and made Nagi shift to look up at you like it was his favorite melody. He pressed his face against your thigh and closed his eyes again, satisfied.
And for once, with Reo’s chaos and Nagi’s sleepy weight grounding you, everything just… clicked.
The tension was gone.
The fear, the doubt, the silence—it had all broken the night before.
Now, there was only this: morning light, your favorite people, a stupidly expensive penthouse, and a love that had finally found its way home.
synposis: after sae saw someone flirting with f!reader, he loses focus in the game.
cw: nosebleed , mentions of sexual interactions , just possesive and jealous sae ♡ !
—ᓚᘏᗢ order request #11 by ⛸️ anon !!
you decided to stop faking sick which you did to avoid watching itoshi sae's football matches. you were scared that one day you would get caught lying ! so, you thought it would be a good idea to surprise him by showing up at sae's match, after a long, long time.
you didn't think much about your outfit. a white bodysuit underneath sae's jersey which was infact, oversized for you. you just brought your purse, with your phone, sunglasses in it, andddd, a banner which you made for him.
the banner screamed 'y/n'. strawberry kisses all over it, your vanilla perfume sprayed on the banner, 'I LOVE YOU !!'s and 'GO SAE BAE !!' written on it. you wete very excited to wave and cheer for him with it in the bleachers.
after you had arrived, you took a seat in the front row. you did not get to sit in the V.I.P section (even after the entire world knew you were sae's girlfriend) because, you coming to his match was entirely a secret and a surprise.
first few minutes in the match, and sae had already scored a goal! you jumped up, squealed and screamed his name, waving the banner up. since you were loud, sae's wide eyes met your glintful ones.
he gave you a small, genuine smile which showed he was happy to see you here.
but.. what he was not happy to see was a guy who was sitting right beside you, smirking and watching your ass jiggle up and down. sae did not pay much attention to it, ignoring that creep for now.
as you sat down, the guy shifted his gaze and made a move. "hey.. cheering for ReAI hmm?" he chuckled.
"oh, yes! haha.. yes, i am. i see you are on the same team too!" you tried to be friendly, oblivious to the guy's intentions.
you both talked for a bit, but, then.. the conversation started to become a bit uncomfortable for you, and you lost interest in the conversation.
"c'mon.. just one night.. i'll even let you suck my cock.." he spoke, nudging your shoulder.
you kept your eyes on the field, watching the intense moment, of sae dribbling the ball against all the players of the other team, as he slightly kept on losing focus.
"i said no, mister.. i am not interested.." you murmured loudly enough for the guy beside you to hear.
oh, he went to far, he grabbed you by the wrist and didn't let go, trying to coax you to spend the night with him.
just then, the crowd started shouting in panic, looking in your direction, "WATCH OUT!!!!", and.. a ball went flying on very high speed and hit the creep in his nose. he started bleeding.
"f-fuck-!!", you blurted out as you quickly stood up and your eyes flew to your boyfriend, itoshi sae, who got a red card, for hitting the creep.
later on, while you were sat in sae's car, you spoke, quietly.. "b-back then.. you really.. did not have to hit that guy.."
sae raised an eyebrow at your nervousness, giving you a quick long glance, scoffing, "tch, he was trying to hit on at what's mine. he should have had some sense in him." he shrugged as if that is the most normal thing in the entire world.
tags: @renar1
check this out- m.list
written by - @ysvanielle (me) | please do not copy, steal, modify, repost or translate my content onto any other platforms or tumblr. reblogs, likes and follows are appreciated !
summary: your boyfriends a fucking maniac, insanely dangerous and reckless— but god, you can’t help yourself, and neither can he.
warning/s: angst, fluff, non sexual nudity, intimacy, ALOT OF INTIMACY, in like, everything, bathing together, arguments, dabis an asshole but so is reader, dadzawa, emotional dabi (eventually), happy ending, oh boy, readers a hero, obsessive behavior, references to depression, stalking,
words: ~13k
notes: !requested! the starts a bit rough, I promise it gets better at the end :(
“But lately, his thoughts haven’t been about Endeavour at all. They’ve been about you. About the future. About what he’s actually chasing. He’s not sure if simple revenge will be enough to fill the rest of his miserable, probably short life. Which is strange, because revenge has been his only motivation ever since he crawled back from the dead. Lately, Dabi’s been having dreams. Dreams where he wakes up beside you again— but this time, neither of you is in danger. In those dreams, he isn’t a villain.”
It feels like the perfect summer, the kind you only ever see in teenage movies. He’s like a summer fling— one that lasts far too long. All the fooling around, the kind you know is going to get you in trouble.
But you just don’t know when to stop, do you?
He is bad. That much is obvious. Raven-black hair, scarred skin held together with staples. His face is decorated with piercings— ears, nose, chin. Yet it’s not his appearance that scares you most. It’s his spite. His anger. The way it simmers deep within and threatens to break out every time something remotely triggers him.
Dabi is an enigma. You’ve known him for a long time, perhaps too long. Long enough that the change in your relationship felt inevitable. Like it had been waiting to happen. Being ‘just friends’ would’ve never worked out. Not with you standing between his legs, gloves on, helping him dye his hair black.
White roots peek through messily, and you can’t help but imagine how he’d look if he actually let it grow out. He never does. And you never ask why.
It’s a mess, dyeing his hair. The smell is awful, sharp and chemical, and it makes your nose scrunch up immediately. You’ve already told him twice that he’s sleeping on the couch tonight. That no, you are not dealing with this smell all night.
But as always, you’re just met with a shit eating smirk, one that says that he knows you’re bluffing.
(You both know sleeping separately won’t happen. He’ll sneak into the bed eventually— or you’ll wake up halfway through the night curled up on top of him on the couch.)
His hands rest on your hips, warm and grounding, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you that he’s not fully grown soft. “Why do you even need me to do this?” you complain, “You know I h-hate—” The smell hits harder, and you sneeze into your elbow.
His hands tighten as he snickers. “—hate the smell of this stuff!”
“Aw, c’mon,” he drawls, “you’re doin’ great.”
You shoot him a glare he can’t see, given he’s too focused on his hands groping and poking into you. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Obviously.” He purrs, “Love havin’ you this close.”
Dabi is cheeky. An asshole. And nothing like the boy he once was— the scared, trembling thing you met all that time ago. Now he’s got that charm that can woo your heart and make you cling to him like a lost puppy.
“Love when you take care of me like this, doll.”
There it is. His words that can make your heart stutter and your resolve melt on the spot.
You squirm, biting back a smile as you get back to work. His hair is split neatly, the brush fully coated in black dye, your gloved fingertips stained dark. One hand stays close to his forehead, careful not to let anything drip into his eyes.
“You mess this up,” he murmurs lazily, “and I’m never lettin’ you live it down.”
You huff. “Hold still.”
“Bossy,” he murmurs, but listens nevertheless.
If it weren’t for the mess, you’d lean down and kiss him. Instead, you settle for leaning further into his hands, letting yourself sink into the warmth he offers so easily.
Softly, carefully, something Dabi had to learn from you, he presses a kiss just above your navel.
You squeak, body jolting. “Stop—! That tickles!”
Of course, he doesn’t. He chuckles lowly. “Cute.”
You pout, tightening your grip on his hair, subconsciously causing his grin to widen.“Unless you think me dyeing your forehead black is cute, I suggest you stop.”
To your surprise, he actually stills. Lets you hold him there. His fingers trail slowly over your skin, down to your waistband, hooking there like he belongs.
Silence settles comfortably. You hum quietly as you focus.
When you finally step back, it’s done. The white strands are gone, swallowed by black once more.
He looks the same. And somehow, entirely different.
You wish you could know more about him. His story. Who he truly is beneath the smoke and heat and stitched skin. But you know better than to ask.
You’re fine, you tell yourself. You’re more than fine. You’ve built something together, something you never thought was possible. You stick together, glued by the hip. He makes your heart warm, makes you feel like a silly schoolgirl crushing on the popular boy— giddy and stupid and far too hopeful.
He’s sketchy. That much hasn’t changed.
You’ve watched him shift over time. Grow sharper and louder and bolder. The spite simmering inside him was always there, even back when he was quiet and awkward, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. Now he leaves without much warning, going places he tells you are none of your concern. He’s not angry when he tells you off, just secretive.
“Just keepin’ my baby safe,” he says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.
He tells you he loves you. Says he loves his life. That he’s happy the way things are.
You believe him. Or maybe you just want to.
But the summer keeps getting hotter, thicker, and you know, deep down, you’ll suffocate by the time it ends.
He’s always warm. Unnaturally so. It’s a curse during the summer. Sleeping without holding each other is out of the question. One of you always ends up draped over the other. He doesn’t mind it— doesn’t sweat (given his condition), doesn’t complain, doesn’t even seem affected by the heat.
You, on the other hand, wake up sticky and restless, his warmth bleeding into you, mixing with the suffocating air until it feels like too much. Like you can’t breathe.
You’ve told him before to stop holding you.
He never listens.
“C’mon,” he murmurs sleepily when you squirm, “you’re fine.”
Sweat doesn’t bother him. At least not yours, as cliché as that sounds. His arm tightens around you anyway, possessive without meaning to be, chin tucked against your shoulder like that’s where he belongs.
The nights are a suffering desert— long and dry and relentless. But the aftermath always makes up for it.
Cold showers, shared in silence. His hands steady on you, the steam curling around scarred skin and bare shoulders. The heat finally breaking, even if only for a moment.
He makes it all look so easy. All the secrets he keeps and deems irrelevant, all the differences between the two of you that he brushes off like they don’t matter— Dabi is no saint, and you know that. His anger scares you, even if it’s never aimed at you. He’s spiteful and dangerous and you’ve always known that, but your foolish heart thought that maybe a different perspective on the world would help him calm the anger, calm his heart, and maybe change the way he handles it.
And maybe it would’ve— if you at least knew as much as his real name.
It’s fine, though. At least that’s what you tell yourself. He’s still your favourite person, and it would take a lot for you to stop loving him, if that’s even possible at all, and you’re positive you know more about him than anyone else ever could.
You don’t know his real name. Or anything about his past. Or anything about his family.
But you know that he loves soba, that he keeps an entire stock of them at home yet refuses to eat them every day, partly because you scold him for it and partly because he’s scared he’ll get sick of it eventually.
You know that he’s good at deflecting, so good that sometimes you don’t even realize he’s doing it until hours later. You know that he hates fish. You know that his hair needs a new dyeing session every month or so, that his piercings and staples need to be disinfected and cleaned regularly— lord forbid he ever gets an infection.
You know that he struggles to express himself properly, that words fail him more often than not, and you know about his strange, deep-rooted hatred towards Endeavour, even if you don’t know where it truly stems from.
You know that after a hard day he likes to smoke by the fireplace after taking a shower with you, and that he loves seeing you in his clothes so much that you make a habit of wearing them at home whenever you’re not out training.
You also know that he doesn’t like your training. Doesn’t like heroes at all.
Still, you’re determined, just as stubborn as he is, and while you love him more than anything, you have a passion you refuse to break for the sake of his nerves. That, more often than not, is what leads to your arguments.
Sometimes they’re quiet, filled with snarky remarks and sharp words that turn venomous even when you don’t mean them to. Sometimes they’re outright loud and nasty, voices raised and tempers flaring, and he leaves with veins visible beneath scarred skin, nerves on edge, going for a walk with nothing but a pack of cigarettes.
He always comes home to you.
And if you’re the meaner one in the argument, he doesn’t let you leave. He can’t. He holds you even when you scream at him, tells you it’s okay to be mad at him but that you can do it while you’re with him. He interlaces your fingers and pulls you into bed, keeping you there, letting your rage simmer and burn itself out in silence.
In any other circumstances, with any other man, you would’ve lost your cool completely. You would’ve screamed louder, maybe even used your quirk just to get his filthy hands off of you— but not with Dabi.
When this happens, he seems more afraid than mad. Of course he hides it well, because he’s good at deflecting, but you’ve already figured it out on your own.
He has attachment issues, and he’s terrified that one day, you’ll leave him too.
Still, arguments come and ago.
You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him before you finally speak.
He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom, shirt half-unbuttoned, the smell of smoke still clinging to him, and there’s something wrong in the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. Guilt, probably, because he already knows you’re going to hate what comes next and he’s bracing for it.
“You’re bleeding,” you say eventually, because it’s easier than asking the real question.
He glances down at his knuckle and shrugs. “Not mine.”
Your stomach drops.
“You said you were just going out,” you continue, voice eerily calm, “you said you’d be back before midnight.”
“Plans changed.”
“Whose plans?”
That gets his attention. He looks at you now, snarl on display and irritated and it spikes your heart painfully.
“Don’t start interrogating me,” he mutters, “I’m tired.”
“Tired from what?” you ask, taking a step closer. “From hurting people?”
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me,” you snap. “because I’m standing here looking at dried blood on your hands and you expect me to just— what— pretend this is normal?”
He scoffs. “You live with me. Nothing about me is normal.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until finally he exhales through his nose like he’s lost patience with the entire conversation.
“I did a job,” he says. “it paid well, and for your information it fuckin‘ mattered. I don’t do useless jobs.“
I don’t kill unless I need to, is what he means and you know it.
“Mattered to who?”
“To people who actually want shit to change.”
Your chest tightens. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
“You hurt people,” your voice croaks, “you hurt them and you don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“Heroes,” he corrects flatly.
Your fist clenches, your own anger rising, “They’re still people— you- you attacked them?”
“They attacked first. Don’t act like they didn’t deserve it just because you want to be one.“
“That’s not— Dabi, that’s not how this fucking works!”
“That’s exactly how it works.” he snaps, temper flaring, “They wear fancy costumes and suddenly they’re allowed to burn cities to the ground as long as the news calls it collateral damage.”
“And killing them, what does that make you?” you shout, “Better?”
His jaw clenches and he pushes past you, seemingly done with the argument. “At least I don’t pretend I’m doing it for the public! Now quit it. I didn’t come home for you to yowl around like an idiot. Go to sleep and get over it.”
Home. He calls this place his home.
You share a home with a murderer.
A shiver runs down your spine as you hold back tears, sniffling quietly instead.
Dabi’s not a murderer. He’s your boyfriend.
But he kills on occasion and calls it a small step into changing the world.
“You’re planning to be a villain,” you mutter, eyes following his form, “you’re really choosing this.”
“Yes,” shamelessly, he changes his clothing, throwing on something clean and maybe the sight would’ve made you blush, but the shake of your body makes it hard. “I am.”
Your eyebrows furrow, heart racing harshly as you walk towards him, “I’m going to UA,” you fire back. “I’m going to teach. I’m going to help kids learn control, responsibility, compassion—”
“Compassion,” he laughs bitterly. “That’s rich.”
“You think this is funny?” you scream. “You think turning into everything you hate is funny? You- you told me you once wanted to be a hero—!”
“Once.” He spits with so much venom you think you have to step back.
“And I don’t hate villains,” he growls, “I hate liars.”
“And heroes are liars now?” you snarl. “Every single one of them?”
“Enough of them.”
Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts. “That doesn’t excuse anything Dabi and you know it.” He sends you a look, but you bare your teeth and glare at him. “You hide behind that hatred as if it explains everything. As if it excuses everything you do and will do.”
His expression darkens. “Careful.”
“No,” you say venomously, the words spilling out before you can stop them, “I’m tired of being careful around that name you won’t even explain. Endeavour this, Endeavour that, like he’s the devil himself and you’re the only one who sees it.”
The room goes very, very still, and you know you’ve strung a nerve. Gone too far, maybe. But so has he.
“The fuck did you jus’ say?” he asks quietly.
“You heard me,” you press on, voice shaking because there’s something building up in your throat, but you force yourself to keep talking, because if you don’t get the words out now, you might as well never do so, “you spit his name like it’s a sin, but you won’t tell me why. You won’t tell me what he did to you, or if he even did anything at all, and yet you expect me to just accept that he’s the reason the entire hero system deserves to burn.”
His breathing turns uneven.
“Watch your fucking tongue.” he warns.
You ignore him. “Is it because it hurts too much to admit you’re projecting? Because it’s easier to hate him than face the fact that you’re choosing violence?”
He says your name in a warning, puffing his chest as his eyes widen and his pupils stick to you like a predator to a prey.
You don’t back down.
“You want to tear everything down and you can’t even tell me why!” you continue, tears streaming now, anger overriding fear, “And instead of dealing with it, letting me or anyone else help you, you’re becoming exactly what you claim ruined you—“ you choke on your own voice, but spite fuels beneath you,
“—A dirty fucking liar.”
That’s what sets him off.
There’s no warning when he approaches you quickly, slams his fist into the wall beside your head, heat flaring instinctively, the plaster blackening instantly, and you flinch despite yourself.
“Don’t you ever,” he roars, and you feel yourself becoming small under his gaze,“compare me to a liar, or talk about him like you know anything of what he’s actually done!”
“You won’t tell me!” you scream back. “You shut me out and then punish me for not understanding!”
“You wouldn’t.” he spits, “You couldn’t.”
“Try me!”
“You’d look at me differently,” he snaps.
“You’re already giving me plenty of reasons to,” you sob.
He freezes, chest heaving, eyes wide like he’s just realized how close he is to losing you.
“You don’t mean that,” he says hoarsely.
“I don’t know what I mean anymore,” you admit through tears. “I don’t know how to love someone who wants to destroy the world I’m trying to protect.”
“I’m not asking you to protect it,” his voice is desperate, maybe even scared, “I’m asking you to stay with me.”
“And do what?” you cry. “Stand by while you hurt people? While you become a villain I’ll have to teach my students about someday?”
He grabs you then, hands shaking, pulling you against him hard enough that it hurts, like if he loosens his grip you’ll disappear.
“Don’t leave,” he pleads, voice cracking despite himself, “you can hate what I do. You can scream at me. Just don’t leave.”
You pound weakly against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt. “This isn’t fair, Dabi.”
“I know,” he admits, holding you tighter.
I know, he said, but he forces you down onto the bed, not rough but insistent, caging you in with his body, arms wrapped around you as you cry and shake and rethink everything you thought you knew.
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t promise to stop. And he doesn’t let you go.
And somewhere between your sobs and his desperate grip, you realize this argument didn’t change anything at all— that in the morning you’ll be back to kissing and cuddling and smoking together, and soon enough you’ll just argue again, over and over.
The summer heat is getting worse, and it’s already suffocating you as it is, still, you’re too afraid to let go.
It’s not like he’s a bad guy. To you, at least. He’s a gentleman like he claims to be, sometimes he does things that resemble scenes straight out of a movie, and you have to hold back a giggle as you kiss down his throat.
“There’s a beach,” he says, casually as he sits on the couch, “nobody goes there.”
You glance at him. “Why not?”
He shrugs. “Too empty. People don’t like abandoned places.”
You don’t say the obvious— that people also don’t like staring at scars, or staples, or the way strangers tend to flinch when his form comes to view. You just nod, grab a towel, and let him drive.
The road stretches out endlessly, windows down, salt already clinging to the air by the time you arrive. The beach really is empty, pale sand untouched except for wind-swept patterns and some trash lying here and there.
He kicks off his boots, rolls his pants up carelessly, scars fully visible and unhidden, and smirks at you to follow him.
You do.
The waters cold on your bare skin— you’re both equally undressed, you in your bikini and him with his rolled up pants and shirtless, still, he’s got the advantage of his quirk by his side. You shiver, teeth clacking as you glare at him.
He grins.
You know what he wants. He wants to hear you ask him in that meek voice of yours, if you can cuddle into him for some warmth.
But you’ve already decided that the second you step a foot into the water, you’re declaring war on him.
You mean to just splash him, just a little, just enough to wipe that grin off his face, but the second the cold hits his chest, spills up to his neck and brushes against his jawline, he flinches, eyes widening before narrowing with that familiar, dangerous glint, you know you’ve made a mistake.
“Oh, you’re fucked,” he says, already moving.
“Don’t you dare,” you warn, backing up, feet slipping slightly in the sand beneath the shallow water.
He doesn’t listen. He never does.
He lunges, water exploding around you as you shriek, laughing and screaming when his hands grab your waist and you nearly choke on a mouthful of seawater.
“Dabi—! fuck— stop—!” you cough, spluttering as he hauls you closer, your arms flailing uselessly as you try to push him away.
“Language,” he mocks, even as he’s laughing himself, breathless and loud and unrestrained, nothing like the man who came home angry and bloodied.
“You started it!” you yell, kicking water at him, successfully soaking his face this time.
He sputters, scrunching his nose and you resist to kiss him.
Before you can react, he lifts you clean off the ground, arms locked around your thighs, and you scream bloody murder, clutching at his shoulders as the water drips off you both.
“Put me down, you absolute asshole!” you shout, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “I swear to—“
“What?” he grins up at you, teeth on display, “You gonna arrest me, hero?”
“S-shut up,” you wheeze, pounding weakly against his shoulders as he spins you slightly just to make you yelp louder.
“You love me,” he corrects.
“Right now? Debatable!”
He dumps you back into the water without warning, and you go under with a surprised scream, resurfacing coughing and sputtering, hair plastered to your face as you flip him off instinctively.
“Fuck you!”
He laughs, snorting and looking too proud of himself, “There she is.”
You don’t even think before launching yourself at him, both of you going down in a tangle of limbs and seawater, laughing and swearing and trying to get leverage on wet sand that refuses to cooperate.
“Stop- being- an- asshole!” you gasp, coughing as another wave hits you in the face.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He chuckles, “Y-you look ridiculous—!”
“Oh, you’re one to talk—” You grab into his shoulders and yank him down, kissing him hard and sudden, salt and teeth and laughter mixing together.
He freezes for half a second, surprised, before kissing you back just as fiercely, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if grounding himself there.
You pull back only long enough to breathe.
“Shut up,” he murmurs before you can think of a teasing remark, kissing you again, softer this time but just as needy, tongue prodding at your lips for permission.
Another wave crashes into you both and you break apart coughing, groaning, laughing all over again.
“Ceasefire?” you smile innocently, pressing a kiss on his cheek.
You should’ve known better though. Dabi is one to hold a grudge.
“Nope,” he sing-songs, hauling over his shoulder.
“Dabi!” you shriek, slapping his back. “Put me down right now!”
“Nope.” He repeats, like the asshole he is.
“I will bite you!”
“Threatening me with a good time?”
You squirm uselessly as he carries you further up the shore, both of you soaked and breathless, sand sticking to your skin, your laughter echoing embarrassingly loud in the empty space around you.
He finally sets you down, but only so he can pull you back in immediately, arms wrapping around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder as you try— and fail— to catch your breath.
“Idiot,” you mutter, leaning back into him despite yourself.
“Takes one to love one,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck, then another, then one just below your ear that makes you shiver.
“Hey,” you warn weakly, though you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.
He hums, satisfied, spinning you around so you’re facing him again, hands still warm and steady on your waist. He looks flushed, hair a mess, scars stark against damp skin, and for a moment you think you could forget about everything else.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, just for you.
You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”
He shrugs, then leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Better.”
You kiss him again, slower this time, lingering and affectionate, fingers threading into his hair as he sighs into your mouth like he’s been holding his breath all day.
He steals another kiss. And another. And another, laughing softly between each one when he chases you shamelessly, refusing to let you pull away for long.
“You’re clingy,” you tease.
“Don’t care.”
The wind picks up slightly, cool against your damp skin, and he pulls you closer.
You wish— quietly, selfishly— that the world would let you stay like this. Loud and idiotic and young in love. Laughing too hard and kissing too much and swearing at each other over nothing at all. You wish you could love him without fear, without conditions, without having to choose who you are when the tide eventually pulls you back to shore.
But the summers almost over, and you’ve already made your decision.
It’s not easy. Leaving him isn’t easy. Physically and mentally and emotionally and in every other fucking sense.
Letting go of him is painful. If he actually was a summer fling— one that lasted way too many years, way too many summers, then he was addictive. An obsession, maybe.
You didn’t want to do it. You wished there had been another way— really. But the mere thought of loving a man who killed and was the opposite of all of your morals was sickening. He was sickening.
He’s sick in the head. You’ve known that, you were just too foolish to believe you could change him.
You don’t even know his name.
You always knew he would never let you leave.
Just the way he held you when you tried to step outside during an argument, arms wrapped tight around your waist, chin pressed into your shoulder, voice low and coaxing as he murmured that you could be mad at him here, that you didn’t have to go anywhere, that whatever you were feeling would pass faster if you stayed.
And it always worked.
You’d go limp against him eventually, breath syncing with his, anger dissolving into exhaustion, because being held was easier than being strong, and because some part of you understood— without ever saying it out loud— that if you pushed harder, if you really tried to leave, he wouldn’t know how to survive it. Nor would you.
So you stopped trying.
Until you couldn’t.
You don’t tell him about UA when the email comes in.
You don’t tell him when you accept.
You don’t tell him when you pack a bag and hide it at the back of the closet, or when you call the car hours in advance and memorize the way the confirmation screen looks so you won’t have to check it again.
You don’t tell him because you love him, and because you know that love is the very thing he would use to keep you.
The night you leave, you make dinner like nothing is wrong.
You laugh when he moans about the food, lean across the table to steal his cigarette just to make him scowl, kiss the corner of his mouth when he pretends you’re being clingy. You are careful, soft, gentle in a way he’s never been treated, because you know this will be the last time you’re allowed to touch him without resistance.
Later, when you push him down onto the mattress, your stomach coils and you push the nauseating feeling down.
You don’t want to do this.
He blinks up at you, surprised, amused, suspicion dulled by familiarity, “Oh? What’s this?” he murmurs, hands already settling at your hips like muscle memory.
“Shh,” you whisper, smiling softly as you straddle him, palms warm against his chest, skin scarred and solid and achingly familiar beneath your hands. “Just let me.”
He lets you.
That’s the thing that nearly ruins everything— that he trusts you enough to go still beneath your weight, to tilt his head back and close his eyes as you kiss along his jaw, his throat, your mouth lingering like you’re memorizing him.
It makes you sick.
Misusing his trust like this.
It makes you want to kick yourself. You should be ashamed, you are, for what you’re doing in order to rid of him. For coaxing him and making it so fucking difficult.
You don’t want to do this.
You love him. You love him so much it fucking hurts. It’s not fair. You shouldn’t do this, maybe, maybe you’ll survive a few more arguments then and there, maybe it’s okay.
But then you remember, that you’re a hero and he’s a villain and he hurts those you try to save, and suddenly you’re thrown back into reality.
You want to puke. Say what you want, you’re just as sick as he is, simply alone for doing this.
You kiss him slowly, staggering back your breath because it fucking hurts.
You don’t want to do this.
You don’t want to do this like it’s the last time you ever will— because it is.
But you do it anyway, because you want to steal as much as you want from him. You want to be selfish and bury your tongue into his throat, and you do. He moans, kissing you back just as hard, fingers digging into your skin as you part from him and kiss all over him instead. He chokes back a laugh, because you’re desperate, and quick and passionate at the same time.
Your quirk stirs before you consciously tell it to.
The windows slide open one by one, curtains lifting as the night air pours in, cool and harsh, wrapping around your skin. He notices then, eyes opening, brow furrowing slightly.
“You didn’t tell me you could do that,” he says.
You smile again, thumb brushing over the staple lines at his collarbone. “I know.”
You kiss him once more, letting one, pathetic little sob escape before you rest your forehead against his.
“I’m leaving,” you whisper.
He stills.
It takes a while, like he’s processing what you just said. He stares at you, completely overtaken by shock to notice your quirk working on him. Air and pressure sneaking on his form.
“..What,” he says finally.
“I got accepted into UA,” you continue, voice trembling despite everything, “I’m leaving tonight.”
The silence that follows is violent.
His hands tighten at your hips. “You’re not funny,” he says. “Get off me.”
You don’t.
Instead, you inhale— and push.
The air shifts, pressure blooming outward and then downward, invisible but undeniable, pinning him into the mattress with a weight that makes his breath hitch. His eyes snap wide open, confusion giving way to something sharp and dangerous.
“What the fuck are you doing,” he snarls, flames flickering weakly along his hands before sputtering out under the force.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and you mean it more than anything you’ve ever said. “I knew you’d never let me go.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” he growls, trying to sit up, muscles straining uselessly against the wind pressing him down. “You think this is it? You think this fixes anything—? Hey, don’t you fuckin’ dare—“
You stand, stepping back, the pressure increasing just enough to keep him where he is. Your hands shake as you grab your bag from the corner, the one he’s never seen before.
“You planned this.” he realizes, horror bleeding into his fury, “You planned this behind my back.”
“I had to,” you say. “You don’t listen when I say I need space. You don’t listen when I say I’m leaving. You hold me tighter.”
“That’s because you belong with me,” he snaps. “You think some school’s gonna keep you safer than I do?”
“I don’t want to be safe like this!” you cry. “I don’t want to be loved like I’m something you’re afraid to lose control of.”
He laughs then, and the sound pangs against your heart, makes your insides run cold, “So you’re just gonna pin me down and run? That’s who you are now?”
You shoulder the bag, tears blurring your vision as you snarl, “I’m choosing who I was before you.”
He roars your name, fire flaring uselessly as the air crushes it out, veins standing out in his neck as he struggles against something he can’t see or fight.
“You walk out that door,” he spits, “and don’t ever come back.”
“I won’t,” you say softly.
His heart sinks then, because he didn’t think you would actually go along with it.
And Dabi feels something he never thought would feel again.
He feels the need to beg. Beg and apologize and cry and tell you to stay here because he doesn’t want you gone.
But Dabi’s a coward, and he won’t beg. Or at least, he doesn’t in the moment when he stares at you, separating yourself from him. His jaw hangs open and there’s a pressure on his eyeducts and he realizes if he could cry, he would right now.
You leave, and he weakly, pathetically croaks out your name. But it’s too late.
You release the pressure only once you’re at the door— just enough to run.
The night air hits you like freedom and grief all at once.
The car is already there.
And behind you, inside the apartment, something shatters loudly.
Fuck.
You don’t look back.
You can’t.
The change had felt like the end of the world.
Which, in some ways, it was. For you, at least.
You live in the dorms now.
After the USJ incident, it stopped being optional— students, teachers, substitutes, anyone even remotely connected to hero education were ordered to stay on campus, because UA was fortified, guarded, constantly monitored in ways no apartment building could ever be. Before that, you’d been staying in a small apartment you bought on a whim, furnished poorly and lived in worse, but even then you’d known it wasn’t permanent. Dabi could have found you if he wanted to.
Not that he would have hurt you.
That was the cruelest part— knowing, even now, that he never would have.
Still, distance mattered.
And even with all that logic stacked neatly in your head, you still spent too many nights crying over him.
Ugly, body-wracking sobs that left your chest sore and your throat raw, face buried in your pillow so no one in the neighboring rooms would hear you fall apart over a man you were never supposed to love in the first place. You cried over the way he laughed when you annoyed him, the weight of his arm draped over your waist when he slept, the way he always knew when you were about to bolt and held you just tightly enough to keep you there.
You cried because you missed him.
Because you were just as fucking obsessed, just as dependent, and no amount of self-awareness or reframing or internal lectures about morality could change the fact that he had been your home for years. You cried because you hated yourself for missing someone who represented everything you were now actively fighting against.
Some nights, the grief turned into anger.
Anger at him— for never letting you breathe, for loving you like possession, for making you choose between yourself and him. Anger at yourself— for not leaving sooner, for loving him so deeply it still hurt like this. Anger at UA, at heroes, at the world for being so sharply divided that there was no space where both of you could exist.
Other nights, it turned into nothing at all.
Just emptiness.
You stopped eating properly for a while. Stopped answering messages unless they were work-related. You went to class, taught, nodded when spoken to, smiled when expected, and then went back to your room and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling until exhaustion took you. Depression settled over you like a fog that refused to leave.
You felt like you were mourning someone who wasn’t dead, which somehow made it worse. Day by day, the nausea returned, and the feeling of having done something bad was as persistent as ever.
By the time you were officially brought on as a substitute for the hero course, you were drained.
Before USJ, you’d mostly substituted general education classes such as ethics, quirk theory, safety regulations— but after Aizawa was injured, you were suddenly pulled into something much closer to the core of hero work. Assisting, observing, stepping in when he physically couldn’t.
Aizawa hadn’t been happy about an assistant, or a substitute. He’d told you, flatly, that he was very much capable of teaching his class on his own.
You’d wanted to point out that he now had a scar that made the use of his quirk a lot harder, and that between grading tests and making sure his students suffered, he also had to catch up on his sleep.
You’d made it a habit of asking him if you should take over the last few hours of the day so he could get some rest, and surprisingly, after about a month of working alongside him, he’d stopped refusing.
So you got the evening shift.
By then, the kids were exhausted anyway, nerves fried and bodies sore, so you tried to make it lighter for them, something they could breathe through rather than endure.
You guess that’s why they liked you— well, everyone except the angry blonde and the nonchalant candy cone.
Still, the latter always caught your attention more than any amount of yelling ever could.
Todoroki Shoto is quiet. His posture is always straight, his expression neutral, but his eyes miss very little. His hair is split neatly, white on his right, red on his left, like a clean line drawn through his existence. Aizawa had mentioned, once, offhandedly, that Todoroki refused to use his left side for personal reasons.
But it’s his eyes that linger with you. Or rather— his eye.
The stark teal blue of his right eye feels too familiar when it meets yours. Too precise and unsettling.
You care about him, even if he barely speaks.
After lessons end, he usually retreats to the dorms immediately. Some students linger in the common areas, watching movies or talking gossip. Sometimes Todoroki is there. Sometimes he isn’t.
Tonight, though, it’s not you finding him.
It’s him who finds you— standing just outside the main gate, cigarette between your fingers, breaking at least three rules you signed on your contract.
You don’t ask what a first-year is doing past curfew outside the main gate, just let him slowly join you as the wind’s breeze hits your skin.
He watches you smoke.
“It’s not healthy for you,” he says.
You snort softly. No shit.
But there’s no judgment in his voice. Just an observation, stated the same way he’d comment on fighting techniques.
You hum in response and glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you.
“If I’m unwelcome,” he says after a moment, “tell me. I just.. wanted to ask you something.”
That alone is enough to surprise you. Todoroki doesn’t seek people out. He doesn’t ask questions unless they matter.
“You’re not,” you say, “go ahead.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “You’re always looking at me. Why?”
The question hits harder than you expect.
Your eyes widen slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks before you can stop it. You hadn’t realized it was obvious. You hadn’t realized you were doing it at all.
A nervous laugh escapes you. He doesn’t look offended, rather curious.
“I— sorry,” you admit. “You just remind me of someone. It’s strange.”
He nods once, accepting that answer without pushing, and turns his gaze forward, toward the empty street beyond the gate. You take another drag from your cigarette, lungs burning and you think it’s fully deserved.
“Why do you smoke?” he asks.
You blink. “You’re full of questions tonight.”
You’re met with silence as he waits for the answer. Ah, ever the conversationist.
“I picked it up a while ago,” you reply finally, “bad habit.”
“From that someone?”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Huh?”
“That someone you mentioned,” he clarifies. “did you pick it up from them?”
A breathy laugh escapes you as you nod, trying to ignore the small shatter in your heart.
Silence settles comfortably, and it’s finally your turn to start a conversation.
“You don’t like going home, do you?”
Of course, you couldn’t forget the fact that Todoroki was Endeavor’s son. The very man your lover despised with all the hate in his body.
It’s weird— having this connection with him now, when just a few months ago you’d stroked Dabi’s inky black hair, kissed his forehead as you listened to him ramble about how he wanted to destroy that man. You had nodded, told him to go on, coaxed him into letting you in—
You never found out where that hatred stemmed from.
Now, you can’t help the concern creeping up. Dabi wanted to hurt him. And he was Todoroki’s father. You couldn’t let Dabi do such a thing—
“I don’t,” Todoroki says quietly,
“I hate my father.”
Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say.
He grunts, the same way Dabi used to when he got sick of talking about Endeavor. Once again, memories and feelings mix together, and a pang of recognition hits your heart.
“He’s a monster,” Todoroki says flatly. “He’s not nice— to me or to my siblings. I prefer being away. Now that we have dorms, he won’t stop calling me. He constantly wants to see me using my left side.”
His left side resembles Endeavor’s quirk, and he refuses to use it in spite of.. him?
Once again, another thing unites Todoroki and Dabi— their hatred towards Endeavor.
“I prefer being here,” he adds. “Now that we have dorms, I don’t have to see him as much. But he calls. A lot.”
Your chest tightens.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “But you shouldn’t limit yourself just to oppose him. That still gives him control.”
“But that’s what he wants,” Todoroki replies. “Me at my full power.”
“Yes.” You don’t deny it, you wouldn’t want to lie to him, “but what do you want?” you ask gently. “Do you want to be a hero to spite him— or because you want to save people?”
He inhales sharply, like the thought hadn’t fully formed until now.
“..Midoriya said me something similar.”
You smile faintly. “He does that.”
After a long moment, Todoroki nods. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
You hesitate, “Would it be okay if I called you Shoto?” It is his hero name, after all. Still, you think it might be better than calling him the name that connects him to his father.
He blinks, surprised, yet not displeased.
“..I’d like that,” he says.
Your cigarette crumbles in peace, and you take one last drag before letting it fall to the ground and stomping it out.
“Y’know, Shoto,” you hum, the name new on your tongue, “that someone I mentioned could gladly be your brother if I think about it. He may look different, but he wasn’t that fond of Endeavor, either.”
“I do have a brother,” Shoto nods. “I used to have two, though.”
Your head perks up, a frown evident on your face.
He takes it as a sign to continue. “He.. died. I barely talked to him. I don’t even know his favorite food.” His expression hardens, “He died when he was thirteen. I blame my father for his death. We all do—“ he gulps, composing his posture as if that could hide the croak of his voice, “If he hadn’t— hadn’t pushed this far— Touya would’ve— he would’ve been here and—”
Your frown deepens as Shoto’s breathing picks up. His hand comes up to wipe over his eyes, and you can’t help the pain that shoots through your heart. Before you know it, you’re pulling him toward you into a hug.
He stiffens at first, startled, then, as if giving in, he rests his forehead against your shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Shoto,” you whisper.
He doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t pull away either.
The name Touya echoes in your head for the rest of the night, and instinctively, you hug your pillow closer, wishing a certain someone would be here to warm you up.
Eraserhead (or Aizawa, as he’d already demanded you to call him in private) is a strict man. Honestly, you’re lucky he wasn’t the one who caught you smoking.
Still, just like Shoto, it’s Aizawa who follows you once again.
Seriously, what is it with people following you?
The teachers lounge is huge, and definitely a comfortable space to loiter in, but Aizawa wouldn’t step foot in here if he had the option to sleep instead of grade tests. That’s why it surprises you to see him there in the middle of the night, standing a few feet behind you, watching silently as you scroll through recent reports on villain activity.
You’re relieved when you confirm there haven’t been any burn victims in the past few weeks.
“You searching for something specific?”
Someone specific, is what he truly means but refuses to voice it.
You startle at his grumble, glancing over your shoulder to find him already looking at your screen. You bite your lip before sighing.
“No.”
You scroll through a few more tabs aimlessly, nothing catching your interest. You’re painfully aware that he doesn’t believe you, but he also isn’t the type to force an answer out of someone unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“Whoever’s on your mind, I hope they’re not a distraction. Or dangerous.”
Or he is. Whatever.
“What— ?!” You spin slightly in your chair. “I— I don’t have anyone on my mind, and they certainly wouldn’t be a distraction to my job!”
He notes the way you completely ignore the dangerous part. His eyes narrow just a fraction and you notice your own slip up, pursing your lips and shrinking back towards the screen.
“I’m.. sorry, Aizawa..” you mutter, then clear your throat. “Why— um— why would you think I’d have someone?”
“Just a hunch,” he replies, “seems I wasn’t wrong.”
You roll your eyes, resting your chin on your propped-up arm.
“Dick move, bro.”
“Language.”
You snort despite yourself, the tension easing just a bit. You’re not obligated to tell him anything unless it involves illegal activity or something that could endanger the students.
….Which, in your case, technically applies to both, but still— that’s between you and your conscience.
“Don’t get into any trouble,” the man continues, “The students like you. I don’t want to deal with them whining if you accidentally do something stupid.”
You smile softly, even if the wording stings and part of you would really like to punch him in the face. You know this is the closest thing to I’m worried about you you’ll ever get from him.
“I won’t, Eras— Aizawa.”
He hums in acknowledgment, already turning away.
“And you should start being stricter,” he adds, “You’re too soft on them. It’ll go to their heads.”
“They’ll need it if they’ve got you as a teacher.”
A pause.
“..Goodnight.”
He’s not meant to be watching you, that’s for sure. Breaking things off only works if you actually try to break them off, and he’s doing anything but that.
He’s long stopped denying it— that he doesn’t care about you and that he’s only watching to witness your downfall, to find you lying dead in some alleyway and spit on your disgusting, half-dead self. It wouldn’t even be new of him to think like this. You’ve already seen glimpses of his mind before, when he talked about people he didn’t like, when he gave you painfully detailed descriptions of how he’d burn someone’s flesh and make them suffer. He’s always wondered if you were just as insane, simply for staying with him.
Still, the simple imagination of you being in any kind of pain makes something in his chest clench painfully, and he finds himself forcing the thought away instead of leaning into it.
He watches you walk with that stupid fucking frown on your face, groceries hanging off your shoulder. He thinks you look ridiculous, nothing like the woman who used to seduce him into bed almost daily. You look like a mess, and worse, you look vulnerable, and he bets you don’t even notice the men eyeing you, probably imagining getting into your pants.
Well, get this, idiots— he’s been there. And it’s probably the best place he’s ever been in. He won’t ever admit that second part, obviously. Still, he feels a twisted sort of pride watching them deflate when you ignore them completely.
You walk like you’re carrying the world’s problems on your shoulders.
He thinks it’s stupid. You don’t have shit to worry about— not like him, who has to constantly stalk your pitiful ass because he doesn’t want to find you dead in an alleyway.
He wants to catch you himself and make you suffer for what you did.
(But deep down, he knows he wouldn’t. And it pisses him off to no end, because it’s you who softened him into a fucking idiot.)
He doesn’t have much to do these days. Just a few days ago, a man came and offered him a place in a newly formed league. He’s thought about joining— because having allies is smarter than being alone, even with Dabi’s ego. He’ll play it carefully. There’s no way he stands a real chance against Endeavour on his own anymore.
But lately, his thoughts haven’t been about Endeavour at all.
They’ve been about you. About the future. About what he’s actually chasing.
He’s not sure if simple revenge will be enough to fill the rest of his miserable, probably short life.
Which is strange, because revenge has been his only motivation ever since he crawled back from the dead.
Lately, Dabi’s been having dreams.
Dreams where he wakes up beside you again— but this time, neither of you is in danger. In those dreams, he isn’t a villain. He realizes it the moment he pulls you closer and chuckles at your soft snores. Sometimes you make him coffee and kiss all over his skin, and he promises to marry you and do nasty, nasty things to you that he only ever allows himself to dream about.
He thinks he could live with that.
He was never made to be domesticated or some stay-at-home man— he still needs action, still needs fire— but beyond that, he longs for what he keeps seeing when he sleeps.
He watches you and feels something snap in his nerves when he sees you talking to other people. It should’ve been him. But he ruined it.
He finds himself imagining killing these so-called teachers instead, because there’s no reason to be smiling and laughing that fucking much when they talk to you. You’re not even that funny. You’re only funny to him— and that’s because he knew you long before they ever did.
He accepts the offer to the league nevertheless.
You’re not here to stop him, and he can’t truly get you back. He realizes that when you move into the dorms and he’s forced to see you even less now.
(He still watches you nevertheless. The windows of the UA building will do, and luckily you’re often out for a smoke aswell).
The camping trip was sudden. A surprise, really, and a strangely pleasant one at that.
You weren’t supposed to come. You were just the evening teacher, Aizawa’s substitute, the extra adult who stepped in when he physically couldn’t. But the kids insisted, loud and stubborn and too fucking good at convincing. Nezu had agreed, he’d meant your quirk would benefit from open space, from air that wasn’t cramped in the buildings of the school. Wind needed room to move. Forests were better than cities for that.
He wasn’t wrong.
Unfortunately for you, you were a city person through and through. You liked noise. Structure. People around you. Still, even you had to admit that a change of environment every now and then was necessary. Healthy, even.
During the bus ride, you tried to stay awake, but somewhere between all the exhaustion and yelling about snacks and Mineta being escorted three seats away from the girls, your eyes closed. You only realize where you leaned when you wake up to fabric and warmth instead of glass.
Aizawa’s shoulder.
You stiffen for half a second, then decide you don’t have the energy to deal with it and let yourself stay there. The man is a chronic insomniac, permanently exhausted, and yet somehow he doesn’t move. He just sits there, arms crossed, glaring at anyone who dares speak above a whisper.
Anyone who teases him gets shut down immediately.
You wake when the bus halts, your neck stiff and your brain slow to catch up.
“You and Aizawa, huh?”
Sero’s voice cuts through the haze immediately.
You barely have time to process it before Aizawa shoots him a look that even manages to shiver you, and you look away uncomfortably.
The kids are ushered off the bus and made to walk the rest of the way, complaining loudly. You and the other teachers get driven in, and by the time you arrive at camp, everything smells like dirt and pine and impending chaos.
The first evening is surprisingly normal.
Bakugo is cooking.
Well. ‘Cooking.’
He’s standing aggressively over a pot, sleeves rolled up, surprisingly decent at making food but also at screaming.
“I swear to god if you touch this—”
“It smells good!” Kirishima chirps, and Bakugo softens slightly. Over the time, you’ve learned that the blonde had managed to get himself some friends, well, allies as he calls them, and Kirishima was one of the few people he actually respected to a certain extent.
Said angry boy pauses, scowling, “..It’s supposed to.”
You watch from a distance, feeling mildly amused by his change in attitude.
“He’s gonna be a househusband one day,”
Aizawa hums noncommittally beside you, and you take that as a hum of agreement.
The sudden attack, or rather, the kidnapping, throws the entire camp into chaos.
Before you can even process it, two students are in danger of being taken, the clearing reduced to a battlefield crawling with the so-called League.
As a hero (and more than that, their teacher, their caretaker) you don’t hesitate. You move on instinct alone. Somewhere behind you, Aizawa is shouting your name, barking orders for you to stay back, to think, reminding you that your quirk is built for destruction, not defense, that it leaves you wide open.
You ignore him.
You don’t play around when it comes to your kids.
Midoriya, shaken and barely steady on his feet, manages to choke out that Tokoyami and Bakugo were marbled, taken by the masked man calling himself Compress. You don’t waste time responding. You just nod and go, your quirk already roaring to life.
It’s ugly. Violent. The ground tears itself apart beneath you, dirt and debris exploding outward in a blinding wave that forces villains to shield their eyes. You snarl—
—and hands grab you. Portals bloom around you, warped and dark, purple-black edges snapping open midair. You grit your teeth, pour everything into your quirk, and blast yourself free, launching straight at the masked man.
“—?!”
Compress yelps as you reach for the marbles.
He lunges for you, fingers stretching out— trying to marble you too, but you twist away, sweep his legs out from under him, and send him crashing down.
His mask slips, clattering to the ground, and a marble spills free from his mouth.
Your breath catches. Oh.
You scoop up every marble you can see and shove them into the hands of the nearest ally just as Compress recovers. Too fast. He slams you down hard—
Hands everywhere. Voices overlapping. Shouting, swearing, someone screaming your name. You’re grabbed, yanked, dragged in opposite directions, overwhelmed and outnumbered. Your chest tightens. You bare your teeth, power surging—
—sudden warmth.
Hands close around you, solid and burning hot, and your body locks up.
You know these hands. You know this heat.
You’re ripped free from the crowd and pulled back, hard, until your spine hits a chest far too warm to be anyone else’s. The chaos fades behind you. It’s just him— real and anchoring you to the place.
His breath ghosts over your neck.
“What the hell are you thinking?” he snarls. “You got a death wish now?”
You thrash, kick back on instinct, tears stinging your eyes as everything crashes in at once. He hisses when your foot clips his shin.
“Knock it off,” he snaps, grip tightening. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t need—” you choke, voice breaking, “—your help!”
A low scoff vibrates against your back. “Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”
You sniff hard, furious, hurt. “Fuck off—!”
He glances up and locks eyes with the now unmasked man. Something unspoken passes between them, and you shiver at the way his eyes hold a certain glint.
Your stomach drops.
A marble comes flying straight at you.
And there’s nothing more you want to do than kick Dabi where the sun doesn’t shine.
You’ve never had high dreams. In a world full of evil and villains in hero capes, so much as peace would never exist. To a certain degree, you did understand Dabi.
What actually drove you away from him had to be the fact that he was ready and willing to kill those he claims are suffering under fake hero influence, when he could do so much more. It never sat right to you, and still, you stayed for him. You stayed with him.
Your mother had always said you were a stubborn one, and got attached easily.
Well look at where that got you.
If she were to know you’d hooked up with a villain, much less Dabi— a pierced, burnt freak that quite literally screamed ‘danger’, she’d take your ass to a psychiatrist and pay them to keep you there for the rest of your miserable life.
Luckily, the life of a pro hero and a teacher meant less contact with your loved ones.
Also, the fact that you were tied up in some kind of hideout, wrists bound behind a chair and your ankles secured to the legs.
“You try anything and I’ll decay you to a crisp.”
A rough, raspy voice filled your ears, and you grunt in acknowledgment.
Dangerous quirk. Dust guy threatening you. Okay, you could work with that.
“So. You’re the reason we lost the UA brat. But I guess that’s fine, your quirk’s powerful too.”
Memories overlapped each other as you processed his words, groaning because a headache had crawled up and devoured your brain. Just what had happened?
You’d been at the camp— an attack, right. Two students.. Bakugo. He’d been marbled but you—
“—apparently you’re aware of the false hero society, so there’s a higher chance you’ll understand us.”
Seriously?
“Dih..whut..”
“What?”
“It seems like she’s trying to say something,” another voice says, amused, “let me sober her up.”
A sudden cold splash to your face made you cough out, eyes wide as the ice ran down your collarbone. The smell of damp air hits you right after.
“You dickwads!”
“Ah.”
“Aw, don’t toy with the little thing,” a sing-song voice coos from somewhere to your side. “She’s exhausted.”
Your head snaps toward the sound despite the ropes. You’re much too exhausted to curse and threaten, but you hope your glare does you right.
You can hear chuckling, a girlish giggle as well, some mumbling and indirect talking about you which you chose to ignore.
“Ah. Great. Another fucking brat,” the raspy hand guy drawls, but your heads too fogged to think of his name. Though, you’re pretty sure you know— he lead the USJ attack, didn’t he?
You lean back, throat at full view as your head does a full 180 in order to ease the cramps.
Though, leaning back you catch a figure staring a you. He’s upside down, and you should be way out of it to even recognize him, but your heart does you wrong and you freeze.
Burns. Staples. Black hair.
He looks smug. You want to kill him.
A fury shoots up as you jerk in the ropes, hopeless to actually escape.
“Feels familiar, doll?”
“You two know each other?” the raspy voice asks.
“Something like that.”
“Is that what it is?” you snap, “—you trynna get back at me?!”
“No,” he-who-shall-not-be-named says easily, “but it’s definitely one hell of a nice bonus.”
Yeah. You’re lucky your mother had no idea about him, or the situation you’re in right now.
You might just become a villain yourself, less than hesitant to blow this place up.
“I take it she won’t cooperate, then?” The masked man, Compress, chimes in. The silence that follows is an answer itself, and he continues, “Well, that does make keeping her rather pointless, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t say that like you’re willing to kill her, Compress. Look at that beautiful face!” It’s the redhead from earlier, the charming voice that had stood to your defense.
You scoff, you don’t need someone babying you down.
“Don’ talk about me like ‘m not here you shits..” you slur, nose twitching as you lean forward.
The pale haired man stops pacing like a distressed father, yet his hand continues scratching his abused neck, “You’re not in the position to talk.” he spits, “We want you alive. That doesn’t mean we have to keep you comfortable, though.”
“I’m. not. joining.” You repeat slower, in hopes the toddler antic might get to his head.
Maybe it angered him further, which honestly hadn’t been your goal but it’s satisfying to see nevertheless.
A sudden mist you hadn’t noticed, the accomplice at the USJ incident, speaks calmly, “Then we cannot keep you long-term.”
Even though you knew it was coming, your stomach drops. Just a little. Death is never something anyone could take with little to no panic.
“That’s fine. Kill me, then.”
“That’s boring.” A blonde girl giggles, looking far too young to be here, “And wasteful.”
There’s a moment where you blackout, a loud ringing in your ears as you groan, squirming as if it could get rid of the issue. Movement happens in the background, voices overlap and you can’t tell if everyone’s staring at you or you’re hallucinating.
He stops in front of you, eyes dull with boredom as he tilts your chin up.
“Still doing this?” He mumbles, low enough to make you shiver. With this, you can only assume he means the whole resisting-his-ideology thing. You can only roll your eyes, given you’re too faded for anything else.
“Stubborn as always. Guess I should’ve expected this, even if you’re held at gunpoint.” He snickers, “Literally.”
His thumb settles at the corner of your mouth, and you take the opportunity to deliver a harsh, well-deserved bite.
The pain strikes, but he doesn’t pull away. He barely flinches, smiling stupidly as his thumb rests between your lips and blood suckers into your tongue. You sneer as the tables turn, realizing he’s more enjoying this than you are.
“That’s the face, baby.” He muses, “There’s my girl. How about we take this outside, yeah? Afterall, it’s gonna get hot in here.”
He tells the blonde, Toga, to cut your bindings, which she does happily. You whine as he grips the back of your neck, hauling you up and dragging your nearly limp body toward the exit.
The last thing you hear is the lizard warning him not to go too far.
Dabi never listens to anyone.
Once out the door, you expect the worst.
You expect him to push you up against it and scream at you. To humiliate you and mock you for what you’ve done, to tell you that this was coming for you.
But none of that happens.
In fact, he doesn’t even stop. He just keeps walking, dragging you behind him.
But you’re tired, and your legs refuse to cooperate. You try so hard to follow him, try to please him in such pathetic ways because as much as you try to deny it, you still want his praise and love and all the warmth he can offer.
Your steps stutter, and with a slight acceleration, you fall into his back, yelping. He stops, looks over his shoulder with his cold, blue eyes, the ones that strike you and leave you frozen every damn time.
For a moment, you’re wildly overtaken by guilt. You’re nothing but a mess, so vulnerable to death and pain. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut at the thought of how he must’ve felt the night you held him down, leaving him all vulnerable as you escaped.
You’re a disgusting person. A bad person. An asshole.
He grunts, turning around to pick you up. You latch onto his neck instinctively, his arms beneath your knees. His warmth seeps into you, and you can’t help but shudder, having missed this more than anything.
You missed him. So much.
It’s too much. You’re not sure what’s going on, much less what he’s up to, whether he’s ready to kill or run. You can feel the cold air hit your skin, meaning you must be outside. And he’s running, speed walking—
He’s protecting you.
You missed him.
There’s something that wants to escape you, and it can’t be your tears because you’re already crying. His soft pants are comforting and grounding, anchoring you to reality.
But you’re fogged up, and you’re sure you’ll pass out any second— you’re scared out of your mind, and you want it out.
You need it out— You can’t— can’t hold it back—
“I-I love you—!..”
And the world fades.
You wake up again, but this time you’re not uncomfortably chained to a chair or sprawled on the floor. Instead, you’re in.. water?
You realize you’re not drowning, much less being tortured. The water is warm and comforting, and you moan as you feel your muscles relax. Your dirty skin is getting washed off, the soot and sweat collected from God knows when finally rinsed away.
You feel better, but it might have something to do with the fact that you’re also in no danger, not fighting for your life.
You’re ripped out of your thoughts when what you can only assume is a shower head nearly drowns you. Your hair blocks your line of sight until a hand wipes it out of your face.
His staples are in no way unfamiliar to you, yet you still find yourself surprised at the ragged change in texture. (You lean into him anyway.)
“What..?”
“Shut it, alright, princess? Save your energy for something more useful.”
You huff, rolling your eyes.
You realize the water’s clear now, so he must’ve refilled it after properly washing you. He’s seen you naked before, has seen you in states worse than anyone else, so you don’t feel ashamed when you catch him taking a peek or two. Still, he’s more focused on getting all the shampoo out of your hair.
“They wanted to keep you as a hostage. Either that, or they’d force you into joining them.” Shamefully, you don’t really process his words. Sure, you’re more present now, but you find yourself craving the sound of his voice more than the meaning behind it. “That’s what they wanted me to do to you. So I dragged you out and— oi—!”
He flicks your forehead, finally making you look at him instead of the clear water where your bare body rests. “You listenin’?”
Sheepishly, you grin, and that’s more than enough of an answer for him.
“Dabi?” you whisper, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair.
“What.”
“Am I dreaming?”
He probably expected something more poetic, because his fingers soften and he groans in annoyance.
“No.”
You hum in response, leaning into him as the last bits of shampoo leave your hair.
“Dabi?”
“What now.”
He’s no longer crouching, now drying his hands on a crumpled towel. It’s only then you notice you’re in a motel— not an expensive one, either. It’s dark, the light flickers, there’s no rug to stand on once you get out of the water, and the soap dispenser is nearly empty.
“Am I dreaming?”
He huffs in irritation, “You hit your head or somethin’?”
It’s only when you look up at him, eyes wide and empty of thought, that he realizes— that yeah, you’re still out of it.
“Dabi?”
“No, you’re not fuckin’ dreaming. Quit askin’ that—”
“Can you join me?”
“…”
He clicks his tongue, and you think he’s attempting to sound annoyed.
“Christ,” he mutters, before shrugging off whatever would get in the way, such as in his huge coat, boots already long gone, and steps into the tub fully clothed. The water sloshes, warm spilling over the edges, soaking dark fabric instantly.
“Move,” he says, low, nudging your thigh with his knee.
You try, but your body’s sluggish, heavy, and you end up tipping back instead. Your balance gives out, and you fall back into him, a soft sound leaving you as your spine meets his shin.
He sighs, dragging you up by your armpits and setting you into his lap, nudeness not being a problem.
You practically purr into him, warmth welcoming as you tip your head back against his shoulder. He hums, his nose burying into your neck as his hands hold into your waist.
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I know.” You seem to slowly regain your mind, talking more confident, and for a second Dabi thinks you’ve all but tricked him into thinking you were a damsel in distress.
“Don’t try anything. This ain’t some fuckin’ spa day, and I’m not your personal heater.”
“You are, though.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Are t— ouch! You—!!” You cry out as he pinches your thigh, squirming on top of him.
“I’ve long stopped being anything for you when you left me behind, doll. Think it’s too late to be playin’ around like kids, no?”
Reality overtakes you, and you frown. It was selfish, thinking he could all forget about it, and thinking you could just shove the whole thing to the side. You still in his hold, and he notices the brashness on your face as it tips forward, hiding from his sight.
Truth be told, he’s enjoying this.
It’s no secret that he’s evil, and even a bit sadistic, but he’s nowhere near to actually not wanting to be yours. It’s just so he can stoke his ego, watch you break silently because truly, that’s what you deserve for your pussy move.
He grins as you suddenly feel a bit too exposed, watching your arms hug around yourself in order to hide what he’s already seen a thousand times.
And yet, he still craves to see it another day.
Clicking his tongue, he removes your arms, nuzzling his face into your neck, “Now, doll, want to explain to me what you did and why you did it? Since you seem to be finally back in the right state of mind?”
The childish antics he uses on you flares your humiliation even more, and your cheeks heat, feeling far more vulnerable than ever. Shit.
“Cat got your tongue?” He bites your neck, causing you to yelp, “Talk. You better fuckin’ explain why you left me half naked in the middle of the night, not even giving me an opportunity to—“
“What is there to explain, Dabi?!” You strike, huffing pathetically because that’s all you can do on his lap, “You’re a villain, I’m a hero, we simply didn’t work—“
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare finish that sentence.”
His warning is no joke, his hands gripping so hard into your flesh you’re sure it’ll bruise.
“We worked perfectly fine, and you know that. No one else knows or deals with me as much as you do—“
“And how much longer was I supposed to deal with that?! You kept leaving mid arguments or- or you didn’t even let me leave! And I don’t even know your fucking name!”
“Watch your mouth—“
“See? You’re doing it again! Go ahead, Dabi, shush me and go out for a smoke or something. Let me rot here while you’re at it—“
“Touya.”
You still, spine raggedly straight as you refuse to meet his eye.
It’s obvious as to what he’s just told you. His name, idiot. Still, you find yourself at loss for words, because the name itself rings up like an alarm, because it’s familiar and it’s been haunting you, because—
“Touya.. Todoroki?”
It’s his turn to be silent. His chest is the only giveaway that he’s not dropped dead behind you, rising softly and meeting your back.
“Smart girl.”
He’s—
“I- I thought Touya had— you-“
He sneers, “Do I look dead to you?”
Matter of fact, yeah. You do.
“No. Guess not.”
“..”
“…so that explains why you hate Endeavor so much?”
“And what do you know about him, smartass?”
You sulk, “I’ve talked to- um, your brother? He, um, told me that Endeavors not a good father so I just assumed—“
“Yeah. Should’ve known that brat would just tell anyone that.” Dabi— no, Touya seems just about too exhausted to even talk about his.. brother.
You’re not sure if you should take offense at being called ‘anyone’, given you had been one of the most loved and understanding teachers (not to forget the culprits girlfriend herself, but hey, whatever).
Silence settles in, and you lean back, your head turned enough to nuzzle your nose into his collarbone.
“Touya?”
It’s the first time he hears you directly call him that, and he feels his heart spike a beat. No one’s used that name in a long, long time, and you’re as special as it gets for a man like him, so the effect doubles and he feels like keeling over. It’s pathetic, the unease he feels in his abdomen, it’s making him nervous, maybe even a bit excited.
He speaks your name in a murmur, letting you know that he’s listening.
“I’m sorry.”
He thinks he could laugh. What is there to be sorry about?— well, apart from leaving him, that is. But the matters already been resolved, and your apology’s empty as it can be to him.
“What’re you sorry for, sweetheart?”
“For everything. I can’t.. imagine what you’ve went through. Touya.”
He purses his lips at your use of his name once again, and this time, you notice.
“You didn’t deserve any of it. Everything that happened and everything I’ve inflected on you, as well. Touya, I—“
You gulp, and his hands tighten on your waist, “Give me a chance. Please, Touya. Let me make it up to you, and let me—“
You croak, turning in his hold so you can straddle him. His face, the healthy part of his skin is stained with a slight blush, and his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are squinted and he looks so incredibly lost that all you can do is cup his face and kiss all over it. His breath hitches with each kiss, and your thumb goes to ease the wrinkles between his brows.
“Touya. Let me help you. Please, Touya. I want– I want you to have a happy life and- and if you as much as allow me to be selfish I want to be apart of that and- and I— I..”
Touya realizes that the wetness on your cheeks isn’t from the water— nothing has splashed up to your face, and the water from earlier would’ve all dried out all by now.
You’re crying.
You’re crying on his behalf. But you’re not pitying him, he knows that by the desperate sound of your voice.
You’re being selfish. Incredibly, incredibly selfish because you want him, want him to stay and accept you as a part of his life.
He thinks he wants that, too.
“I love you.”
Touya can’t cry. Couldn’t, ever since he burnt his tear ducts to bits. Yet, he’s always been quite the emotional boy. He’s had tantrums, breakdowns and whatsnot. He’s cried out of sadness, anger and happiness.
So, it’s no surprise when instead of tears, blood suckers through his eye because that’s all he can do when he gets emotional.
You don’t reel back, nor does your expression change. You choke back a sob, thumb going over to wipe the blood away, changing the colour of the water for a moment.
He growls, not out of anger but desperation, and pushes his lips against yours.
Teeth clash and he’s a starving man, eating and devouring your mouth like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do— until slowly he grows more passionate and slow than desperate, because he realizes you’ll stay— you want him, want to help him.
You kiss him back, accommodate as he wants, letting him do as he wants.
By the end of it, your spit is the only thing holding your kiss together. It breaks, dripping into the water between you.
“I love you.”
He cries, and kisses over your face, too.
“Touya,” you pant, playing with the short hair on his nape, traveling up to fist into his spikes.
He makes a sound nearing a howl, you think, as he places more kisses over you, “Fuck. Fuckin’ love hearing my name roll off your tongue, princess—“
You laugh breathlessly, spoiling him with further calls of his name, drowning in the moment.
It’s all you could wish for. It’s all you want.
Time passes, and Touya’s hair is no longer the black you’d been forced to dye monthly. Now, it’s the white you’d always secretly admired.
He’s left the League behind— for now, as he calls it. He’s got no business with them, not when he’s trying to get better, trying to sort his life out. After all, it’s not easy to wash away the sins he’s committed as a villain. The public doesn’t forget, and therefore neither will he. But he thinks it’s not too bad, because you’ve promised to stay at his side no matter what.
He’s told you all about Endeavor. About Rei and his siblings, how he got replaced by Shoto and then set himself on fire on Sekoto Peak.
You’ve comforted him through it, and he’s still building up the courage to actually talk to his family, to get back at them in a way other than actively killing his father.
Your job as a teacher is on timeout. After being kidnapped and not showing up for months— because Touya had been your priority, because you’d wanted nothing but his absolute well-being— they’d questioned you. You weren’t quite sure how to describe to them that your lover of years was Dabi himself, and that he’d saved you from the League, and that you’d finally resolved your fight to the point where Dabi— no, Touya, son of Enji Todoroki, supposedly dead— was willing to change.
You told them Dabi had rescued you for no apparent reason, leaving out the whole Touya part, because that’s something he should reveal himself. After the rescue, he’d stayed to tend to you, because you were just oh so injured.
It was enough to buy time.
Now, you’re lying in bed with Touya sprawled against your chest, his head tucked just beneath your chin. The room is dim, curtains drawn— a small apartment you two rent, paying only in cash so no one can truly track you. His breathing’s slow and comforting, enough to warm your heart.
Your fingers thread through his hair slowly, absentmindedly, feeling the soft white strands slide between them. He lets out a low hum at that, barely conscious, surprisingly heavy weight sinking into you.
“Don’t stop,” he mutters, voice rough in a way that makes you blush like a teenage girl.
You smile softly, continuing, tracing small patterns at his scalp the way you used to after especially bad nights. He practically purrs into you, your other hand traveling on his back to press into the knots, causing him to moan.
He mutters something about godly hands, and you chuckle, digging your fingers into his hair and tug his face up to yours. He groans, but there’s a smirk on his face, one you can only mimic. A soft kiss is shared before you gently drop his head back on your collarbone, nose breathing in your scent.
You’ve heard this summer is going to be a hell of a worse one, hotter and more suffocating than ever.
Yet you’ve never felt so excited to fall asleep in a bed with your personal heater during the worst of August.
hi.. guess who.... UMMM idea i had earlier was aventurine x touch starved reader who'd rather DIE than admit they want affection so they kinda just. sit there quietly and suffer until he figures out what they want. maybe they'd stare at him hoping he gets it. i feel like it'd be an interesting dynamic because he wouldn't be too open at first either, so they'd have to dance around each other for a while until they settle into a shaky sort of balance... it's new to both of them T-T
➷ pairing(s) : aventurine x gn!reader
➷ warning(s) : very touch starved reader, but other than that nothing i think
➷ author's notes: HI IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG FORGIVE ME AH BUT I HOPE YOU LIKE IT
Aventurine is seated across from you, one leg crossed over the other, posture loose in that practiced way of his—like he’s always one breath away from leaning back entirely or tipping forward into something dangerous. He’s pretending to read through a data slate, but you can tell he’s skimming. His thumb taps the edge once, twice. Impatient. Bored.
You sit very still.
Your hands are folded in your lap, fingers laced tightly enough that your knuckles ache. You don’t move them because if you do, you might reach. And you would rather die—actually perish, evaporate, become one with the stars—than be caught reaching for him without permission.
So instead, you stare.
Not rudely. Not obviously. Just enough that your gaze keeps drifting back to him, like a magnet you refuse to acknowledge exists.
You tell yourself you’re just tired. That the room is cold. That the day has been long and you’re simply overstimulated and in need of quiet. None of those things explain the hollow ache under your ribs, the one that tightens every time Aventurine shifts in his seat or glances your way and then—infuriatingly—looks back down at his slate.
Touch-starved is an ugly phrase. You hate how it sounds. You hate even more how accurate it feels.
Aventurine clears his throat. “You’re going to burn a hole through me if you keep that up.”
Your head snaps up—too fast. Caught.
“I wasn’t—” You stop. Restart. “I’m not.”
He looks at you then. Really looks. Silver eyes sharp, amused, curious. Calculating.
“Mm.” He smiles, slow and easy. “If you say so.”
You look away immediately, heat creeping up your neck. Gods. He’s impossible. Everything about him feels like a gamble you never agreed to place a bet on—every smile a bluff, every kindness potentially transactional.
That’s why you don’t ask.
That’s why you sit there quietly and suffer.
Aventurine watches you for another moment before setting the slate aside. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The distance between you doesn’t change, but the air does. It tightens, like a held breath.
“You’re acting weird,” he says lightly.
“I’m always weird.”
“No,” he hums. “This is a different.”
You don’t answer. You don’t trust your voice to come out steady, not when your skin feels like it’s buzzing, like it’s waiting for something it’s not getting. You curl your fingers tighter together, nails pressing crescents into your palms.
Aventurine notices that too.
He always notices more than he lets on.
For someone who presents himself as untouchable—slick smiles, careful distance, affection dispensed like a currency—he’s strangely perceptive about discomfort. Maybe because he knows it intimately. Maybe because he recognizes it when he sees it sitting across from him, rigid and silent and trying very hard not to ask for something you think you’re not allowed to want.
“You know,” he says casually, “most people who stare at me that hard want something.”
Your heart stutters.
“I don’t.”
“Mm-hm.” He tilts his head. “And what do people who don’t want something usually do?”
You swallow. “Not stare.”
“Exactly.”
You close your eyes for a brief, treacherous second. This is unbearable. You wish he’d stop joking. You wish he’d stop noticing. You wish—selfishly, pathetically—that he’d just do something so you wouldn’t have to be the one to break first.
When you open your eyes again, he’s watching you with a softer expression than before. The smile is still there, but it’s subdued, thoughtful.
“…You’re not very good at asking for things, are you?” he asks.
Your throat tightens. “I don’t need anything.”
There it is. The automatic defense. Clean, sharp, rehearsed.
Aventurine studies you like a puzzle he hasn’t quite decided how to solve. He doesn’t push. That’s the infuriating part. He could. He knows how. He’s excellent at pressure, at cornering people until they give up what they’re hiding.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he leans back again, giving you space. Too much space.
“Well,” he says lightly, “if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
The conversation ends there. But the feeling doesn’t.
Days pass like that. Weeks, maybe. Time blurs when you’re constantly aware of how close he is and how far away he keeps himself. Aventurine is attentive in all the wrong ways—a hand hovering near your shoulder before pulling back, a teasing comment that almost sounds like concern, an arm draped behind you on the couch without ever quite touching you.
It’s torture.
You sit beside him during meetings, during downtime, during those quiet hours when the ship hums softly around you and the universe feels very far away. You lean just a little closer than necessary. You don’t say anything.
Sometimes you catch him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed. As if he’s trying to decide whether this is another game—or something more dangerous.
The breaking point comes late one night.
You’re exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. The kind that strips away your defenses and leaves you raw. You’re sitting on the couch in his quarters, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at nothing.
Aventurine returns from a call and stops short when he sees you.
“…You look miserable,” he says gently.
“I’m fine.”
He sighs. “You say that like it’s a reflex.”
You don’t respond.
He hesitates, then sits down beside you. Not too close. Not touching. The familiar almost-contact.
You can’t take it anymore.
You look at him.
Not a glance. Not a subtle sideways stare.
You look at him openly, desperately, eyes lingering on his hands, his shoulders, the space between you that feels like a chasm.
Please, your expression screams. Please notice. Please understand. Please don’t make me say it.
Aventurine freezes.
For once, the smile doesn’t come easily.
“…Oh,” he murmurs.
You flinch, immediately looking away. Mortified. Exposed.
“I—sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He moves before you can finish.
Carefully. Slowly. Like he’s approaching a skittish animal that might bolt if startled.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Easy.”
He doesn’t touch you yet. He just sits closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of your clothes. Close enough that your breath stutters.
“You’re allowed to want things,” he continues, voice quieter now. Honest in a way you’re not used to hearing from him. “You know that, right?”
Your chest aches. “I don’t want to be… inconvenient.”
Something flickers across his face—something sharp and unreadable.
“Is that what you think this would be?” he asks.
You nod, miserably.
Aventurine exhales, long and slow. “Stars above… You really do make things harder than they have to be.”
Then—finally—he reaches out.
Not grabbing. Not pulling.
He rests his hand over yours, tentative, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You don’t.
Your breath shudders as warmth seeps into your skin, relief so intense it almost hurts. Your fingers curl instinctively around his, like you’ve been waiting for permission your entire life.
Aventurine’s thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.
“There,” he murmurs. “Was that so terrible?”
You shake your head, tears threatening despite yourself.
“…I didn’t know how to ask.”
“I know,” he says quietly.
He shifts, just enough to let you lean into him if you want to.
You do.
It’s awkward. A little stiff. You’re both hyper-aware of every point of contact, every breath. Aventurine’s arm comes around you hesitantly, like he’s afraid of overstepping. You press closer, silently reassuring him.
Neither of you are good at this.
But you’re trying.
His hand settles at your back, warm and steady. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, more to himself than to you. “No rush. No games.”
You close your eyes, finally, and let yourself rest against him.
For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like you’re suffering in silence.
You feel… held.
────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────
@dewberrydusk 2026 | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.
Cloud Retainer takes you away from Xiao and forbids him from visiting. He is left confused when even you agree to it. Spoiler: you're pregnant and require all the help you can get to get used to the baby adeptus growing in your womb!
tags: FLUFF, romance, xianyun and zhongli bickering, 'Qingxin' as a pet name
wc: 1.9k
Cloud Retainer stood stork in front of you, her arms crossed as if she were a guarding you from evil. Xiao raises an inquisitive eyebrow at the behaviour of the elder before stepping towards the two wearily, uncertain of the current mood.
“Is… everything okay?” he starts awkwardly, not quite sure who to address in the instance as the elder was clearly standing protectively in front of his lover.
“Hmph. I suppose it is, isn’t it dear Y/N?”
“Cloud Retainer…” your hesitant voice made Xiao even more confused as he looks back at the elder who was persistently piercing her gaze into his. Xiao felt scared of Cloud Retainer for the first time, he didn’t understand it, but her gaze was one of a mother scolding her son for doing some sort of wrong. He didn’t understand it one bit. Xiao decided to let it be and smile softly at his partner instead, who he was relieved to find smiling right back at him.
He holds his arm out towards you, but Cloud Retainer intervens, using her wind to push him further back. You look at how Xiao reacts, disbelief spread across his expression. He looks even more hurt as you speak up for the first time.
“I think… I think it’s best if I stay here with Cloud Retainer for some time” you say softly, your eyes averting away from Xiao’s, awkward and shy as you try to cool down the brewing tension between the two Adepti.
“Qingxin, is everything well? I don’t understand-” he begins to speak before he is abruptly cut off.
“It is none of your concern since you lack ability to comprehend any such situation relating to this dear child. Now be gone, I will be tending to this child” Cloud Retainer speaks boldly.
You wince at the harshness of her words that seemed to be doing a number on its recipient. Xiao looks at Cloud Retainer before looking over at his lover again, shocked. You felt awful when you saw the hurt and confusion swirling through his eyes, he couldn’t quite fight back either since Cloud Retainer was an elder Adepti, it was unheard of to do so.
You give Xiao a reassuring look and though he is hesitant to leave, he trusts you enough to step back.
As Xiao disappears, Cloud Retainer lets out a big sigh, turning back to look at you. Her eyes were sad, “It had to be done. The poor child looks terribly hurt by my words. I must arrange for some gifts once I return you back to him.”
“Please don’t mind, Cloud Retainer. He will understand”
As nightfall approached, Cloud Retainer helps you through your days getting used to the adeptal energy that was fusing into your body with the growing adeptus inside you. You were left in the security of her domain, alone without any other contact from anyone else, especially Xiao. You felt terribly lonesome without your lover around but bared with it.
Cloud Retainer herself spoke often of how Xiao started to demand answers from her, and almost rose his voice against her. He was terribly frustrated that he couldn’t even sense his lover as you were kept 'locked away' in her domain. Cloud retainer giggled at the recollection of her memories of the boy, speaking of never having seen Xiao so upset at her before. He seemed like a small lost child, as he once was. You smile softly, happy at the thought your lover wasn’t giving up on seeing you.
Once your body was stable, Cloud Retainer had taken you out to the town for the first time. It was to monitor how well you could adapt with your new powers, and the young adeptus growing inside of you.
Not too soon into your walk into the town, the two of you were met by Zhongli. He raises his brows at the sight, as it were a coincidence for them to meet.
Of course, it wasn’t a mere coincidence. Nothing regarding Zhongli was a coincidence.
Xianyun sighs, rubbing at her temple as she watches Zhongli greet the younger, babbling on and on about how fine the weather was today.
“Let’s not act to foolish now, you must be well aware of the situation at hand” Cloud Retainer huffs,
“Ah. Xianyun, you are always so direct are you not? Well. I suppose I was going to come to see you myself to see what troubles you have been causing my dear boy Xiao. However, I see now, you have done so for good reason.” Zhongli speaks with such poise it is astonishing how quickly Cloud Retainer barks back at him.
“Yes yes, now let us be!”
“Dear Y/N. I wish you all the finest blessings in Liyue. It is indeed a joyous and momentous occasion. I am sure Xiao would be thrilled with news too.” He ignores his old friend and directs a gentle smile over to you. He answers your questions about how Xiao himself was unaware of the energy inside you promptly - that it was something only elders where experienced with. Xiao, well, he is still young, lacking of knowledge or experience in such realm – despite the hundreds of years he has been alive and well, that is.
Zhongli also registers the worry that you have been masking all this time, a single worry that you didn’t think any one would ever see through. But he certainly did.
“What bothers you, dear child?”
You swallow thickly as you look at the man. His aura was like no other. Somehow, you were enchanted, you felt his authority even with his gentle coaxing voice. You couldn’t lie to him, even if you wanted to.
You grow hot, embarrassed of speaking your worries, “I… I don’t know if Xiao will get upset. We’ve never talked about… it before”
“Ah, I see. Nonetheless it will be a new journey for him too. Whatever the outcome, I’m sure you will come together in harmony” he hums, and you look to the floor nervously.
Zhongli smiles gently at you once more, his parting words do leave you with a little more ease.
“Do not grow too worried. Xiao loves you dearly, I’m sure he would be thrilled to find out there will be more of you to protect in the coming years” Zhongli speaks softer this time, his gloved palm resting on your head as he pats at it. You don’t notice the faint gold glow above you that is emitted from his hand, but Cloud Retainer does. It was his blessing and protection.
You nod slowly, trying to contain your emotion at his kind words. Xianyun sighs, glaring at the old man for stressing you more than necessary before whisking you away.
Today was the day you would reunite with your lover.
⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡
You take one step into the border of Wangshu Inn and already see the spark of green and black puff in front of you. Xiao appeared instantly, his eyes growing wide before he runs up to you and hugs you tightly. He didn’t say a word, instead he basks in your warmth, your scent, everything about you he had missed so so dearly.
“Xiao…” you breathe, wanting to get the words out, you wanted the torture of knowing out. But you couldn’t seem to do it. Not when he pulled back so gently, his palms on your shoulders, looking at you with those soft amber eyes of his. You spoke his name once, twice, three more times, shaky, before looking away as if there was a certain guilt eating away at you.
Xiao, confused, found that his heart started to grow heavy seeing you struggle. He placed a palm on your cheek, redirecting your gaze back onto his,
“what’s wrong?” those words were so delicate it made you crumble into tears.
Xiao, startled that he had made you cry, blinked twice before holding you into an embrace again. Just as quickly, he managed to teleport you both to his domain, placing you on the bed and kissing your cheek softly, wiping away at your tears.
“Xiao…” you begin again through breaths as you cried. Xiao’s brows knot together in concern, only love and admiration swirling through his eyes as he holds you closer,
“It’s okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me when you’re ready. You don’t have to force yourself” he explains, his fingers raking through your locks in efforts to calm you down. You try to regain your breaths, nodding understandingly. But you knew you had to say it now. You couldn’t keep pushing it away, it wasn’t right. Not for you. Not for him.
Just as Xiao got up to leave and give you some space, you hold onto his shirt. You’re still sat at the edge of his bed. You press your face against the back of his waist so he wouldn’t turn back to you. You won’t be able to manage saying it if he was facing you. This was your best chance at confessing it.
“I’m pregnant”
You felt the whole room eating you up, the silence too, was dreadful. You were so fixated on it that you didn’t realise Xiao had turned around to you almost immediately. Once realizing his stare, you turn away to the side away.
Xiao instead, kneels down in front of you on the floor, his hands on yours, at your lap as he looks up you.
“Are you okay? How are you feeling? Is this why Cloud Retainer kept you captive? Is everything okay with your body-”
You shouldn’t have been shocked at the overwhelming amount of concern from Xiao, but you were. It was almost as if it was his default was to worry over your wellbeing before even registering the fact he was about to be a father. You nod your head slowly at all his questions.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t know about it till I saw her. Since then, she kept me with her. She helped me through the early stages since my body wasn’t well adapted to adeptal energy. I’m okay now. She said the following stages would be as regular as any other mortal birth” you explain, not knowing where to focus your eyes on. The sight of Xiao so pretty sitting on his knees beneath you was far too enchanting.
“I see” he sighs, feeling himself relax for the first time since you had first been taken away from him. Xiao lets his head rest on your lap, sinking his cheeks into your plush thighs. You hesitantly place your hand on his head, feeling his hair through your fingers, before asking him cautiously,
“Are you… okay with it? Having a baby, that is”
Xiao stays silent before nodding into your thighs, “of course I am” he mumbles, lifting his head up to see you again, “was that why you were crying earlier? Were you worried of my reaction?”
You nod, embarrassed as Xiao’s eyes began to hollow out a little. His palms reach out to cradle your cheek once more. Xiao looked almost feverish as his eyes gloss over yours, his cheeks tinting pink. It seems he was finally registering it all, properly.
“I don’t know what this feeling is, but I feel beyond joy. I don’t quite know how to express it either. If it’s okay with you, I would be honored to be beside you as a father for our child.”
You smile and nod once more, your heart pattering at his words.
Xiao takes your palm in his and kisses at it gently before looking deeply into your eyes. There's a certain security you feel when he looks at you like that, like he's ready to speak an oath you know he will keep.
“Thank you, my Qingxin, for this gift. I’ll treasure and protect it with my life.”
author's note: i felt like i was betraying xiao by not posting a single thing abt him on my blog when he's literally the loml ... so here it is. do not be fooled, I write abt xiao the most, but his are always full fledged fics (not oneshots). anyways i think this man deserves all the love in tevyat <3
✧ heaven missed its aim, and now an adorably confused angel (aka, you) is wreaking havoc (and maybe stealing hearts) across teyvat ― alhaitham + ayato + dottore + diluc + kazuha + lyney + neuvillette + scaramouche + tartaglia + venti + wriothesley + xiao + zhongli x reader ⋆ incl. mentions of broken wings, you have a little radio - like device that connects to heaven 𝜗ৎ i wanted to do more charas but i was scared it'd be too long . . . part 2 ?
𐔌 . . . 𝐀𝐋𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌꒱
One second he’s reading under a tree, the next, the sky explodes and something winged crashes straight into his lap.
You, wide-eyed and covered in feathers, “Mortal! Thou shalt not gaze upon my—oh hey, you’re cute.”
Instantly, you switch moods. “Oh, thank the Creator, you broke my fall!” you chirp, wings flapping erratically and causing an Eye of the Storm to fall off a cliff. “...Oops..”
He stares at you for a long, silent second, “You’re thanking me for your lack of flight control?”
“You caught me,” you argue, proudly, “that’s destiny.”
“That is gravity,” he corrects.
Somehow, within the next hour, you’ve installed yourself in his study, sitting cross-legged on his table, sipping his tea, asking questions about “mortal philosophy” while petting his hair and getting your feathers everywhere.
He insists you’re a “cosmic disturbance.” Yet, when you fall asleep against his shoulder mid-sentence, he quietly turns a page without moving you.
You call him “wise mortal.” He calls you “airborne liability.” It’s… a start.
𐔌 . . . 𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐓𝐎꒱
The heavens open above the Kamisato Estate during a perfectly normal tea break. He barely lifts an eyebrow when you descend, glowing and terrifyingly serene.
Guards panic, servants kneel, and Thoma drops a tray. Ayato, on the other hand, just sips his boba tea. “Well. That’s new. It seems we’ve received… heavenly company.”
You step forward, eyes like judgment itself, voice like thunder, “I come seeking the one called Ayato.”
He smiles politely, “Ah, my reputation precedes me. Shall we discuss this matter over tea?”
You end up lecturing him about cosmic law while he tests if angels blush when complimented (Yes, and then his teacup explodes).
For someone supposedly divine, you blush very easily when he bows to kiss your hand.
Later, when you scold him for manipulating nobles, he says, “If Heaven dislikes cunning, perhaps it shouldn’t make mortals so imperfectly interesting.”
You have no rebuttal.
𐔌 . . . 𝐃𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐄꒱
He found you when you suddenly appeared in his laboratory, mixing around random chemicals. The first thing you do when you see him is sneeze, and three of his clones combust because of your germs mingling with the unfortunate chemical solution.
He’s delighted. Not concerned, not shocked—delighted.
“An angel, you say? Fascinating. Tell me, are your wings detachable?”
You tilt your head, halo wobbling, giggling like a wind chime, “Detachable? No, dummy! They tickle if you touch them!”
He short-circuits for half a second. Then grabs a clipboard, “For science, of course.”
You hum happily while accidentally melting one of his lab tables with divine light. You’re the perfect specimen. (He might also be a little fond. Oops.)
He stares, fascinated as you nearly blow up his lab again, “Interesting. Divine sneeze reflex causes spontaneous combustion…can you do it again?”
“Maybe if you tickle me!”
That’s how the Eleventh Segment ends up half-immolated while the Third Segment is taking frantic notes.
You float lazily above his desk, babbling about celestial nonsense and calling him “Doctor Funny Mask.”
He swears you’re the greatest discovery of his career.
Unfortunately for you, this seemingly sweet doctor (to you, no one else thinks that) is never going to let you go. So, when you tell him your signals to Heaven are working again, he destroys your little messaging device and keeps you locked up in his lab. With love, of course.
𐔌 . . . 𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂꒱
You fall straight through the Dawn Winery roof right as he’s cleaning up Kaeya’s latest prank. Adelinde almost faints.
Diluc catches you midair, with the reflexes of someone who’s done this way too often with wine crates. He sighs.
You blink up at him, dazed, “...Are you the keeper of this realm, or are you my destined savior?”
“I’m your unfortunate landing pad.”
“Ah.. so you’re the love of my life.”
“Absolutely not. I have enough fangirls.”
You cling to him like he’s a life raft, “You smell like grapes.”
“That would be the wine cellar you nearly destroyed.”
You call him “Sir Flamin’ Hot Sexy,” and he blushes for the first time since 1623.
Later, as you sit wrapped in his coat, wings drooping, you whisper, “You look sad, for someone who saved me.”
He hesitates long enough for you to reach up and brush his cheek. He catches your hand, softly, “Rest. The rest of your questions can wait until I patch the ceiling.”
When you try to thank him with “holy light,” you nearly set the vineyard on fire. He hasn’t decided whether to kick you out or hide you so you never meet Kaeya… or worse, Klee.
𐔌 . . . 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐇𝐀꒱
He feels the presence of something before you fall.
But when the “something” turns out to be you, glowing and weightless, he can’t help but smile.
“You’re not frightened?” you ask, hovering inches above the ground.
“Should I be? You seem gentle enough.”
You look at the leaves swirling around his blade, fascinated, “The wind… listens to you.”
“Sometimes it listens better than people do.”
You talk all night about freedom, about stars, about how heaven feels colder than the breeze on his ship’s deck.
When dawn breaks, you gift him a feather, “A reminder that even the sky envies the wind.”
He keeps it tucked in his haori always, though he won’t ever say why. After all, you’ve become his little angel muse.
𐔌 . . . 𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐄𝐘꒱
It’s mid-performance when the ceiling explodes into a bright light. The audience gasps. Lyney, to his credit, takes a bow.
“And now, for my greatest trick—oh. You’re not supposed to be here.”
You blink from the ceiling wreckage, “…Where am I?”
He grins, “In my spotlight, apparently.”
You’re trembling, wings drooping, voice soft, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your… um, mortal entertainment...I think I took a wrong turn at the Pearly Gates…”
He offers a gloved hand, “Then let’s make this crash landing our special act.”
You spend the evening helping him “vanish” doves…only for the doves to follow you instead.
Backstage, he gives you his hat to hide your halo. You smile, “You’re kind for a trickster.”
“You’re too trusting for a deity,” he replies, but his tone is warm.
Lynette sighs, “You’re flirting with a celestial being…again.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄꒱
The courthouse erupts in light. Melusines scatter. He’s halfway through a sentence when you shatter the glass and faceplant in front of the bench like a sanctified meteor.
“Oops,” you mumble, “do I have to pay for that?”
He stares, speechless, “This is… the Palais Mermonia.”
The courtroom goes dead silent. What the hell is an HR department?
You laugh, “Oops, wrong universe!”
When he finds out your communication is broken, so you’ll be staying here a while, he ends up giving you a “court tour,” partly to keep you from flying into the ceiling lamps again.
When you apologize for “breaking the sky window,” he sighs, just once, “Perhaps… we can find you lodging. Somewhere without glass.”
𐔌 . . . 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐄꒱
You literally drop into his personal bubble of solitude. Bad move.
“What in the Archons’ name are you?”
You, dazed, “A… creature of heaven?”
He glares, “Then go back.”
But your wings are all messed up, so he (very reluctantly) takes you back home.
He absolutely does not help you fix your wings, but he also doesn’t leave you alone. He reminds you of a cat you once became friends with.
You become a part of his daily routine and can’t help yourself from saying, “You don’t do anything fun, do you?”
“Fun is a waste of time.”
“Then you’re doing life wrong!!”
He glares at you. You sleep on the couch that night. But the next morning, when he finds you crying because your wing’s condition worsened overnight, he freezes.
“Don’t—stop crying. That’s annoying.”
He ends up awkwardly bandaging your wing in silence. You smile through tears, “You’re not mean, you just talk like... thunder. Scary, but not harmful. It's comforting when you get used to it.”
He rolls his eyes, muttering, “Then maybe you should go back to Heaven where it’s quiet.”
He doesn’t mean it. Not at all.
𐔌 . . . 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐀꒱
You land mid-fight, radiant and confused, feathers flying everywhere. He nearly trips on a halo.
“Finally! A challenge that fell from the sky itself!”
You’re dazed, “I— wait, are you fighting for sport?”
“Of course. Wanna join?”
You heal him instantly, wings fluttering. “You mortals are insane.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He challenges you to a spar. You refuse. He grins wider.
“C’mon, angel, show me what Heaven’s got.”
By the end of the day, he’s covered in soot, you’ve broken half a cliff, and both of you are laughing like maniacs under a star-filled canopy.
Later, he tells everyone he “fought Heaven and won.” You’re still trying to explain that you were trying to apologize.
𐔌 . . . 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈꒱
You land on him mid-song. He doesn’t even flinch, just keeps playing.
“Ah, another fallen star~ Are you here to steal my thunder, or just my spotlight?”
You start humming harmony with him. The crowd thinks it’s divine intervention.
The Aedes brothers have faced challenges, and they handle them quite differently.
➵ Notes; modern au, OOC (?), siblings au! — this is an expansion of the one-for-three (one-shot)
➵ 3.1k words.
➵ Warnings; acts of discrimination and bullying (most prominent in Khaos and Khaslana's parts), violance (Specifically in Khaslana's), implied attempt of manipulation? (Phainon's part).
—✦ Khaos rarely goes out, mainly because he finds public spaces to be overwhelming and he prefers the controlled environment of his bedroom.
Though, that is not to say some kids in your apartment building don't think of him as that weird one. Which seems to be solidified by his quiet nature.
There are also many instances of them poking fun of the birth mark on his left eye—mistaking it as a scar. And while he doesn't react outwardly, it still hurts.
Despite his parents' assurance, they even go as far as to confront the kids’ parents, the insults never truly stop. They just turn into backhanded compliments.
He didn't like worrying his parents anymore, so he decided not to go out into the courtyard when invited by his mom. He'd throw excuses, whether it's extra work from school or he wasn't feeling it.
But as we all know, in the end, his mom dragged him out anyway. Not wanting her oldest son to completely isolate himself.
And what originally was supposed to be a miserable experience, turns into one most memorable for him—He made a friend. A friend that liked the same video game as he does. He's never been this giddy in his life—other than the first time he got his console, of course.
Still, just because he's got one friend. Doesn't mean the insults and stares didn't stop. The most memorable example was when the two of you were taking snapshots of the sun setting—mostly you, but he helped!
You two were leaning against the bridge railing, staring at the camera’s screen showing a recent photo you took. Unknowingly to the two of you, a group of kids—around your age—had gathered just a few feet away, forming near a swing set as they stared at your figures.
Khaos noticed their stares long before you did, it's something he's gotten used to but he didn't want you to experience it too. So, he cuts you off mid-ramble about lighting or something of sorts and tugs your wrist over to another spot near the railing. Anywhere else, as long as it's away from their line of sight.
You were, rightfully, confused as to why he's dragging you to another spot. And you thought maybe he wants to take a photo of the sunset from another angle. But that is quickly proven wrong when he pulls you to a more shaded part of the courtyard, where there's multiple seating areas and adults talking with one another with cigarettes in hand.
“Khaos, what are you doing?” You manage to stop him in his tracks. He looks back, but his eyes aren't on you, instead they are looking past your shoulders. As if making sure you two weren't being followed.
Lifting a hand, grab hold of his sleeve. “Let's go back, mom said we can't go too far.” And your reminder seems to snap him out of his state as he loosens his grip on your wrist.
“.. I'm sorry.” He mumbles before fully letting go. “.. They were staring.” At me.
You raised a brow, confused. “What do you mean?”
And for a moment, he thought of brushing off the topic entirely and just head back to your moms. But seeing the slight worry in your eyes, he couldn't do it.
There's a linger of hesitation as he opens his mouth, before he finds his voice and starts retelling everything. The stares, whispers, compliments sounding like veiled insults, and his parents' efforts. He watches your face change between emotions.
And once he finished, your expression… he doesn't know how to describe it exactly, there was a mix of feelings of anger, sympathy and sadness.
You didn't utter a word, but your hand found his. Clutching his fingers. He noticed the slight tremble. Neither of you are able to properly process emotions, you were children, but what you're capable of knowing is that having someone be there with you is more comforting than any words.
The two of you began walking, holding each other's hand. Khaos noticed how soft the skin of your palm is and how warm you are—there was a weird flutter in his chest when you tugged his hand closer.
When you passed by the swing set, the kids were already scattered. Much to his relief as Khaos let out a sigh, visibly relaxing his shoulders.
“.. Next time,” your voice pulls his attention back to you. “Tell me when they're around. I'll take ugly photos of them.” It was a ridiculous threat, but effective.
Khaos tightens his hold around your hand, hiding a smile on his face as he nods. “.. I'll help you.”
—✷ Khaslana doesn't have many bullies because he never pulls his punches. Literally.
His parents were worried beyond belief when the first report came of their second son having gotten into a fight. A full blown physical one. Both of them feared the worst, because according to the school staff; he was fist fighting three boys who were a grade above him. They imagined the bruises and scratches Khaslana would sustain in the aftermath.
But to their surprise, and relief, upon reaching the school office they see their son sitting on a chair in the hallway. With only a few dirt marks on his uniform and a band aid on his cheek. He seemingly left the fight unscathed. There was a teacher beside him and the woman greeted the parents with a strained smile as Khaslana stood up, going straight to his mom's arms.
The teacher—Miss Pythias—brought them inside the cold office room. Ushering them to sit down on the chairs available beside her work desk before she finally gives them the story from Khaslana’s perspective.
According to him, the three students had been bothering everyone in the playground during break time. They were apparently insulting others and even going as far as to start pushing students around by their shoulders.
Khaslana was enjoying his lunch when they came to his spot, a small seating area in front of the cafeteria wall, and started telling him to go find somewhere else to sit because ‘that seat belongs to older kids’.
And he refused, although he offered to move once he finished eating. The students, however, did not take his answer kindly and one of them managed to grab hold of his forearm before forcing him onto his feet—proven by a security camera capturing their action.
This surprised Khaslana and caused him to drop his lunch box, ruining the homemade meal Audata had cooked for him.
What set him off is when the two other students made fun of his mom's cooking—something about how disgusting the fish smells—He would've easily shrugged off the encounter and simply reported it to the head office if the insults were only targeted towards him. But when the vile words left their mouths, Khaslana lunged up towards all three. Tackling them down.
Not one, but all three.
The security camera didn't catch the whole fight, only of Khaslana launching himself forward and causing all four of them to be thrust into the other side. Escaping the camera's line of sight.
One of the cafeteria workers, who happens to be the one that broke off the fight, described it as Khaslana body slamming all three on to the ground before attempting to strangle them at the same time. How is that even possible? Who knows.
The chaos turns into a spectacle amongst the students as they watch and surround the four. Some go as far as to start cheering for Khaslana, wanting him to win the fight.
He had admitted; he was too caught up by emotions to think clearly and started fist fighting with the three students before the cafeteria staff member broke them off.
And while the fight was short lived, Khaslana had, surprisingly, the least amount of injuries. The nurse had simply placed a band aid over a small scratch.
Thankfully, this incident had a peaceful ending with apologies from both sides. The parents of the three students scolded them relentlessly after seeing the footage. Later on, Hieronymus and Audata received multiple apology gifs at their front door.
Khaslana still received a lengthy scolding from his parents—Phainon attempted to secretly record it but he got caught and ended up getting dragged into the lecture too.
Although this next incident is less fortunate. With no one to witness it. Except—you apparently.
It was early morning, you and Khaslana wanted to play in the swing set before heading to your apartment and binge watching a movie on your living room TV.
Usually, your mom wouldn't let you off to the courtyard on your own. But when she finds out that Khaslana would be there, she allows it. Trusting the boy to be responsible for both himself and you.
Oh, what a mistake that was.
Despite it being quite early in the day, you'd expect less people than usual—you're wrong on that assumption. Because upon arrival, the courtyard is full of people jogging around the area or walking their pet. Some of the adults happen to bring their kids along, so the playground set is also somewhat full.
But the two of you are only here to play on the swingset for a short while, so waiting a bit wouldn't be a problem!
Surprisingly, the moment you two are able to approach said swingset, the two kids there were already getting off. You two sprinted over after seeing no one approaching, Khaslana manages to sit on one of the swings while you—
“Ow!” You collided against a boy, causing the two of you to land on your butts.
You didn't even have a chance to recover before he's up on his feet and running to the swing. Taking the seat.
Khaslana shot up from his swing, causing it to violently sway behind as he approached you. Grabbing hold of your arm and helping you up on your feet. “.. Your hands..” after he noticed the scratched skin of your palms from the fall.
You visibly cringe at the sight, the fresh wound combined by the dust laid over makes it twice as painful. “... Ugh..” he can see the unshed tears as you attempt not to cry in front of him.
He pulls you aside, not before sending a glare towards the culprit—who's still playing on your swing with little care of the consequences of his action—and how exactly can Khaslana confront him without possibly escalating to a full blown fight. He just wants the boy to apologize.
“.. Khas,” your voice snaps him back into reality as the two of you stand outside of the courtyard. “Can we just.. Go back to my house and watch the movie..? I don't really wanna play on the swings anymore.” and when he sees the way your eyes glisten, practically on the verge of letting tears fall, he's thrown off balance.
He visibly panics, eyes widening and his mouth opening but no words coming out. He doesn't know how to verbally or physically comfort you. Would you even want him to? What can he do to—
Khaslana's eyes land back on the boy.
… Maybe it doesn't have to be him.
And what comes next is the slow stages leading to the fight; Khaslana approaches the swing, stops the boy by grabbing on the chains which causes him to nearly fly out of his seat,
“Hey! You'll get your turn—!”
“You're the one who cut off my friend.” He visibly bristles with uncontained anger. “Go apologize to her.”
He watched the boy play victim, claiming that he had been waiting long before either of you arrived and that it was your fault for not noticing him.
That was it.
Khaslana crouches down, grabs a fistful of sand and before you could stop him, he throws it directly at the boy's eyes. He didn't bother to stay and watch him writhe in pain as he sprints over to your side
“Khas! We're gonna get in trouble!” You hissed, now overtaken by panic.
In response to that, he grabs your wrist. Avoiding the act of holding your hand as to not cause you even more pain. He tugs you along as the two of you fled the crime scene.
And filled with adrenaline of possibly getting into trouble; he began to laugh, and you followed suit.
“You're supposed to be responsible!”
“I am! That was me being responsible!”
The two of you laugh even more while running upstairs.
—☀︎ Phainon barely faced any form of bullying. Simply because of how charming he is. Compared to his older brothers’ reserved nature and burning temperament—Phainon is the perfect foil to both.
He's sociable to all, being able to come up with silly jokes that makes even the hardest of people crack a smile. Phainon's also, painfully, sincere. You can't see any visible lies in the way he speaks, his eyes are akin to that of puppies, so as long as you have a heart—you'd end up trusting him one way or another.
Oh, but Phainon is aware of the perception others have of him.
The sociable and friendly youngest of the Aedes brothers—what an honorable title for him to receive! Truly, he's rather flattered.
And while there are challenges to be known as such, like—having people constantly place their heavy trust in him, expecting only the best from him, and the need to be able to please everyone. Which is an impossible task.
But he's able to endure all of these with a wide smile.
At least, so far.
Although there were many setbacks, there were also benefits that come with his title. Phainon found out that people tend to believe him more than necessary, if he were to give them a piece of information, they'd believe it without any need to verify. He'd grow up to be a liar if it weren't for his parents implanting a moral code in him. Plus, his older brothers’ would hit him over the head for that.
He also discovered how many people.. Admire him? In a way one would with a hero. Kids his age would always hover around him, wanting to be friends—he doesn't mind it, although he's a little taken aback at first.
Adults are no different, most of them see him as this ‘ideal child’. Perhaps that's why they seem to trust his words more compared to others.
At his current age, recently reaching adolescence, he's not fully aware of how to use this to his advantage. But with time, he'll begin to learn.
Moving back to the topic at hand—perhaps Phainon has a different view of what ‘bullies’ are. Taking into account that he is the youngest of the three, he rarely had to share with his brothers. It's more that they have to share with him. A privilege he basks in without shame.
And so, when he made a new friend (A friend of his brother is also his), it didn't automatically click in his head that he'd need to share you (you're friends with all three of them).
It was late early in the afternoon when you came over. Although the reason was obviously to hang out with Khaos, hence why he's waiting for you in his room, Phainon also happens to be lounging in the living room with Snowy.
Once his eyes landed on you, “Oh! You're here! Wanna play?” He immediately springs up onto his feet, followed by an excited bark from Snowy.
The two padded over to you, looking way too similar to one another in both posture and facial expression.
You muster up a small, apologetic, smile. “I'm gonna play with Khaos, maybe next time?”
And in response to that; Phainon visibly deflates. It's as if you had just taken his pure heart and shattered it right in front of his very eyes. And maybe you had just done so. Snowy, upon noticing his buddy's dimming excitement, copies it in his own puppy way. Whimpering and slowing the wagging of his tail.
Now you're faced with two puppy eyes; both of them pleading—no, begging for you to reconsider your answer and indulge in them. You're pushed even further into the corner once Snowy begins nuzzling his snot against your torso, begging for pats for comfort along with your attention.
“I know you guys like playing together.. But, can I at least join? Just for a bit! Please?” He took a step forward, hands held up to his chest while his eyes bore into yours. You're unable to speak, you're pulled by the vast blue sky that has taken place in his irises.
You stuttered out nonsensical responses, unable to deny not accept his request. Until your savior (his enemy) clicks open his door.
“Phainon,” Khaos starts with an annoyed grunt the moment he spots his youngest brother and their puppy standing before you.
“Hmm?” Phainon feigns innocence, while only giving a mere glance his way.
“stop blocking the way.” The oldest Aedes brother begins making his way towards the three of you. Snowy shifts his attention and begins wagging his tail, barking at the sight of Khaos who gave the puppy a small ruffle on the head before putting his gaze over to you. “I already set up the game, let's go.”
You smiled, relaxing a little. But Phainon pursed his lips, not yet ready to back just yet as he shoots a glare over at Khaos. “Why do you get to play with her so often? You're being unfair.”
Khaos raised an offended brow at the accusation, “I invited her over to play, you're the one openly trying to steal her.” While you awkwardly walk over to the side. Avoiding being in the cross fire.
Phainon looks taken aback by his oldest brother's words as he lets out a gasp, before forming a pout on his face. “.. Why can't I just join you guys?” He huffs out and his stubborn action only made Khaos even more exasperated.
“You're not joining us.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“You're not being nice to me.” Khaos nearly rolled his eyes at that.
“I'm being honest.” Phainon's pout deepened even more.
A tense beat passes before the youngest brother seemingly relents, crossing his arms before making his way back to the living room couch. Stomping with each step, making it clear that he'll be sulking. Once he reaches the cushion, he topples over with a sad huff as Snowy follows after him, settling on the carpet floor beside him.
Khaos was about to take you to his room when you stopped him by tugging on his sleeve.
“.. Hey.. Can we let him join? Just this time.”
Phainon could barely contain the smile on his face.
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rin itoshi doesn’t look up from the baby, he just stares at the baby’s eyes as if they were having some staring contest. your husband has such beautiful eyes but when he’s staring you down like that, it’s scary!
so you’re really not surprised when the baby starts to grip on rin’s sleeve and make a frowning face, ready to cry any moment now. “your grip strength is lukewarm,” he tells them flatly, gently prying their fingers off his sleeve. “if you want to hold something, commit to it. do it properly.” you stare at him. a little confused yet amused with his tone and choice of words
“rin. that is a baby.”
“i’m aware.”
“then why are you talking like that?”
he finally glances at you, almost annoyed. “i’m not going to lie to them.”
“it’s not lying, it’s— you’re supposed to be comforting or whatever. high-pitched. cute. the baby is about to cry!” he frowns, like you just said something offensive. “that’s stupid.”
“well. it’s how babies learn,” you argue, scooping the baby into your arms. “you simplify words, voice softer— rin, you sound like you’re talking to a teammate.” he ignores that, reaching out to poke the baby’s cheek once, light and careful.
“they’ll adapt.” he says,
“three months old. rin, our baby is three months old.”
“and? point is?”
you blink at him. “they don’t even know what adaptation is” the baby makes a small noise, blinking up at him, and rin just stares back, completely serious. It was stupid.
“your reaction time is slow,” he says. “focus baby.” you choke a little, “oh my god. i really need to get used to this.” you laugh a little.
you look back at the baby, now annoyingly content. the tiny hand reaching out toward rin again. he lets them grab his finger this time, watching closely.
“they understand.” he mutters. you sigh, feeling a little defeated but smiling. “sure. you and your little teammate.”
How Husband!Nanami wins back your favour after upsetting you
Your husband doesn’t argue with you. Not really. He’s a firm believer in happy wife, happy life. It’s always, “whatever you say, honey,” and “forgive me, my love,” and “you’re always right, darling.”
‘Argue’ may actually be an inaccurate word to use; one-sided lashing is better.
Of course, if he needs to put his foot down, he’ll do it, and unhesitatingly. Like when you tried to adopt a homeless man you found wandering the streets, claiming to be a fourteen-year-old boy, or when you wanted to sell the house and backpack through the Amazon rainforest. So yes, when your safety and wellbeing are on the line, he’s not afraid at all to use his stern voice and give you that look that says, you cannot seduce me out of this decision.
Most ‘arguments,’ then, involve you freaking out at him over the littlest things — and sometimes for no reason at all: he painted the living room the wrong shade of white (not eggshell, not cream, not any of the ones he pointed out), he got you one too many packets of chocolate and you accused him of fattening you up, he got exactly the right number of chocolates and you accused him of not loving you enough, or for breathing too loudly when he sleeps.
What happens after you blow up at him, say, for rolling over in bed and not cuddling you?
He apologises. Naturally.
Nanami seeks you out, gathering you into his arms despite your squirming protests, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I was heartless, wasn’t I, my love? I hurt your feelings, didn’t I?”
You try to push him away by the chest, but he’s bigger and stronger than you. He doesn’t budge, not even a centimetre. Scowling, you say, “Piss off, Kento. Since you hate me so much.”
“Don’t say that, sweetheart,” he pleads, nosing at your face to get you to look at him. “You know I don’t. I could never hate my darling wife and her adorable pout.”
“Don’t baby me, you big blond dummy. Just turn away like you always do!”
Sighing, Nanami rolls the two of you over on the bed, cornering you between him and the wall, and drapes his heavy limbs over your body. You try to wriggle out of his hold. You can’t — he wouldn’t be a Grade 1 sorcerer if he were so easily moved, after all.
“It’d be wise if you didn’t get in the way of my quality slumbering time with my wife; I’m known to be grumpy in the morning if she’s not in my arms.”
Left with no choice but to resign since there’s no way you can shove his heavy ass off, you soften in his hold and petulantly mumble, “Don’t let go again, Ken. I was freezing last night without you cuddling me. Worst sleep of my life.”
“Oh, I know, sweetheart. And I’m ever so sorry,” he whispers, kissing your cheek again and again until you’re giggling. “Kento’s just a big, dumb blond idiot who doesn’t know better when he’s sleeping. I think he ought to be punished, say, with a taste of what’s between your legs?”
˚୨୧⋆｡pro footballer rin itoshi x reader headcanons
pro footballer rin itoshi who has a scoring celebration that’s literally just your initials in the air. he does it without thinking now, muscle memory, fingers tracing the letters quick and sharp before he jogs back to position. his teammates tease him every time, nudging him like, “mate, you’re so gone for her it’s embarrassing.” rin just rolls his eyes and mutters, “shut up,” but he doesn’t stop doing it.
pro footballer rin itoshi who comes home after a match and doesn’t say a single word before collapsing onto you. he just walks in, drops his bag somewhere on the floor, and heads straight for you like he’s on autopilot. his face goes right into your neck, arms wrapped tight around your waist. if you ask, “big day?” he just hums and holds you closer.
pro footballer rin itoshi who asks you to move with him when he signs with a new club. he’s awkward about it, rehearsing the words in his head before blurting out, “come with me… please.” he even goes to your parents, standing stiffly in their living room as he says, “i’ll look after her. i promise.” he means every word.
pro footballer rin itoshi who spoils you absolutely rotten with his salary. you mention liking a bag once and suddenly it’s sitting on your bed with a little note that says “thought you’d want it.” your friends roll their eyes when you tell them, saying, “of course he did.” rin doesn’t care -- if you want something, he’ll get it.
pro footballer rin itoshi who keeps his life private, barely posting anything online. but once in a blue moon he’ll upload a photo of the two of you on holiday, usually something like you holding gelato or standing by the ocean. his fans lose their minds every time, commenting things like, “thank you y/n for getting this man to post.” rin pretends he doesn’t read the comments, but he does only because it has to do with you and smiles to himself.
pro footballer rin itoshi who always shows gratitude for your support. he thanks you constantly, even for small things like making him tea or watching his training clips. when he’s talking to teammates or staff, he’ll casually mention, “she moved her whole life for me,” like he still can’t believe it. whatever you choose your own career or supporting him he backs you without hesitation.
pro footballer rin itoshi who opens up to you about his brother, his fears, and the pressure he feels. he talks sheepishly, eyes down, like he’s scared you’ll think less of him. but you listen, and he slowly relaxes, leaning into you as he admits things he’s never said out loud. he trusts you with the parts of himself he hides from everyone else.
pro footballer rin itoshi who is the ultimate gentleman and only has eyes for you. he opens doors, carries your bags, and walks on the roadside without thinking. when someone tries to flirt with him, he just says, “i have a girlfriend,” in the flattest voice known to man. he loves you deeply, only you, and with a loyalty that never wavers.
it’s late, and nanami’s trying to work. emphasis on trying, because you keep poking at him from where you’re curled on the couch.
“kento,” you say, dragging his name out like a whine.
he doesn’t look up from his papers. his brow stays furrowed, his pen moving steadily across the page. “hm?”
“you’re boring.”
“i’m working,” he replies simply, tone calm, but you can tell by the slight shift of his shoulders that you’ve broken his concentration.
you roll over dramatically, tossing yourself onto your stomach with a groan. “you’ve been working all night. you haven’t even kissed me once.”
that gets the faintest pause out of him—barely noticeable unless you know him like you do. his pen hesitates, then continues.
without glancing up, nanami says, “is that a requirement now? hourly kisses?”
“yes.” you grin, cheek pressed to the couch cushion as you watch him. “minimum wage for your girlfriend.”
he huffs quietly through his nose, the closest he comes to a laugh when he’s trying not to encourage you. “and what happens if i don’t meet quota?”
“strike,” you declare, kicking your feet lazily in the air. “no more cuddles. no more coffee in the morning. you’ll waste away.”
finally, nanami sets his pen down with a soft tap. he leans back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.
“you’re… insufferable.”
“and kissless,” you counter immediately, smiling wide because you know you’ve won.
he looks up at you then, just for a moment, and that’s all the warning you get before he’s out of his chair, his movements deceptively slow but purposeful, crossing the room with that steady, deliberate walk that always makes your heart stutter.
“wait—” you squeak, scrambling back into the corner of the couch as he looms over you.
he cages you in easily, one hand braced on the armrest beside your head, the other slipping beneath your thigh to drag you closer in one effortless pull. your breath hitches.
“hourly, hm?” he murmurs, voice low, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying to hide a smile.
you nod quickly, trying to bite back a grin, but your face feels hot. “mm-hm.”
his glasses slip slightly as he leans down, brushing his lips over yours once— so soft, so brief it barely counts. “then i suppose i’m overdue.”
the kiss that follows is nothing like that tease—it’s hungry, deliberate, and all-consuming. he kisses you like a man starved, like you’ve been keeping him from something he needs, his lips firm and demanding against yours.
you gasp, clutching at his shirt, your fingers fisting the fabric as his tongue brushes against yours, slow but commanding, drawing out a whimper you didn’t mean to let slip.
his grip on your thigh tightens, and he hauls you into his lap like you weigh nothing, settling you against him with an ease that makes your stomach twist. the pressure of his body beneath yours is undeniable, and it sends heat rushing straight through you.
he only pulls back when your chest is heaving, your lips swollen, your mind foggy. his eyes behind his glasses are sharp, hooded with want.
“quota filled?” he asks, smirking faintly, his thumb brushing over your damp lower lip.
“n-not even close,” you whisper, pulling him back before he can think.
he chuckles against your mouth, the sound low, indulgent, and dangerous. “greedy.”
“you like it,” you breathe, arching into him.
he hums in agreement, already undoing the buttons of his shirt with practiced precision, even as his other hand holds you firmly in place on his lap.
“mm. maybe i do,” he admits, his voice rougher now, hungry, as his lips find your jaw, your throat, leaving warm trails of heat in their wake.
you shiver, head tilting back to give him more, and his teeth graze your pulse before he sucks there, hard enough to make you gasp.
the papers on his desk are long forgotten. your strike has worked. and the way his hands are already sliding beneath your shirt, palms hot against your skin, tells you he has every intention of overdelivering—well past quota.
think fast, i’m a random girl ft. isagi yoichi! based from this tiktok trend! ♡
“think fast, i’m a random girl!” you announce, dramatically throwing your arms around his waist.
isagi yoichi jumps like he’s been electrocuted.
“HUH?!?” he immediately stiffens, water bottle flying out of his hand. “WAIT—WAIT—NO—I—I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!!”
you blink. “damn. okay. chill.”
he backs up a full two steps like you just proposed marriage. “s-sorry!! i’m taken!! very loyal!! extremely loyal!! like… dog levels of loyal!!”
you raise an eyebrow. “alright, alright. what’s she like?”
“oh—uh—uh she’s…” he swallows hard. “…she’s incredible, okay? she’s like, literally the best person i’ve ever met. she's smart. and kind. and scary when she wants to be. but like… cute scary?? like, she could kick my shin and i’d say thank you??”
you try not to laugh. “wow. simp behavior.”
“IT’S NOT SIMPING IT’S RESPECT,” he says, panicking. “and she smells really good?? but not like perfume. like laundry and strawberry pocky. and she does this thing where she squints at me when I’m being dumb and i swear my heart just—goes feral.”
“…sounds like you're really in love,” you tease.
“NO. I MEAN—YES. BUT NOT WITH YOU. I MEAN—I DON’T MEAN I WOULDN’T—WAIT—”
you stare at him.
he stares at the wall. then smacks a hand over his face. “oh my god i’m so embarrassing. i was trying to act cool. why did i say dog levels of loyal?!”
you pat his arm. “it’s okay, yoichi. you can keep simping.”
he groans. “i’m never recovering from this.”
you throw an arm around his shoulders. “too bad. i’m making you dinner tonight, dogboy.”
he blushes down to his neck. “WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS WORSE—”
