Milky Drabbles!

Vergil often detested booking hotels during or after jobs, finding the need for human commodities as a frivolous expense. However, a year of adjusting to civilian life and the last two weeks on the road for this pesky mission, he didn't object this time when you proposed the idea of a night in, already imagining a hot shower and room service. Despite the sideways looks you two got from reception, the keycards were secured and your filthy forms made it up to your designated floor. The room was beige and simple, but it was clean, safe, and quiet—which is all either of you could ask for after such a demanding job. 

You stepped in first, coat slinking off to be hung up in the wooden closet by the door. As Vergil bolted the chains, he attempted to follow suit, a wince of pain making my scrunch his features.

“Here, let me,” you mumbled as you turned to help. Stubborn as ever, he stepped back and scowled, the sting of pain revoking his manners.

“I am more than capable of—”

“Let me do it.”

Vergil’s features wilted at your tone, losing his bite and dropping his arms to let you have your way. It’s not that he didn’t trust you, but more than he had gotten so comfortable in your presence that he often tried to find ways of still establishing his individuality. He refused to be seen as anything less, but it was hard to uphold his stuffy values when you doted on him with the utmost sincerity. As you pulled his coat off, Vergil watched you over his shoulder, ocean eyes wordlessly conveying gratitude despite the wrinkle in his brow. With the leather jacket off and away, you could see the slits in his vest where the demon you two had vanquished struck a few good blows in. Led to the edge of bed, he sits down and waits til you’re sat behind him before he starts at the vest’s fastenings. 

“It’ll all heal, you know,” he grunts between words, the lining of the vest slowly peeling away from bloodied skin. “I can’t imagine why you feel the need to fret over surface cuts.”

Even so, you watch his back muscles ripple as the vest is shed, reopening the wounds as it peels away healing skin. The inside of the vest was, well, disgusting. Bloodied, with pieces of his flesh stickered onto it, due to the duration of having it on working against his regenerative abilities. You make a face at the nasty sight, sighing as you toss the vest away to the floor.

“Any longer, and we would’ve had to cut you out of it. Again.”

Only a hum of acknowledgement—or dismissal—rumbles back to you. Sliding off the bed, you pad to the adjoined bathroom and wet a rag. You study your own battered appearance in the mirror as the water runs. Dirt darkened your skin, caking into some of the cuts. You looked rough, but never as bad as he usually did; he would never allow you to fight harder than him, to be in harm’s way when he could stand as a shield for you. That wasn’t to say he doubted your fighting abilities. In fact, the only reason you two had partnered up was because of the respect he had for you. But, as emotions and attachments grew, Vergil found it harder to watch you limp and writhe in pain after jobs, much preferring to take the brunt of the damage. 

You find your way back to him, seeing him already tending to his wounds himself. He expunges saliva onto his fingers to rub into the cuts, the skin already rebuilding itself as the saliva encourages the swelling to fade—an old trick he learned from a demon many moons ago. Passing the damp towel over his back, he makes a sound in the back of his throat, tense as he goes still for you. Vergil watches silently as you rub away grime from his skin, eyes following the patterned route your hand made with the rag. The rhythmic motions lull your own thoughts away from the present, mind drifting to planning out the next courses of actions after returning from the job. A touch to your face summons you back, eyes focusing to find his already trained on you. Vergil’s thumb swiped over the bone that cradled your eye, gently smearing away a streak of blood.

“Where’d you go?” His voice came out tentative, as if worried his disturbance would upset you. His eyes searched yours to attempt to steal a peek behind them, wishing he could read your thoughts.

You shake your head gently, lowering the rag. “I’m here.”

His stare remained courteous, yet you could tell he wanted to pry, ever the attentive partner. Instead, though, the half-demon sighs from his nose and lets his features soften.

“You fought bravely tonight. I’m beside myself, with how well you’re beginning to carry yourself in battle. I often must force my reflexes to heed and allow you to take point, as you have earned that right,” Vergil’s throat bobs with a faint swallow, finger tips still tracing the side of your face. “Thank you, for being by my side.”

Praise from Vergil is always genuine, and it never fails to make you feel singular. Your eyes crinkle slightly as a smile warms up your tired face. “The blood loss is making you sentimental. But, it’s nothing, really. I love you, and I love fighting with you.”

“And I love you, very much,” He lets his hand slip down to your shoulder briefly before sitting himself up and facing you properly. “Enough to feel compelled to take care of you, now that I am no longer bleeding to death.”

A huff of a chuckle leaves him as he stands, hand pulling you along.

“Up. A shower would do us good.”

—

Between the food in his stomach and the robe warming his aching body, Vergil felt like he could melt through the mattress. He watched the back of your head while you ate, preferring to observe the way you chewed french fries over whatever nonsense you had put on the hotel TV. As much as he enjoyed the rush of endorphins he got from demon hunting with you, he found the quieter part of himself started to crave this kind of intimacy more. There were no expectations or watchful eyes—just the certainty of company and the solace it brought him. 

As you licked salt from your fingers, a calloused hand yanked you back towards the headboard. Giggles filled the room as Vergil pulled you to him, his own mouth latching onto the greased fingers with a shake of laughter. Despite weak protests of faux disgust, you didn’t try very hard to stave off the attack, practically letting his coil around you. Long, lean legs cage you in as he releases your fingers, only to bite at your wrist. 

“Nuh-uh—you can’t leave now.”

“Get off of me, you freak,” you snort and squirm against him, lamely trying to wriggle free amidst the play-fight. He cares little for your insult, mouthing his way up your arm instead. Laughter mingles between you two until a moan makes you still, hips lips suctioning to a spot on your neck. Blood rushes to the area as he sucks on the tender skin, staccato breaths from his nose puffing over you as he laughs at your complicity.

“That’s all you got? No more verbal abuse or grabbing?” He unlatches from your neck to peer down at your face, flashing imperfect teeth in an exultant smile. 

You start to give quick excuses, only to be shut up by a desirous kiss. Your limbs betray you, turning to jelly as he shifts against you, tongue knocking for entry. You greet it with enthusiasm, only to fail at returning the kiss once a hand parts your legs. Eager fingers pet at the growing heat of your sex, gentle despite the obvious intent. When you've proven too pliant to kiss back, he trails his lips back down to your throat, teeth threatening to break the skin. 

Vergil pushes off your robe enough to grant him skin-to-skin contact, his own slipping open and exposing an already hardening cock. Deep inhales against your skin fill his senses with your scent, only encouraging him to keep going and feed the need for connection. The hand between your legs alternates between familiar circles and strokes, knowing exactly what rhythm gets you worked up enough without pushing. As you arch into his hand in response, he grinds into from behind, the head of his length rubbing against your ass for much needed friction. Your breathing hitches as your gut twists with approaching, lazy pleasure, head lulled back into him as you welcome the onslaught. Compared to the grit of demon-hunting, this was easy bliss, and you had no problem giving into the temporary gluttony. 

Just as your body was about to fall over the peak, his hand withdraws to rest on your hip. A mewl of denial slips out from you as you rut against nothing, painfully close to coming. “God—, Vergil, wait—”

“Patience,” Vergil’s body vibrates with a laugh, low and taunting in your ear as he sucks on the lobe. His hand slides up your front, fragrant with your sex, and holds your chin taut. “I will not deprive you, sweet girl. I merely wish to be selfish, just for a moment.”

With one more nip to your ear, he releases your jaw to guide his cock behind you to your warmth. His breath ghosts over your shoulder as he pushes himself in, silver strands of hair tickling your cheek. Vergil hides in the privacy of your neck, thankful you’re unable to see the look of relief on his face as he bottoms out. Your hips urge him to move with little syncopated rolls, walls throbbing around him from the previously stunted release. If you two were home, and the day hadn’t been so long, he might’ve prolonged the moment, dragged out the denial til you were sputtering tears for him to kiss away. But, god, you were so tight, and so very warm—he couldn’t fight it.

“Oh, I missed you, missed this,” the words come out muffled against your skin, his hands returning to your hips to grind into you. Calloused hands flex against the supple flesh of your hips, adjusting his grip as he works up to a steady pace behind you. The hotel bed moans with you as you stretch back towards him, jaw slacked as the coils of an orgasm curl back up. Vergil pokes his head out to accommodate your head leaning back, opting to watch your lashes flutter. 

As his fervor increases, he snakes a hand under your thigh and lifts your leg, allowing for more room to accommodate his size. The kisses pressed into the side of your face draw you back to the world of the living, foggy eyes opening to find him. You’re greeted by a blissful smile, Vergil planting a kiss under a dopey eye. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You can come, it’s okay; I won’t stop you.”

You quickly take in his tall, broad silhouette.

Sukuna is standing facing the fire, very close to the flames. His jeans sit low on his hips, a black T-shirt stretched tight across his back, exposing tattooed biceps. One hand is in his pocket, a half-burned cigarette in the other.

He’s smoking, staring thoughtfully into the flames.

You approach on stiff legs. Your heart is pounding somewhere in your throat, making it hard to breathe. You stop a step away from him, but he doesn’t even turn his head.

You have to force out a hoarse:

“Sukuna?”

A couple seconds pass before he slowly, lazily turns his head. Dark eyes slide over your face. He squints slightly, like he’s trying to place where he might’ve seen this trembling little mouse before.

You force a smile that probably looks pathetic and crooked.

“I—” your voice cracks. The music is blasting and you end up mumbling, staring at his Adam’s apple. “This is stupid, but I…”

Sukuna doesn’t hear you.

He pulls the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers, blows smoke to the side, and leans down toward you with a slow push.

So close you feel the heat of his body and the smell of tobacco.

He lets out a rough, questioning “Hm?”

His voice is low and raspy, and something tightens low in your stomach. Goosebumps run along the side of your neck where his warm breath hits.

You flush bright red.

You’re mortified, but at least he… didn’t immediately shove you away or tell you to fuck off without even listening.

How exactly is that supposed to comfort you?

“We have classes together…” you babble quickly, crumpling the edge of your hoodie in your trembling fingers. “If you remember… I just wanted to get to know you better…”

Sukuna’s gaze drops to your hands.

Then back to your eyes.

He stays silent for another thirty seconds, straightening up.

Looking down at you, intensely, without blinking.

Slowly he lifts the cigarette to his lips, takes another drag, and in the firelight you can see the muscles in his tattooed jaw shifting.

Behind you there’s a burst of girls’ laughter. You flinch all over, your shoulders instinctively rising toward your ears, but you don’t dare turn around.

Sukuna notices.

His gaze flicks behind your back for a split second, then returns to your burning face with lazy interest.

“What’d you bet?” he suddenly asks.

“What?” you blink, confused, jerking your frightened gaze up to his face. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“The bet,” he explains patiently, though there’s a smirk tugging at his lips. Sparks from the fire dance in his dark eyes. “Girls love making bets. Like who’s gonna make the first move. Or whether I’ll want to sleep with them.”

He shrugs, lazily flicking ash aside.

“So what was your bet?”

Sparks from the bonfire drift upward behind him.

“I… No!” you blurt out too loudly, shaking your head. “No, I just…” your voice drops to a whisper. You look down at your muddy sneakers. “I lied to them. Said we’re… friends.”

Silence.

Just the crackle of the fire and the distant thump of music.

You can feel his eyes studying your face, your trembling lips, the red tips of your ears.

Why is he even talking to you?

He could’ve just turned away.

Could’ve laughed with them.

Then you hear it.

A low, raspy chuckle. Almost a purr.

Sukuna laughs, and your heart nearly stops before you realize he’s not laughing at you.

Sukuna leans down again, this time so he can see your face properly, catch your gaze glued to the ground.

“Baby, what exactly were you wrong about?” he asks mockingly.

You jerk your head up in surprise and instantly drown in his pupils. They’re black, bottomless, with tiny golden sparks from the fire.

Sukuna studies you closely, taking another drag from his cigarette without breaking eye contact.

You see the way his pupils widen slightly, the way his gaze suddenly drops to how your tongue nervously wets your dry lips.

It lasts only a second.

Something inside your chest knots tight, and heavy warmth spreads low in your stomach.

For a moment it looks like he’s considering something.

His gaze flicks once more to your mouth.

Then Sukuna suddenly moves forward.

His large, rough hands cup your face from both sides. Fingers slide into your hair, gripping, tugging slightly, forcing your head back. The cigarette is still trapped between his fingers somewhere behind your head.

Sukuna crashes into your lips.

He pulls you upward and you obediently rise onto your toes, clutching his T-shirt at his stomach with shaking fingers so you don’t fall.

But you lose your balance anyway.

His tongue pushes between your lips, demanding. The taste is sharp tobacco and something sweet-spicy, intoxicating.

Your whole body tenses, instinctively trying to shrink away, but his grip on the back of your head doesn’t let you. Your fingers only clutch his shirt tighter, wrinkling the fabric.

Sukuna exhales straight into your mouth.

A thick cloud of smoke fills your mouth and you choke on it. Your head spins, sparks swimming in your vision, maybe from the fire, maybe from lack of air.

He deepens the kiss, bumping his forehead against yours and jerking you closer.

You accidentally step on his foot.

Shit.

Sukuna doesn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Instead of pulling away, he thrusts his hips forward and your bodies collide tightly.

Your stomach presses against his belt buckle.

You’re kissing for what feels like forever.

Or maybe just a second.

Sukuna pulls away from your lips just as abruptly as he claimed them, but he doesn’t let go. He only loosens his grip slightly, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You stand there, breathing hard, lips parted, still on your toes, still clutching him.

Stunned, you can’t move.

Sukuna leans down again, almost brushing his lips against your ear.

His breath sends shivers racing down your neck, and a sweet, dizzy tension coils low between your thighs.

“Well, kitten. Your little friends are watching,” he mutters hoarsely.

His thumb drags slowly across your swollen lip.

“Now you’ve got something to brag about to them, huh?”

For a second he just looks at you.

Like he’s memorizing something.

His hands finally release your face and he shifts back into his previous stance, still not turning away from you.

Sukuna takes another drag from his cigarette and sends a much rougher, harder look past you.

You slowly turn around, still stunned, temples throbbing from his grip, lips burning. Your knees still feel weak.

Your “new friends” are still standing there.

Their mouths are slightly open.

Shock, disbelief, and something bitter that looks a lot like envy are written across their faces.

They’re not laughing at you anymore.

And Sukuna is still standing right behind you.

Miya Osamu’s eyes have always scared you.

Atsumu’s can be the same at times – cold, detached, empty of emotion. But it’s rare, that threatening quiet in his face reserved for volleyball or a moment of true anger.

But Osamu’s eyes are always like that. Always cold, always empty. Always unreadable. 

It’s the very first thing you notice, on your very first day of school. The twin brothers standing together at the welcome assembly – one excited and rambling about something unheard, the other hovering passively beside him. One with eyes full of light, the other with eyes devoid of everything, both lost in a bubble entirely theirs while their parents talk to one of the teachers.

It’s those eyes – empty, not full – that find you first, on a quick pass of the room.

You look away quickly, returning your attention to your mother, who still has your little hand in hers. After a moment, you glance at him again, wondering if he’d really, truly caught you looking.

His eyes are still on you. Staring, watching. Empty.

His brother nudges him for something then, and he finally pulls his eyes away.

Your little brain holds the memory of those eyes for the rest of the morning, something about it really bugging you.

It’s entirely bad luck that you’re assigned to the same class as those twin brothers – the Miya twins, you learn. It’s even worse luck that Miya Atsumu is a boy you’ll come to adore very quickly, your personalities aligning perfectly in a way that could only be truly cosmic bad luck.

Such universally tragic luck that your best friend’s eyes are the very same that’ll haunt you in your dreams, through elementary school into middle and high school.

A friendship with Miya Atsumu means, by default, a life spent in orbit with his brother.

A boy who, on all counts, is just a quiet kid, seemingly an introvert. A boy who puts in only the necessary energy to play alongside his brother on the Inarizaki Boys’ Volleyball team, a boy whose temper could only ever be drawn out by his brother. A boy who’s harmless to everyone, including you.

But that boy is the same boy you feel watching you when you aren’t looking. 

The same boy who sits on his bed while you and Atsumu do work on the floor and crack jokes. Scrolling on his phone and only contributing when directly addressed, his eyes finding the side of your face over the top of his phone.

The same boy who simply stares on the rare occasion that you find his eyes, too – accidentally bumping into him around corners or finding yourself alone with him in the Miya household for just a moment. 

He never looks away first in those moments, and you begin to realize – far too many years too late – that he enjoys it, making you look away first, especially as you grow up. That the little smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips – his eyes never changing, no matter what emotion is on the rest of his face – is his way of telling you he’d won. That your inevitable break of eye contact is you admitting defeat to him, that he will always have the upper hand.

You only begin to dislike Miya Osamu in college, when you watch as he makes friends with ease. That the emptiness in his eyes is not a deterrent to the rest of the world, because he always makes sure to smile and joke and agree to hang out. That the emptiness you see is not, in fact, a lack of emotion. 

That, instead, it’s your inability to read the emotion that is there. And that Miya Osamu will go out of his way to make it harder for you, that you’re the only person he’ll continue to show nothing to.

You make the reckless choice a few months into college to confront him. You find him alone, in the apartment he shares with his brother, on a day when you’d thought Atsumu would be there.

“He’s not here.” Osamu greets you with that and nothing else. 

You blink in surprise, still caught off guard that it wasn’t your bright, blond friend who had answered the door.

Osamu starts to close it, but you jam your foot in his way at the last second, uncharacteristically annoyed.

“What’s your problem with me?” you ask, preparing for anything and everything. Preparing for him to tell you he finds you insufferable, that he’s tired of you always being around.

But he just looks you over, brows lifting over those empty eyes as he consider your question.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” he says plainly, offering no further explanation. You grow more upset at that.

“Then why do you always look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you dislike me.”

“I don’t dislike you, Y/n.”

It’s the first time he says your name. It catches you off guard.

“T-Then-” you stutter, the sound of your own name said in Miya Osamu’s voice bouncing around your head and making it hard to think. “Why are we not friends?”

He blinks and furrows a brow, and it’s the first time he ever shows you an emotion. “Because you don’t like me…?” 

“What?” You stare up at him. “Of course I do.”

Those empty eyes fill with disbelief – it’s relieving, knowing you actually are capable of reading him sometimes.

“No, you don’t. You just stare, and stare-” He smirks. “-and stare and stare and stare and stare. I think this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“Well-” You flush angrily. “It’s really hard to have a conversation with you when this is the only look you’ve ever given me!” You point at those eyes, empty again. He lifts his brows.

“What look?”

“That one! The look of nothingness. The look that’s empty of… any-” You cough, embarrassed. “-of any looks.” 

His eyes don’t change when he smiles mockingly down at you. “The look of nothingness that’s empty of any looks. Got it," he says with a solemn nod. “Very insightful.”

You properly dislike him then – standing in the stairwell of his apartment building, humiliating yourself while he makes fun of you. You nearly hate him.

You leave without another word, hearing as he chuckles to himself and closes the door. 

It takes over a year to have another proper conversation with him. In that time, you’d shifted from staring in discomfort at him to glaring and looking away every time he’d make eye contact.

But the era of disliking Miya Osamu ends with a single conversation, initiated late one night during the summer before your third year.

[11:21 PM]

Miya Osamu: i dont hate you

Miya Osamu: my face is just like that

You stare down at your phone, unseeing. It’s the first time he’s ever texted you.

You: what?

Miya Osamu: the look of nothingness is just my face

Miya Osamu: i dont dislike you

You: you make other faces with other people

You: ive seen a non-nothingness look before

You: but never with me.

He calls you. You reject it on pure instinct.

Miya Osamu: you did not just reject my call

You: it was fight or flight

Miya Osamu: ???????

He calls again. You pick up that time.

“Hello…?”

“Fight or flight. Really?” 

“Yes,” you say, already getting annoyed. “And it’s telling me to hang up on you at my earliest convenience.”

“Jesus, okay. Will you give me five minutes?”

“Will you make fun of me?”

“Probably.” He laughs then, because you sigh in exasperation. You’d heard that laugh before, of course, with other people. But having it directed at you is new, unfamiliar. “I’m just trying to convince you that I don’t hate you. My face really is just like that.”

“Everyone else thinks you’re some wonderful, peaceful version of Atsumu,” you argue. “All our friends think you’re the cool brother and that Atsumu’s the chaotic, crazy one.”

“I mean. That’s not exactly a lie.”

“Then how come I’ve never gotten that sense from you?” You want to scream it from the top of your lungs, but you don’t want to wake your roommate, a wonderfully crazy blonde named Tanaka Saeko.

“I don’t know, Y/n. You’ve always been weird around me.”

“Because you’re weird,” you say without thinking.

“... Thanks?” 

“No, I-” You sigh. “I’m just frustrated. Why have you always been so cold to me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I haven’t been. My face is just like that.”

You roll your eyes. “But only with me.”

“Yes. And Tsumu.” When you say nothing, trying to figure out what that means, he laughs in your ear. “You think I don’t know what my face looks like to other people?”

You swallow hard. “You’ve been emoting for everyone else’s benefit?”

“Smartest thing you’ve said all night.”

You ignore it, just picking at a piece of lint on your pants while you think of what to say. “Then why didn’t you do it with me?”

“Because you were always at my fucking house, Y/n. I can’t keep it up 24/7.” He makes a fair point. “And you’d already hated me for whatever reason.”

“I didn’t hate you back then. And only a little bit nowadays.”

“Right. That’s helpful.”

“I’m just-” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Look. It was obvious that I was never the reason you were around, anyway. That’s fine –  that’s usually the case. But then why would I fix my face for you? That’s tiring.”

You sit with that for a moment, a bit stunned at his admission. “What? I would have wanted to be your friend.”

“No, you wouldn’t have.” He sighs, clearly tired. “You’ve always looked at me different.” 

You say nothing, knowing he’s right. You’d always avoided him, afraid of being perceived by him. “Sorry. You kinda scare me.”

“... What? Why?”

You switch topics, avoiding the question. “What did you mean, it’s ‘usually the case’ that you’re not the main reason people are around?”

“Uh-” He laughs in disbelief. “-you’ve met my brother.”

“So?”

“So… Girls don’t talk to the Miya twins for Miya Osamu,” he jokes, but you find yourself annoyed by that.

“I have so many problems with what you just said.”

“I’m not even being self-deprecating-”

“I’m not some stupid fangirl for your brother,” you cut him off. “Have you thought that of me this whole time?”

He seems genuinely taken aback when he mumbles a response after a moment. “... Sorry. But – You don’t like him?”

“No!” You purse your lips, hoping you haven’t woken Saeko. “No. I don’t. Fuck.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.”

There’s silence, and then he clears his throat. “You said I scare you.”

“Yeah.” You throw caution to the wind, still a bit incensed that he’d thought all these years that you were playing some kind of long game on his brother. “Your eyes scare me. They always have.”

“... I don’t exactly know what to do about that,” he says, perplexed. “I could try smiling more?”

“No, thanks. Your eyes don’t change when you smile. That would be creepy.”

“My eyes don’t- Then what the fuck were you mad about this whole time? Who cares if I don’t smile at you then?”

“I can still be mad you don’t treat me like other people!”

“You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

“Yes,” you say with ease. “I’m insane. You have serial killer eyes, and I’m insane.”

“Goodbye, Y/n.”

“Goodbye, Osamu.”

—

Not much changes after that conversation. You go back to avoiding him whenever he’s in the same room, and he goes back to saying nothing when you’re around. There’s a shared understanding that the conversation you had that night won’t happen again. That the moment of complete honesty between you – which had lasted all of four and a half minutes – won’t be happening again.

He goes back to being nothing more than your best friend’s brother.

You graduate college, and Atsumu’s recruited to Osaka to join the MSBY Black Jackals.

Osamu follows him there, and so do you.

He opens an onigiri shop, just a train stop away from the Jackals’ home gym.

You’re admitted to the university there for graduate school.

You orbit around each other, just like you always have. Planets that orbit around the sun that is Miya Atsumu, destined to never cross paths again.

There’s only one person involved who isn’t happy with the arrangement.

—

“I just don’t understand.”

“You never understand. Your cognitive abilities are low generally.”

“Insulting me will not get me to hang up. I get off on that.” 

“Wow-” You make a face and sandwich your phone between your ear and shoulder while you lock your bike. “-There is no world in which I needed that information.”

Atsumu laughs loudly in your ear. “I get off on making you suffer, too.”

“Dude! Get a hobby or something. Please.” You shake your head, hauling your backpack over your shoulders and making your way to the Nutrition department. The building’s only a five-minute walk away, and you hope you can get Atsumu off the phone by then. You have a lab meeting in 20 minutes, and you need to catch your advisor beforehand. 

“I don’t get why you and Samu can’t be friends. It’s so fucking awkward being in the same room with you two.”

“Tsumu, it’s not happening.”

“Well, did you fight?”

“No!” You shake your head, exasperated. “I keep telling you no. We just aren’t compatible as people.”

“But you and I are so compatible-”

“Yes, and you hate being compared to your brother.”

“I just want to be able to have him over for movie nights or somethin’.” 

You sigh. “Then have him over, Atsumu! He’s your brother, and our apartment is our apartment. I don’t make rules by myself.”

“But I want you there, too!” 

“I will be! I always am!” You check your watch as you walk up to the building. You’d turned the five-minute walk into a two-minute walk. “Look, I gotta go, I have a meeti-” 

You’re stopped short when you glance up, sensing someone’s presence as they approach the building, too. 

Miya Osamu stares back, eyes wide. He’s holding a large takeout order from his shop, clearly here to deliver to someone. He glances quickly at the plaque for the building, realizing belatedly that it says Department of Nutritional Sciences.

“Y/n? You there?”

“I gotta go,” you say, distracted, your eyes on Osamu’s. “See you at home.”

Those empty eyes fill briefly with recognition, and his gaze tracks your phone until it disappears into your pocket.

“Tsumu?” he asks, foregoing a greeting.

“Yeah.” You move toward the door awkwardly. “Delivering?”

“Yeah.” He says nothing else for a minute, following you inside. And then, as you’re waiting for the elevator, he pulls a paper from his pocket, showing you the order address. “Where’s Room 4140?”

Your heart drops momentarily, and you give him a pained smile as you step into the elevator together. “That’s my advisor’s office. I can just take it.”

He shakes his head, watching the floor numbers change. “I need him to pay me.”

“Her,” you correct. 

He swallows. “Sorry.”

You ignore it. “I’ll take you there. I need to talk to her, anyway.”

The elevator dings, and you lead him down the hall. He’s silent, but you can tell he’s looking around at the posters and flyers on the walls, taking in the space you inhabit daily. 

He stops walking, and you turn back, finding him outside your office door. He’s staring down at the name plate. And then he glances at you with what you think is blank curiosity.

You check your watch as you return to him. You could take an extra minute or two to drop your bag off. 

You unlock the door for him, pushing into the office. Osamu follows you in, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room while you put your bag in your desk chair and extract your laptop. He turns in a slow circle, examining everything with that empty look.

The shelves on the walls, furnished with your stacks of books, large chunks of your monthly paychecks given to the titles he’s looking at now. The piles of papers on your desk – graded assignments from students and papers for your own work, marked up with green highlighter and scribbled notes. The smaller stack of books sitting on a coffee table in the corner, the ones you access daily and need within reach.

He sets the takeout down on the extra chair and reaches for a book you’ve read countless times, the annotation flags and dog-eared pages catching his eye.

You appreciate that he handles it with care.

“Y'know," he mumbles. "When you said you were going into nutrition, I really kept imaginin' cookbooks and pots on fire." He cuts you a glance. "You do, like, actual science and shit."

You shift your weight, feeling examined. "Cooking is science."

If he disagrees — and you get the feeling he does, because he grimaces and looks away — he doesn't say it.

That's a lie. He does say it.

"I see cookin' as more of an art."

You shrug. "It can be both."

"Not if you boil it down to just molecules and chemistry." He sets the book down carefully, despite disagreeing with its contents. "That takes the love out've it."

"I see knowledge as love. Understanding as love." You gesture weakly to the room around you. "If you yearn to understand something deeply, it can't be loveless. Definitionally."

He purses his lips but only nods. "To be loved is to be known, or whatever."

You take that as him trying to move on from the argument. You decide not to push it.

"I didn't know that you-" He waves generally at your office – at the books and stacks of papers, at the piece of your life that’s truly disconnected from him. “I mean, I knew. But. We don’t really-”

“It’s fine,” you say, gesturing toward the door. “This is kind of a separate part of my life.”

“Well-” He scoops up the takeout and waits for you while you lock the door. “-this is your life.”

“Still,” You smile awkwardly as you lead him to your advisor’s office. “I don’t expect you to know what I do.”

“...Right.”

You walk in silence to the suite of offices where your advisor’s is. You knock on her half-open door, peeking inside. “Professor?”

“Ah, Y/n! Perfect timing-” 

You push into the office, smiling at her. She’s always been your favorite, bold and full of excitement about everything. At the moment, she’s standing on her tiptoes by her shelf, reaching with all her might for a book on top.

“Help me with that book, would you? An undergrad wants to borrow it.”

You put your laptop down, leaving Osamu at the door to rush to her side. She steps out of the way, and you push onto your toes for it, struggling. You have no clue why she's asking for help — you don't have much height on her, honestly.

You hear when she realizes there’s extra company.

“Oh, goodness, hello!”

“Hello, Ma’am.” Osamu assumes his business tone, pleasant and kind. “I’ve got your bulk order of 25 onigiri.”

“Perfect! Wonderful! Lovely!” Your advisor shuffles around her desk for her wallet, always a bit disorganized. “Our lab assistants will thank you graciously for keeping them fed and happy – Y/n here included!”

You flush, focusing on the book that’s just out of reach. “Yeah, thanks, Osamu,” you say in a strained voice.

“Hm? Do you know each other?” 

Osamu doesn’t respond, but you feel a presence much taller than you at your back a moment later. His arm reaches past yours, able to easily reach the top shelf for the blue textbook with the bent spine.

“This one?” he asks in your ear, free hand pressed carefully to your lower back so you don’t stumble. You try not to jump at his touch, unfamiliar and shockingly warm.

“Yeah, that’s- that one-” You nod when he wraps a hand around it, looking up at him and realizing belatedly just how close he is. He realizes it, too, as he’s turning to hand you the book. His nose brushes yours, and then he’s stepping back with wide eyes, blinking rapidly.

You blink back, almost dropping the book when he releases you completely. “Uh- Thanks. Thank you.” You hand it to your advisor without meeting her eyes, because you know exactly the look that’s on her face.

She’s an incredibly nosy woman.

“You know each other quite well, I’m guessing.”

You cough, shaking your head. “We grew up together.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

You laugh at her tone, embarrassed. “Please pay the man for his services, I’m begging you.”

She just giggles to herself and hands Osamu some cash. “I look forward to ordering from Onigiri Miya for many lab lunches to come.”

Osamu’s face is even and neutral, but you think you see the slightest tinge of embarrassment in those eyes of his as he’s turning away.

—

A week later, you get a text around lunchtime.

[12:54 PM]

Tsumu: I REQUIRE YOUR PRESENCE

You glance at your phone, your fingers stilling on your keyboard as you stare at his text in confusion.

You: uh

You: present?

Tsumu: PLEASE BUY ME LUNCH

Tsumu: I DONT HAVE TIME

You roll your eyes, already saving your document and reaching for your backpack. 

You know the MSBY boys are preparing for a home game that’ll make or break their sponsorship into the national circuit – Atsumu’s started leaving home earlier than usual, the front door locking sometime around 4 in the morning. It had taken his return to the apartment long after dinnertime on the first day for you to realize that training had begun, and he’s kept it up for two weeks straight.

[12:56 PM]

You: taking food requests for the next 12 seconds and then the kitchen will close

He’s responding in an instant.

Tsumu: ONIGIRI

Tsumu: MIYA STYLE

You stop outside your office, staring down at your screen. He must be joking.

You: does it have to be miya style???

Tsumu: bro i have the most VIOLENT craving for samu’s tuna mayo onigiri

Tsumu: please please please please please???????????

You: bro.

Tsumu: IM BEGGING

You: I SEE THAT

You huff, shoving your phone into your bag and marching down to the bike rack outside. You make your way toward Osamu’s shop, praying the entire ride there that he’s out on deliveries. That he’s miraculously got some order to your department again, for the exact span of time you’re not there. That he’s needed across town, that you won’t need to make any kind of awkward small talk.

His car is sitting out front when you pull up to the shop.

Fuck.

He’s standing at the counter when you walk in, taking someone’s order.

Double fuck.

The door jingles behind you as he’s chatting quietly with the customer and scratching down their order, and he looks up at the notice of a new arrival.

“Of course – Can I get you anyth-”

He meets your eyes over the man’s shoulder and stops talking mid-sentence, pen hovering over his notepad.

You stare, and he stares back.

And then he blinks and lowers his eyes, finishing his sentence as he stares down at the order. 

“-anything else, Sir?” 

You get in the long line, fidgeting with your phone while you wait. Osamu’s eyes burn through the side of your face in moments between interacting with customers, and, by the time you join him at the counter, you’re sweating nervously.

“Hi,” you say with an awkward wave, stepping up.

He just blinks back, examining you. “Hi.”

You glance over your shoulder, disappointed to see that there’s no one waiting behind you, the lunchtime rush ending with you, apparently.

“Uh-” You train your eyes on the menu over his head, seeing with a quick flick of your gaze to him again that he’s waiting with notepad and pen and surprised disbelief coloring his empty eyes. “Can I get three tuna mayo?”

Osamu lifts his brows, understanding crossing his expression. He lowers his eyes to scribble on the order ticket. “Tsumu’s training?”

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously. He’s starting to ring you up, so you rush to scan the menu again for your own food. “And then, uh…”

You feel when his surprise becomes palpable, his eyes flying up to stare at you while you try not to burn the menu down with your anxiety.

“Is-Uh-” You scratch at your brow. “I’m not sure… Uh-”

A quick glance reveals that he’s starting to smirk, his shock fading into smug amusement while you struggle to compose yourself in his restaurant.

You clear your throat. “Any recommendations?”

That smirk widens, and his brows tent in the middle playfully. “You don’t have a favorite onigiri flavor?” 

You swallow. “I like most flavors. It’s hard to choose.”

“Everyone has a favorite onigiri flavor, Y/n.”

You want to crawl in a hole and die. “I want to branch out, I guess.”

“Branch out,” he repeats with amusement, nodding as he lowers his gaze and writes on the ticket. He doesn’t tell you what he’s chosen, just ringing you up at the register and slotting the order through the window leading to the kitchen. You pay silently, and then you stand awkwardly at the counter staring up at him. He stares back, and you’re reminded of growing up with a boy who’d always refuse to look away first.

“Are you…” You break first, just like you always do. “...having a nice day?”

He purses his lips, a smile threatening to shine through just before he fixes his face back into neutrality. “Yes, Y/n. I’m having a nice day. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Thanks.”

A suffocating silence blankets the space between you.

It’s broken only by the quiet ding of the bell from the kitchen, a plate of onigiri appearing at the window. Osamu turns away to grab it, and you flee, returning to the waiting area to sit. 

You sit there for ten minutes, cursing Atsumu’s very existence and scrolling through social media without really seeing anything.

Eventually, Osamu approaches you with a takeout bag, setting it carefully on the bench. Your eyes fly up at his sudden appearance, and you find yourself staring up at him yet again. He stares back blankly, those grey eyes flitting around your face before settling on your eyes.

“Uhm,” you break, reaching for the bag and standing. He’s a lot closer than you expect, your body bumping straight into his, and you stumble back, nearly tripping. He wraps a hand around your elbow, steadying you and then putting distance between you once you’re stable. Your face burns – your skin burns – so you cradle the takeout against your chest nervously. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” He says nothing else, just stepping out of your way when you make a beeline for the exit.

The jingle of the door mocks you on your way out.

You bike to the Jackals’ gym, reliving every moment of that interaction and hating how nervous you’d been. By the time Atsumu meets you outside, you’ve got half a mind to smack him over the head with the takeout containers.

“Aw, don’t be mad!” he laughs, following you to a picnic table and digging into his lunch. “Please? I’m gonna need you for the next few weeks-” He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, pushing it into your palm. You see on first glance that it’s a lot of money. “Maybe this will help you guys become comfortable with each other.”

You stare at him, your own lunch untouched. “Just how much onigiri ‘Miya style’ are you gonna be craving?”

He doesn’t respond, just grinning through his tuna mayo rice ball. You open your lunch with a heated sigh, anticipating a lot of Miya Osamu in your future.

Inside the box is a set of three different rice balls, an assortment of flavors. You warm, remembering your fumbled admission that you don’t have a favorite, and take a bite of each one. They’re each oddly perfect in their own ways. The spam teriyaki is salty, but it’s balanced wonderfully by the soothing flavor of the rice. The salmon yaki onigiri is just perfectly crispy, the salmon melting on your tongue and the inside cool compared to the grilled exterior. And the tuna mayo… You can see why Atsumu’s favorite is tuna mayo – Miya style.

You eat quietly, shooting a glare at Atsumu any time you feel him watching you, and wonder how Osamu would react if you were to text him. You’re overwhelmed with that urge, entirely new and unfamiliar. You juggle the choice the entire time you're eating, staring down at nothing.

"Where's yer head at?" You meet his eyes, surprised by the examining look he's giving you. He tilts his head. "School stuff?"

It's either "school stuff" or "I'm busy thinking about your brother, which I do way more than you think I do".

You clear your throat. "School stuff."

He gives a sympathetic hum. "You'll figure it out. You always do."

You just smile, the two of you enjoying your lunch in silence. It's rare that he's quiet, but Atsumu has learned to leave you be when you're lost in thought.

When he's busy looking at his phone, you extract yours from your bag, typing discreetly. 

[1:35 PM]

You: i can understand why atsumu and my advisor both default to onigiri miya for lunch

You flush hard and lock your phone, letting it drop into your lap while you focus on eating. You think it’s okay that you texted him, but you’ve also never been the one to initiate a conversation. Will he think it’s weird? Were you too familiar with your text? What if he gives you a dry response that you can’t work with? What if-

Your phone buzzes against your thighs. You snatch it up, hoping Atsumu hasn’t noticed your nervous energy.

Miya Osamu: you tryna butter me up?

The relief that floods you is giddy, and you know you’ll be spending a long time tonight overanalyzing that exact feeling.

You: why? is it working? can i get a discount?

Miya Osamu: depends on if you chose the correct one as your favorite

You: what is this, a test?

You: arent you supposed to promote ALL your menu items?

Miya Osamu: well obviously theyre all perfect

Miya Osamu: the question is if youve identified the most perfect of perfect

You: youre a bit odd

Miya Osamu: that discounts not lookin so hot rn

You: okay okay

You: i can see why tsumus favorite is the tuna mayo

Miya Osamu: is that your final answer?

You: uhhhhhhh

You: can i have 3 to 5 business days to think about it?

Miya Osamu: you get 10 seconds

You: what!!!

Miya Osamu: 5 seconds

You: how is that fair????

Miya Osamu: 3

Miya Osamu: 2

You: SALMON YAKI

You: FUCK

Miya Osamu: ….

You press your hand to your mouth, trying not to make it obvious that you’re grinning like an idiot.

You: well???

You: did i get it right?

Miya Osamu: come back tomorrow and find out

You: oh i see

You: youre upselling me

You: this was a scam

Miya Osamu: and youre gonna fall for it

Miya Osamu: arent you :))

–

Osamu doesn’t bother to hide his satisfied grin when you trudge through the door to his shop the next day.

“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’,” he says in his best customer service voice.

“Welcome to ‘Onigiri Miya’” you mock under your breath. His smile grows just milliseconds before he evens his expression out. You march up to the counter, a scowl painted on your face. He smirks back.

“What can I get you?”

“Three tuna mayo, please,” You grumble.

“And three salmon yaki?”

You just give him another mocking noise and roll your eyes. At this point, you don’t even care if you get the discount. You just want to get in and get out with minimal damage to your reputation.

He says nothing, scratching the order down and sliding it through the window. You see, though, that when he charges you, he only charges you for Atsumu’s. Your scowl immediately lifts into a small smile.

“So, I got it right?”

You see his eyes land on your mouth, watching your smile for a moment before he takes your money and glances away. 

“It was the tuna mayo.”

Your mouth drops open. “What-”

“I’m giving you the discount this time because you clearly left your dignity in your office to come all the way down here.” He’s smiling to himself as he turns to head into the kitchen, and you’re left standing alone at the counter, embarrassed.

Miya Osamu might be the most irritating man you’ve ever met.

—

You see him two days later, sitting on your couch when you walk in the door. Suna is there, too, lounging across your furniture like he lives here.

"Hey, Y/n," the lanky man greets lazily, shoveling popcorn into his mouth as he flips through channels.

You grimace down at him, if only so you don't have to greet Osamu. "Is my TV remote going to be greasy and gross when you leave later?"

He snorts. "It's greasy and gross now. Wanna feel?"

You make a noise of disgust and turn away, looking around for your roommate. "Tsumu?" you call, peeking into his room.

"Went to pick up the pizza," Osamu comments quietly, scrolling through his phone.

You stare down at him, trying to hide your surprise when his gaze flicks up to yours, empty and grey. "Oh, okay. Sounds good." You force yourself to remember that this is your apartment, not his or Suna's. You don't need to stand here awkwardly. "'Kay. I'm gonna get changed and stuff."

You turn and make your way down the hall, only shooting Suna a middle finger when he calls 'without me?'. His cackle is heard even when you close your bedroom door.

You change and wash your face in your connected bathroom, trying to figure out how to handle tonight. It's not like anything's changed between you and Osamu — occasionally texting is hardly an update in your relationship. Nothing's new between you.

He's standing inside your bedroom when you come out.

That's certainly new.

"Uh-"

He'd been looking over your conference posters, hung proudly on your walls, but he turns now, his expression blank. You stare, wondering how to ask what he wants.

He just stares back.

You break first, moving around the room and tidying up. "What's up?"

"Not much," he mumbles. "Just bein' nosy."

You pause. Miya Osamu has never shown you an ounce of interest before, let alone enough interest to poke around your bedroom. "Okay? I mean-"

"You gonna keep comin' around?" he asks suddenly, his eyes trained on one of the many graphs on your posters. "T'the shop?"

You blink, staring at the back of his head. He's got the Onigiri Miya cap on, like he always does, but it's backward now, the logo staring right back at you. When he glances over his shoulder at you, you realize it's been a while since you've met his eyes outside of the shadow of his hat.

It's strange… They don't scare you as much anymore.

"I s'pose so," you mumble. "Tsumu's been sending me every day because he doesn't have time."

He grunts. "Dumbass needs to be eating healthier lunches. Onigiri every day's bad for you."

You smirk. "You tryna get rid of me, Samu?"

You say it like Atsumu does, tilted and sarcastic, but the syllables of his nickname come out different when it's you.

His head whips to the side, eyes wide as he stares at you.

You want to curl up in a ball and hide from him.

He just blinks a few times, almost dumb with surprise. Finally, he turns away. "Nah," he says weakly. "You can keep comin' round." He clears his throat. "If ya want."

You try not to notice that the tips of his ears are red.

The moment ends with the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut.

"Pizza!" Atsumu calls from down the hall.

Osamu all but flees from your room, you hot on his heels.

Atsumu hasn't noticed that you're both coming from the same place, but Suna's stare is piercing and examining as he eyes Osamu and then you. When you furrow your brow at him, he just smiles and gets up, groaning about how hungry he is.

The movie night is uneventful, if you count Miya Osamu's thigh pressed against yours and his arm tossed across the back of the sofa where you sit as uneventful.

You don't even know what the damn movie's about.

—

When you enter Onigiri Miya a week later, you’re painfully nervous.

You should feel fine coming in here now, what with Atsumu sending you on an onigiri mission every afternoon at exactly the same time. You’ve gotten used to interacting in-person with Osamu at the very least on this level, the one where he stands at a counter with his notepad and pen and stares into your very soul while you stumble through Atsumu’s order.

But today, Atsumu hadn’t asked for lunch, complaining on the phone that he's got a stomachache from eating so much onigiri every day.

Somehow, though, you’re still here. There's a part of you that knows it's because he'd told you it was okay. There's a larger part that's ignoring the implications of that.

It must be a habit, you’d rationalized to yourself on the bike ride here. Habit to ride your bike across town around lunch time almost every day. Habit to stand in the impressively long line, keeping your eyes on Osamu’s face while he works the counter. Habit to turn away the moment he glances in your direction, feigning immense interest in the wall decor.

Habit to walk up to the counter with a slight tremble in your legs, your steeling breath always the last thing you do before you have to look right up at him and greet him uncomfortably.

“Hi,” you say now, your awkward wave a habit, too.

“Hi,” he echoes, his empty gaze always just the slightest bit unnerving on first impact. “Three tuna mayo and three salmon yaki?” He’s already writing it down, his eyes lowering to the notepad.

“Uh-” You gather strength from the absence of his gaze, clearing your throat. “No, just-just the salmon.” 

You hear when his pen stops scratching on the ticket, and you have to take another steeling breath, because his eyes are flying up to meet yours, his sharp gaze flooding with surprise.

“What?” he asks, unblinking.

You hate that your voice shakes when you respond. “J-Just the salmon. Three salmon yaki.”

His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then a third time. He doesn’t look away when he tears the ticket from the pad and lets it fall to the counter, and he writes the new order without taking a single glance at the sheet.

Finally, he blinks and looks away, and you deflate with a sigh that’s far too loud to be coincidence. He slots the ticket through the window and turns back, ringing you up silently. As you’re paying, though, he mumbles a question, quietly curious.

“How much time do you have for lunch?”

You swallow. “It doesn’t really matter, as long as I get my work done today.”

He nods, staying silent for another minute while he gets your change. “Kinda like me, I guess.”

You grin to yourself, too busy pocketing the spare coins to notice when he tracks the small change of your mouth. “Yeah. Kinda like you.” You gesture to the waiting area and give him a tight-lipped smile, wandering over to your usual seat.

When he comes over to the bench, you stand, ready to bike your lunch back to campus and eat in your office. But he doesn’t move to hand over the bag, just clearing his throat.

“How much work have you gotten done?”

You blink, confused. “Most of it, I guess. I just have some papers left to read.”

“Oh. Okay.” He meets your eyes awkwardly and looks away. You realize what’s happening only when he makes no move to hand you the bag.

He'd said it's okay. It's okay for you to keep coming.

Maybe it's also okay for you to stay.

“Oh-” You flush. “I-” Your eyes watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard. “I have time. The papers won’t take me long.”

He scans the room while he thinks, and then he just nods, turning on his heel to head down a hallway leading to the back. You follow, looking around at the space as you go.

“Never seen the back of a restaurant before.”

You hear him breathe out a laugh, leading you to a door at the end. “Ever seen an office in a restaurant?”

“Can’t say I have.”

He shoulders the door open, and you step gingerly into the room.

It’s a medium-sized space, with a nice desk and chair situated in front of a large, spanning window. There’s a grey couch in the corner, with a darker grey rug tucked underneath. There are shelves on the walls, with binders and cookbooks and cardboard boxes. A small coffee table in front of the couch holds menu designs and papers that look legal.

“Wow,” You set your backpack carefully by the door and look around, spinning a slow circle in the middle of the room – not unlike how he’d been in your own office. “Restaurant offices are really somethin’.”

“It’s kind of a mess,” He says, ears tinged a bit pink, and sets your lunch on his desk.

“I like it. It looks like you.” You’re not entirely sure what that means – maybe it’s the grey, or maybe it’s the disorganization that looks like only he can understand it. But it looks like him.

Osamu says nothing, just moving to the coffee table and gathering the papers. You sit in the chair across his desk, trying not to take up too much space while he picks up. After a minute, he murmurs ‘I’ll be back’ and disappears back into the hallway.

You wait, eyes tracing the labels on the binders stacked next to his desk. There are budget folders, test recipe folders, and even one that says ‘Rejected Receipes – DO NOT MAKE AGAIN’. You reach for it with a smile, pulling it into your lap.

Thumbing through, you can’t help but laugh. “Peanut butter and banana onigiri?”

“Atsumu was really convinced about the validity of dessert onigiri.”

You jump, turning to find Osamu at the door, a small smile on his face.

You laugh again. "You spent ingredients on an Atsumu idea?"

He grimaces playfully and crosses the room to sit on the couch. "Never again."

"You need a better taste tester," you joke. "Someone who understand the science of onigiri."

"The science, huh?" he asks, staring right at you. "Don'tchu mean the art?"

You roll your eyes, a smile lingering. "I'd argue they're the same."

"I wouldn't," he bickers. "But maybe that's why both are valuable." And then he leans forward, elbows on his knees. "What'dya say?"

You blink and then point at yourself. "Me?" When he quirks his brows in response, you laugh. "I'm not, like, a professional taste tester just because of my degree."

"Never said nothin' about your degree, Y/n."

You swallow, because his eye contact is too strong. Always too strong. "Okay. Sure."

He stands quietly, pointing at the bag of your food. "Eat," he commands. "I'll be back."

You listen to instructions, nibbling on your salmon yaki onigiri and wondering how the hell you got here.

He comes back after ten minutes, balancing a small platter with a plate, a bowl, and a tea cup. You watch him put it on the coffee table, staring at the ingredients.

The green tea is easy to identify, and the single yaki onigiri on the plate could be anything, really, but you'd wager a guess it's salmon. The bowl of broth is harder, but you just lean toward it and sniff, recognizing the dashi scent instantly.

It's not hard to piece together what he's making.

"Ochazuke?" you ask quietly, watching as he mixes the two steaming liquids. "Isn't it usually tea or dashi, not both?"

"'s why I need a taste tester," Osamu mumbles quietly. "Wanted to try somethin' new, but I can't trust my sous chef." He shoots you a quick grin. "He's a kiss-ass."

You smile back. "Oh, poor Samu."

Yes, his reaction is still the same. No, you hadn't done it just to test that theory, you swear.

"Here," he grunts, chewing on his bottom lip. He sets the onigiri in the tea-dashi mixture and pushes the platter to you, handing you a spoon.

You lift the bowl, giving it another sniff. The tea gives it a bitter undertone, but it's not unpleasant. You break the onigiri slowly, mashing it against the bowl with the spoon and watching pieces of salmon float to the top.

Osamu watches carefully when you take a bite.

You chew slowly, tilting your head this way and that. Osamu's knee starts to bounce. You smile to yourself.

"Nervous about somethin'?"

He grimaces. "No, 'course not."

You contemplate making him wait until you eat the whole thing, but you can't help yourself once the first bite is over.

"Do you want the good or the bad first?"

He narrows his eyes. "I didn't realize you'd have 'bad's."

"Shoulda asked your sous chef if you wanted your ass kissed," you say, grinning at him. "It's not a big thing, I promise."

He sighs. "Hit me, then."

"The tea is too overpowering."

He squints. "And that's not a big thing?"

"Not if you fix the ratio," you say, shaking your head. "Either you steeped the tea too long or there's too much of it, but either issue is an easy fix. Based on the smell, it should have a little undertone of bitterness, but the taste sticks to the back of the tongue in a way that smothers the dashi." You set the bowl back on the platter. "My advice is to start with half a cup, not a full cup. And steep for thirty seconds less."

He blinks. "Those are very precise instructions, Y/n."

You blink back. "Cooking can be a science, Osamu."

Nothing more is said between you for a minute. And then he nods down at the bowl of drowned onigiri. "And the good parts?"

You smile — a real one, one that you're not sure he's ever seen.

"If you fix the ratio, Onigiri Miya will be famous."

—

You end up going to Onigiri Miya every day for lunch, even on days when Atsumu asks for something else. Even on days when he doesn't ask at all.

Even after their training ends, right up until the day of the Jackals' sponsorship game.

At some point in the days since that first lunch together, Osamu brings up the thing that neither of you had wanted to talk about: Atsumu.

"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to learn we're hanging out, y'know."

You'd swallowed and looked away, face warming. "You know how annoying he can be when he's thrilled."

It's an excuse. He takes it.

"Yeah. I'd eat my own hair before I admit Tsumu's right about somethin'."

And just like that, a secret is formed. A secret between you and Miya Osamu, where nothing had existed before.

It's dreadfully attractive, sneaking around to meet your best friend's brother.

—

It happens before either of you is ready to admit this is more than just a budding friendship. That this is more than just sneaking around for the sake of not hearing Atsumu's gloating.

It's sneaking around because there's something else to hide, something that neither of you is willing to admit or address.

But it gets addressed anyway. It goes a little something like this:

The sponsorship game comes and goes. The Jackals win. There's an afterparty at a bar, one where Atsumu gets too shit-faced and the room is too crowded for anyone to notice that you and Osamu are sitting in a corner, talking low and with your heads close together. It starts with simple jabs, jokes made at his brother's expense and then more made between you — the result of weeks spent alone in his office, the taste testing nothing but an excuse.

An excuse, one that only your eyes can admit and only after three drinks. One that only he can hear in the way your gaze drifts to his lips and back, a smile tugging at him every time you flush.

A rushed goodbye, pressed into Atsumu's chest as you tell him that you've had too much to drink and that Osamu's going to drop you off at home. A questioning look ignored, your expression innocent as you wave and pretend you can't hear his confused noise. Suna Rintarou equally ignored, even as his gaze follows you and Osamu out.

The door of the bar, slammed open by Osamu, his other hand wrapped tight around your wrist, both of your stone cold sober by now. He drags you to his car, three steps ahead while you scramble after him. You’re not sure if you’re actually reading this right. If this is going somewhere, or if he really is just going to drive you home. But you desperately — desperately — want it to be the former. After so many years of dreading his presence, you don’t want to say goodbye to him tonight. 

You get the feeling that the heated look in his eye when he glances back at you is a promise that you're not going to be disappointed.

When you finally make it to his car, tucked away under the shadow of a tree in a far corner of the parking lot, you wonder if it’s just enough coverage for you to make a move unseen, or if you need to wait.

Osamu opens the passenger-side door for you, and you stand just inside of it, staring up at him, like you always do. 

He stares back. Like he always does.

It goes on like that for seconds — entire moments — and the familiarity of it is a little comforting.

And then his eyes drop to your mouth, just long enough to be perceptible.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it. All you find is the palm of his hand.

"Get in the car, Y/n," he mumbles, his voice gruff and full of something you can't place. "We're in the middle of the street."

You pull back quickly and open your eyes wide, your heart dropping as you wonder if you've just made an ass of yourself.

He just stares down at you, eyes on your mouth. "Get in the car, Y/n," he whispers.

You've learned that you're very good at listening to instructions.

You stare at nothing as you wait for him to close your door and make his way around to the driver's seat. You stare at nothing at all, your mind empty of everything but the realization that this night could end very well or very not well.

It's quiet in the car when he settles in. You let it linger until it hurts, and then you turn.

He’s got his gaze right on you, sharp and heated and full of emotion — an emotion you can’t place, an emotion you’ve never seen from him before. 

The planets that orbit Miya Atsumu finally meeting somewhere in the middle — at full speed, with no hope of stopping. 

The crash isn’t so pretty, but it sure does feel nice. 

You don’t know who moves first, but his fingers are tangled in your hair and your arms are flung around his neck before you process this night isn’t going to end with you crying alone in bed. 

His mouth is searing hot against yours, and you think there’s a whimpering noise that escapes your throat when you’re not paying attention. Osamu says nothing, gives no verbal indication of his thoughts or how he feels. But he does press his hand flat to your back and draw you to him, pulling you halfway across the console so he can kiss you better. 

After that, it’s a quick trip over the console entirely and right into his lap. 

He angles his head up and slides his fingers back into your hair, cupping the back of your neck as he pushes his mouth up against yours. You kiss him eagerly, your heart pounding in your ears and your face radiating heat. You realize that he’s not doing much better when you cup his jaw and feel his pulse racing against your fingers. 

You pull away, and the intoxicating sound of Miya Osamu panting fills the car as you drop your mouth to the juncture of his neck. A breathy moan cracks in the back of his throat, followed by the quiet ‘fuck’ that falls past his lips. His hands drop to your waist, and you feel when his head falls back against the headrest.

“Fuck,” he repeats, sounding like he’s very quickly coming undone. It eggs you on, and you bite down on his throat before soothing it over with a pass of your tongue. He shudders under you, a stuttered moan echoing in the car. 

“Y/n-” His fingers find the back of your head, tangling and pulling taut to lift you away. You whine at the tug of your hair, wriggling in his lap, and then his mouth is on yours. He kisses you hard, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. You hold his face and return the fervor, and he clamps down on your hips and pulls you closer, pushing your thighs apart until you’re seated right over the zipper of his jeans.

It’s only then – when you push down into his lap and pull a strained groan right out of him – that you realize that he’s hard.

Your stomach flips excitedly, and every nerve ending in your body lights up and burns under your skin. 

You roll your hips experimentally, just the slightest shift of your thighs over his, and are gifted the wonderful experience of feeling Miya Osamu’s control slip. He tenses under you, one hand flying to cup the back of your head, the other holding tight to your hips and coaxing you forward again – urging you silently to keep going.

It’s embarrassingly easy to convince you.

This push of your hips down over his is just as charged as the last – more, really, because now Osamu’s eyes are open and locked tight on yours. His hand in your hair keeps your face close, your lips brushing against his with every miniscule shift of your body and your breath mingling in the marginal space between you. His eyes are hazy, distracted, but he keeps those eyes unyieldingly on you, and you find yourself trapped in his gaze, just like every moment before this.

When he rolls his hips up, the bulge of his jeans pressed under your skirt and right up against your core, the heat building in your navel spills over and fills your body with a burning, molten desperation.

“Samu,” you whine, staring right into his eyes when your hands drop to the button of his jeans and your forehead presses urgently to his. He keeps eye contact, rocking upward again and pushing on that little spot that shoves you further and further into dangerous territory. One hand falls to your bare thigh, fingers disappearing up your skirt and stopping right at the line of your panties, his thumb pushing up against your inner thigh.

He tilts his head up, using his grip on your hair to bring you close so he can kiss you. You return it needily, your lips parting with ease when you feel his tongue against your bottom lip. He pushes into your mouth, his breath heady and uneven, betraying his own desperation as you breathe each other in. 

You shift your hips, his thumb slipping and pushing up against your clit. You gasp loudly, and he shivers, but it’s followed by a grin when he realizes what he’s done. He pushes that little spot again, his touch gentle but certain – you feel when his smile slips, though, because you’re rutting shyly against him, and it pulls a drunken half-moan out of him.

“Y/n,” he whispers against your mouth, a hard swallow following. You shiver in his lap, entirely willing to do anything and everything he asks of you.

“Samu,” you say, your fingers prying the button of his jeans open. “Can I…” You linger at the zipper, tugging in question. 

He nods, his own touch sliding down your panties, and you know he means to push them aside. Your stomach swarms with butterflies at the realization of what you’re about to do with Miya Osamu.

You get the zipper down, and he lifts his hips, mouth pressing briefly against yours, heated and full of anticipation. 

But before you can get his pants down to his thighs, there’s a slam on the front hood of his car.

You jump, biting down on a scream, and Osamu pulls you against his chest with a sharp inhale, his eyes flying over your shoulder to look through the windshield. Whatever he sees there causes him to mutter-

“Oh, fuck.” 

“What the fuck are you two doing?!” There’s a voice screaming outside, one you distinctly recognize as Suna Rintarou. “Are you trying to get charged with public indecency?!” 

The molten heat in your navel runs ice cold in an instant, and you can’t do a single thing except let Osamu lift you off his lap and over the console back into the passenger seat. You curl up there, your face burning with humiliation as he gets out of the car.

He joins Suna outside, running his fingers through his hair with a sigh, and you hear muffled, unintelligible conversation. Suna gestures in exasperation at Osamu’s undone jeans, and you wince when the twin quickly fixes himself, his embarrassed flush visible even from here. You hide your face in your hands, wondering who else might have seen you and how this could have gotten so out of hand so fast.

The men talk in serious, clipped tones outside for a minute before Suna is groaning and dropping his head back. You hear him laugh, but it sounds deranged, like he can’t believe he’s been caught in the middle of this. And then he turns to look you right in your eye through the windshield.

You sit up straight, nervous as he rounds the car to your window and knocks awkwardly. You fumble to open the door, and Suna crouches by your side with a sigh of exhaustion.

“You want me to drive you home?”

You blink. “Huh? I thou-” You look over at where Osamu’s starting to come meet the two of you, a wary look on his face.

Had he asked Suna to take you home? Does he not want to be alone with you again?

“Uh,” you mumble, your face burning with humiliation and the prospect of being rejected by Miya Osamu in front of a mutual friend. “Sure. I guess. If that’s what he said-”

“Oy,” Osamu interrupts, pushing two fingers roughly into the back of Suna’s head. “Can you fuck off? We’re fine.”

You look between them, confused. So… Osamu hadn’t just tried to get out of taking you home?

Suna looks back at him, scoffing. “Oh, sure, you guys are totally fine. Totally not gonna mess around when you get back to her place, right? Do you remember who her roommate is, or would you like a mirror?”

You blink. 

Oh.

Osamu pushes Suna again, voice strained when he drops it an octave and warns, “Fuck. Off. Rintarou.”

You swallow, watching them share a meaningful look before Suna is shrugging noncommittally and standing to full height.

“Whatever. You go ahead and get caught – may the best twin live, I guess.”

And then he leaves, waving back at you as he fishes his keys from his pocket and heads to his own car.

You stare up at Osamu, willing him to look at you – willing, after years of begging not to be seen, for him to meet your eyes.

He doesn’t, just quietly closing the door and coming back to the driver’s seat.

You sit together in silence, watching as Suna’s car disappears into the street.

Osamu plucks the keys from the console and starts the car.

He drives in silence.

Osamu shifts beside you when he stops at a red light. "I need to know something.” When you say nothing in return, just staring at the side of his face, he sighs quietly. “Is this going to fall apart when my brother finds out?”

You blink, startled by the question. It's not entirely unexpected, but you have no idea what to do with it. "Meaning?"

“Meaning-” He’s firm about it. “-that you know how he is. How he can get when there are-”

-secrets.

You imagine how Atsumu would react – he’s territorial, possessive. Stubborn and childish and annoyingly good at holding a grudge. You can already hear it, the way he would explode if he found out–

‘When I told you to try getting along, I didn’t mean you should fucking jump into bed with him!’

Yeah. Miya Atsumu would not take this information very well.

But you find that you don't care as much as you thought you would. That even when you'd used him as an excuse — when things between you and Miya Osamu changed, not even a week ago — you hadn't really cared about Atsumu's reaction at all. Because you know he'll get over it, whatever it might be.

And there's a part of you that remembers the Miya Osamu from college, the one who'd accepted that his brother was the focus of everything. That he'd always be in Atsumu's shadow.

Maybe that's why he'd been so quick to accept your excuse. Because you were giving him a chance for the two of you to find some other orbit.

"No, Osamu," you say, a little strong. "It's not going to fall apart. Not for me."

"Even if Atsumu-"

"I don't really give a fuck what happens if Atsumu finds out." His eyes find yours, wide and surprised. You just stare back. "Do you?"

He stares for a moment.

And then you're being smacked up against the window from the force of him turning the car around.

"Wha-" You glance around, realizing you're heading away from your apartment now. "What-"

"He'll get over it," Osamu mutters, switching lanes and taking turns with an urgency that hadn't been there before. "You can just stay with me 'til he does."

You can't say that sounds like a bad idea.

—

The journey into Miya Osamu's apartment consists of stumbling over your feet and fumbling to rip his t-shirt off. You don't get much time to look around, all of your attention on the way he's guiding you to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours.

"Nice place," you joke. "Great decor."

"Shut up," he scoffs, scooping you off your feet and pinning you to the wall by his bedroom door. His mouth is unbearably hot, tongue searing against yours and teeth tugging down on your bottom lip after every pant. "Can I admit something?" he asks after you plant your hands on his chest and put distance between you so you can breathe.

"Hm?" Your head is spinning. "What is it?"

"I never thought-" He swallows hard, still holding you in place with his hips. "I never guessed that this would-we would-"

You laugh breathily, curling your fingers into his hair. "I thought I was gonna have to avoid you for the rest of my life."

He presses his body against yours, flattening you to the wall. "Yeah? Still plan on doin' that?"

You only have time to roll your eyes before he's pushing his mouth against yours again. "Already tryna get rid of me?" you ask between kisses, your breath shaky.

He just laughs through his nose, carrying you into his room. After dropping you on the bed and climbing over you, he answers your question. "Nah." He shakes his head. "You're mine now. Turns out I actually like havin' you around all the time."

You don't need to tell him how that statement affects you. How it affects you to learn that all these years of circling each other — lingering in his periphery, always in orbit — hadn't been the annoyance you'd thought it was. That he prefers you just like that, maybe even a little closer.

You don't need to tell him that. He can see it clear as day, because you're dragging him down to you and whimpering against his lips.

The distance between this moment and the moment he's pressing his tip against your entrance feels like everything and also nothing at all in the grand scheme of you and Miya Osamu.

As it turns out, when he'd uttered the words 'you're mine', there had been an undertone you'd missed.

You find it the moment he pushes into you. His head drops back, a noise leaving his mouth that cuts somewhere betweel a growl and a sigh.

"Fuck," he groans. You're too busy trying to pull the breath from your lungs to respond in kind. "Fuck," he whispers again, to himself this time, and stares down at the spot where he's starting to rail into you. "All mine — you're all mine."

Nerves flip in your stomach, and you whine low — the way he's looking at you, the way he's worshipping you is enough to set your skin on fire. "Samu-"

"Yeah, baby?" he mutters, driving his hips into yours and using his grip on your waist to slam you down on his cock at the same time. "Feel good?" When you nod fervently, he laughs, the sound a little unhinged. "Feel good to be stretched out like that, baby? Stretched out by me?"

"Samu," you groan, your back arching and your hands clawing at his arms. "Please, Samu-"

"What? What is it, huh?" he coos. "Want me to show you that you're mine?" You clench around him hard, and he moans in response. "Yeah, you're mine. You want to feel it, though, don't you?"

"Yeah," you pant. "Wanna feel."

"Wanna feel it when I make you mine?" His voice starts to shake and his breathing grows harsh. "Gonna fill you up — fill you up 'til you're leakin'." He presses his palm against your stomach, right under your navel, and bites out something that you think might be more for him than for you.

"Fill you up 'til it takes." You gasp, clenching hard, and he moans low. "Yeah," he pants. "Gonna make you mine."

The pulse of his cock deep inside you, the tip kissing right up against your cervix, is accompanied by the warmth of him coming. You feel it spill, feel it coat your walls and then push around his cock until it's spilling past your entrance. He must feel it happen, too, because he's moaning and grinding you down harder on his cock.

The realization that this is driving him insane is enough for you to clench down hard, your walls fluttering around him in time with your heartbeat as you come.

"That's it," he whispers, panting hard and collapsing down over you. His mouth finds yours, and you let him kiss you while you come down from your high. "That's my girl."

You don't bother cleaning up, too busy basking in the glow that comes with Osamu staring down at the mess he's made and then looking at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.

You fall asleep without meaning to, which, on one hand, is great for you, because you wake up in Osamu's arms and feel the peace that comes with him rolling over on top of you and showering you with affection.

On the other hand, you didn't go home last night. To your roommate. Who is now at his brother's door, banging on it with both fists.

Every step Toji takes towards you is weighted, emphasized by the heaviness of the day on his shoulders. He doesn't say anything, just pulls your phone out of your hands and sets it down beside you before slowly accommodating to the small space, his arms looped underneath you and his face planted in your chest.

"Hi, baby," you say, gently breaking the silence. One of your hands rests on the back of his head, gently threading through the dark locks of hair, while the other rubs his upper back.

"Hey, sweet thing," he responds.

"Rough day at work?" You ask, the tenderness in your voice somewhat projecting your own day.

"Mm... no, just..." he sighs, holding you tighter. "...tired."

"I know," you mumble, letting your nails gently graze his scalp. He makes a small sound—a soft groan, almost like a purr.

"And hungry," he adds.

"I know, bear," you say, again, just as understanding as the first time. "I can fix you a plate of food if you want."

"No, stay," he says, grabbing at the back of your shirt, anchoring you incase you challenge his weight on your body.

"Okay," you say, just continuing to play with his hair.

"Ugh," he groans obnoxiously. "So hungry."

"I know. The food is still hot. I can go-"

"No," he groans, cutting you off the second you mention going somewhere else.

"What do you need, baby?" You ask, rubbing his back.

"You, food, sleep, a shower, a back massage-"

"Okay, one at a time. What do you want to do first?" A tired huff is all you get in response, but you don't take it as a sign to give up. You attempt to gently coax his needs out without making him feel like he needs to think too hard. You know it well that after hours of work, the last thing you want to do is keep running your brain.

"I know you're tired," you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Trust me, I understand. I'm tired, too, but I need you to unwind with me, okay?" There's no immediate response, but you know he's listening. "Let's just lay here for a little."

You don't tell him in what order his list of needs is going to be done in, you just get it done. He requests for you to talk to him while you're cuddled up on the couch, and you do, with no expectation of him to respond. Listening is his only task, and if he falls asleep, that's killing two birds with one stone.

You tell him about your day, minimizing the hardships you went through for the sake of keeping him at ease. You'll rant his ear off about it in more detail some other time. Then, you tell him about a movie you found that you want to watch with him and about some cookies you saw while scrolling on your phone that you want to make. It goes on like that until you feel him relax on top of you, shoulders dropped and his grip on your shirt loosened, soft snores escaping him.

A little later, when you finally manage to get Toji to the dinner table, he decides he doesn't want to stay put. He follows you to the kitchen and hovers around you, overly mesmerized as he watches you serve his plate of food and then yours.

Instead of sitting in front of each other like you normally do, Toji plops down beside you, because he wants some sort of physical contact with you that isn't stepping on your toes or bumping your shins. You don't bring it up, but he's radio silent as he chows down, and then out of nowhere he says, "It's really fucking good," like you haven't made this meal for him so many times before.

You know he's feeling a little better after eating, because as you're both standing up, plates stacked and collected in one of his hands, he uses his free hand to poke your belly and gives you one of those handsome amused smirks of his, when he feels how full you are. You lightly shove his hand away and playfully roll your eyes, earning a low chuckle from him as he goes on to do his part of washing the dishes.

"Now, go shower," you tell him, like you're reading an instruction manual on how to end a tiring day.

"Woah, why so aggressive, doll?" Toji asks, hand on his chest like you offended him.

"That was not aggressive," you respond with a laugh.

"You said, 'Fuck off, Toji. You stink'," he teases, earning more laughter from you. Despite his projection, he comes closer, hands settling on your lower back. "You don't wanna come with?"

You take another step towards him, wrapping your arms around his torso. "I figured you'd want some time to yourself."

"Well, I don't. I want you to get in the shower with me."

"Woah, why so aggressive?" You echo back to him, laughing at the way he clicks his tongue, annoyed. Clearly not enough to stop him from wanting to kiss you, because before you can even process it, he's leaning down and pressing his lips to yours.

"Shower with me, please," he rephrases.

You haven't learned how to say no to him when he looks at you that way-like you're the one thing that keeps him from falling apart—and you won't be learning today.

"Hand me the soap, please, baby."

"No," he responds, stepping towards you.

"Toj-" you let out an irrepressible laugh at the ticklish sensation of his hands on your waist. "Grab the soap!" You repeat, putting your hands up to prevent him from kissing you. "I'm gonna slip and fall because of you."

"Mm-mm, you're in safe hands, pretty," he says, gently pulling your hands down before leaning in to peck your lips. "I've got you."

And suddenly you're being lifted, as if to prove that he would never let you fall.

"It's cold!" You screech when your back meets the wall.

"Gonna warm you up real good," Toji murmurs, inching closer until he's caging you between himself and the wall. His lips are warm against your jaw, a nice contrast to the now lukewarm wetness on your back. "You want it?" He murmurs, pressing his thumbs into your hips.

A giggle escapes you. "Want what?" You question, feigning obliviousness.

"You know exactly what," he responds, nipping at the delicate skin of your neck.

"Maybe I do," you whisper in his ear, gently raking your nails over his water droplet covered shoulders.

A low chuckle is released, the warmth of Toji's breath felt against your jaw. "Then, I'll give it to you."

One slightly longer, steamier shower later, and you're getting ready for bed. You're brushing your teeth, an act that is almost always accompanied by a Toji wrapped around you and his face buried in your neck. He does his thing of leaving some kisses behind and then you feel a familiar pinch.

A muffled sound of warning is all you can make with all the foamy toothpaste and a toothbrush in your mouth, followed by the weakest push to his stomach. Toji being used to this, doesn't budge. His arms squeeze tighter and his lips trail over your neck repeatedly until you bend down to spit out the toothpaste.

You turn around, confronting the artist who semi permanently painted your skin. "Behave yourself," you say, mustering the smallest level of sternness.

"No," Toji simply says, pulling you in for one very elongated kiss to further emphasize his disagreement. Whatever it was that you considered to be stern immediately dissolved, leaving you to just stand there helplessly. He laughs when you sigh defeatedly. "You love me."

You don't even think to deny it for a second. "I do. Even when it looks like you chew on me all the time," you mutter, pushing past him to get to the bedroom.

"I definitely do that," he says, proudly, shutting the doors and turning off the light before following you to bed.

By now, you know that there is no point in settling on your side of the bed because Toji always ends up pulling you towards the center with him. You do it anyway because you like the way he wraps his arm around your waist and drags you closer. Toji knows of this little joy of yours, but never verbalizes it. He likes hearing your little laugh when your bodies make that soft thud after crashing.

"First, you deny me of a goodbye kiss this morning, and now you treat me like I have the plague? Nah, baby. One at a time."

"Can I treat you like you have the plague tomorrow, then?" You tease.

"No."

"Boo. I'll just survive, I guess," you say, throwing in a sigh of feigned disappointment.

"Mhm. Speaking of surviving lethal conditions... no kiss goodbye this morning? For real?"

You laugh at that, thinking back to what put you in that position in the first place.

"You wouldn't let go this morning after I told you that I was gonna be late, and this time I was serious. I got to work with two minutes to spare."

"All I hear are excuses. Be my notes for a sec, okay?"

"Sure, baby," you say, lips twitching at the ridiculousness you already know is about to ensue.

"Dear me, we're unloved by the girl today. Bye."

"That's not how it goes," you say, amusement riddling your tone. "It goes 'Dear diary'. Get it right."

"Then this is how morning kisses go, before we abandon each other for hours," he explains, pulling you in even closer and giving you a big fat kiss. It's sweet for the first couple seconds, but then he slips in his tongue, and you pull away with a burst of laughter. The hand that rests on your waist lifts and falls heavy on your butt.

"Like that. Get it right," he parrots back, letting out a chuckle of his own.

"Sorry, handsome," you say. "One more? To make up for me making you go out into the world like that?"

"Yeah, okay," he says, already leaning in again. It starts off slow, gentle, like the day is over and nothing else is being asked of both of you, anymore, and you can finally retreat to the comfort and safety you find in each other. Hard days are manageable when this is what coming home is like.

Just when you're about to pull away to say goodnight, his tongue pokes through again, an act that has you pushing him away through a laugh.

"I'm playing, doll," he says, grinning before pecking your lips one more time, earning that smile from you before finally getting ready to sleep. You turn over, bringing his arm over your waist once you get into your little spoon position.

"Goodnight," you say, with a sigh. "I love you."

cold was something you were raised inside of. it shaped your mornings and nights, your training, and hell, even the way you breathed. you'd learned how to move efficiently through it, how to see, smell, and touch through the cold, how to ignore the ache in your bones long enough to finish your hero work.

heat, on the other hand, demanded attention.

japan greeted you with it the moment you stepped off the plane— heavy, humid, clinging in a way the cold never did. it pressed against your skin, seeped into your clothes, and quite literally followed you indoors.

endeavor's agency was... something.

the headquarters radiated heat in a way that made your skin prickle. not just from the climate, but from the people inside it. fire-based quirks were common here— encouraged, even. and the temperature reflected that. (not that you could even tell if that was normal, since you were too used to the cold.)

his office was exactly what you had expected. large but minimal, with warm lighting of the sunset seeping through the glass windows. flames curled steadily from his shoulders, filling the space with heat that pressed against your skin like a challenge.

he reviewed your file in silence.

“your performance metrics are high,” he said at last. “combat efficiency. quirk control. decision-making.” a pause. “no deficiencies.”

you nodded once, relief filling your body as if you didn't already know your own performance.

“there is one concern,” endeavor continued, eyes lifting to meet yours. “heat tolerance.”

you didn't argue, you already knew. "i'm adjusting, sir." you pause before opening your mouth to speak again. "since my webs are organic, prolonged exposure to open flame breaks them down. still, they can withstand high temperatures up to a point— after that, fire degrades the fibers faster."

“i’m aware.” he gave a little hum of acknowledgment. “which is why you’ll be assigned to work closely with one of my operatives. his specialization makes him.. suitable for acclimation.”

that caught your attention.

"he's currently on assignment," endeavor added. "across the country. he'll return in a few days."

of course.

“until then,” he said, setting your file aside, “you’ll familiarize yourself with the agency. patrol observation. local response protocols. civilian operations.” his gaze sharpened. “and the environment.”

in other words: adapt faster.

"yes, sir."

“your results suggest you won’t need long,” endeavor said. “don’t prove me wrong.”

that was dismissal enough.

you left his office with a single thought circling your mind. you were already exceeding expectations, and someone was being brought in specifically to push you further.

for now though, you had time— time to adjust, time to learn japan— and apparently time before meeting the person endeavor thought could handle heat better than anyone else.

working alongside endeavor's sidekicks was surprisingly seamless, even though you weren't taking on real missions just yet. your favorite was burnin. she was was loud and relentlessly energetic, but she watched you closely, quick to adjust formations the moment she realized you didn’t need babysitting.

you kept up.

"good run, you're terrifying in alleyways." she told you, which earned her an earnest smile from you.

"high praise," you huff out a laugh.

by the end of the week, assessments were already being updated, and you were working on your latest report.

until.. a sharp tone cut through the agency’s background noise.

"MISSION COMPLETION" plastered bright on a few screens, return confirmed, ETA logged. one name flashed briefly before disappearing into internal routing.

burnin's expression shifted to amusement. "looks like he's back," she said, glancing in your direction.

"huh? who's back?" your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the 'operative' you were supposed to be working with completely slipped your mind.

kido checked his tablet once, then looked up. "you're scheduled to meet him, actually."

oh right.. the one deemed 'suitable for acclimation.'

"eighteenth floor," burnin added. "try not to kill each other."

a sigh leaves your lips as you run a hand down your face. you've had a long day and now burnin is saying this? what type of guy was he? "that feels.. uneccessary to say."

still, as you watched the numbers on the elevator go up, a strange tension settled in your chest. you’d handled the agency. the sidekicks.. but whoever this was— he sounded like a problem.

and something told you this adjustment would be intolerable.

unfortunately, you were right.

standing riiight outside the door, you were trying to calm your nerves before knocking, which should’ve been uneventful.

instead..

“—i don’t see why this can’t wait until tomorrow,”

the voice was tired, and unmistakably annoyed. way too comfortable arguing with endeavor to just be a random sidekick.

“i just got back,” he continues. his voice was a little raspy too. “four days, no sleep. if this is about ‘acclimation’ or whatever, i can do it tomorrow.”

there’s a pause.

then endeavor, sounding oddly restrained..

“this won’t take long, touya.”

“that’s what you said about the last ‘quick meeting’,” the voice fires back. “it took two hours and it ended with both of us facing mom’s wrath for missing dinner.”

you blink. mom? dinner?

“you need rest,” endeavor says, and for the first time since your arrival japan, he doesn’t sound like a top hero. he sounds like a man trying very hard to say the right thing. “but this is important.”

a scoff. "everything's important to you."

“you’re the best fit for this,” endeavor says. “your heat tolerance is unmatched. you’ve trained for this environment since—”

“since birth?” the voice cuts in. “yeah, i know. you bring it up all the time.”

your spine straightens slightly. you feel bad for eavesdropping but.. they're expecting someone so… this one's really on them.

endeavor exhales— like actually exhales. and it’s almost.. awkward?

“i’m trying to say,” he continues, slower now, “that you’re uniquely qualified. and i trust you.”

silence.

then, incredulous laughter.

“wow,” the voice says. “you could’ve just said that without making it weird, dad.”

you freeze.

'dad..?'

before you can process that revelation, the voice adds, louder now, “also, you’re really underselling the part where this new sidekick is already passing every assessment and doesn’t need me babysitting her.”

endeavor clears his throat. “she’s adapting well. exceptionally, actually. this assignment isn’t corrective— it’s strategic.”

“mmhm. sure.” a beat. “does she know she’s being paired with your son, or is that part of the surprise package?”

your stomach drops.

endeavor's son.

the door slides open before you can knock. before you can pretend you didn't hear any of that.

touya todoroki stands there, blue eyes that matched endeavor's, sharp with exhaustion and something so dangerously close to amusement. he looks down at you, takes you in, and then smirks.

“…well,” he says. “this is awkward.”

behind him, endeavor looks between the two of you, visibly bracing himself. he realizes his mistake the second he processes you're there. not a mistake. all of them. at once.

you straighten immediately, putting on your best poker face— like you’ve just materialized out of thin air instead of standing there long enough to learn half of the todoroki family's lore.

“—you’ve been waiting,” endeavor says, unnecessarily loud.

“yes, sir,” you reply smoothly. too smoothly. “i just arrived, sorry if i kept you two waiting.” you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from cracking up.

you mentally cursed yourself for your damned self-sabotaging habit of laughing when you lied.

touya snorts.

“good,” endeavor says, nodding once, clearly clinging to procedure for dear life. “good. that’s… good.”

touya leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, as his eyes drag over you with blatant curiosity.

“just arrived, huh?” he repeats. “crazy timing.”

you meet his gaze without blinking. “sorry, i don't follow? i apologize again for taking so long to arrive. it seems like you were about to leave.”

oh man, you wonder if you were selling this act or if you were absolutely selling this act.

endeavor clears his throat. again. louder this time.

“(y/n), this is—” he starts, then stops. starts again. “this is touya. he’ll be assisting with your heat tolerance training.”

touya raises a brow. “assisting. wow. that what we’re calling it now?”

“this meeting is happening now,” endeavor snaps, then immediately softens his tone like he remembers this is, unfortunately, his child. “because efficiency matters.”

touya grins. “sure, dad.”

the silence that follows is deafening.

endeavor pinches the bridge of his nose.

“i could have worded that better,” he mutters. then, louder, “you’re both dismissed. brief introductions only. get to know each other during your own time.”

"touya's your son, sir?" you air out, not really a question, but just to really clarify. because this sure as hell doesn't feel real.

"my eldest." endeavor nods, "also, (y/n), i'd appreciate if you helped touya work on his close combat skills aswell." he adds. "i'll leave you two to it." quickly closing the office door before touya could turn around to give him another one of his smartass responses.

touya clicks his tongue before he pushes off the wall and steps closer, just short of your personal space. “so,” he starts. “you’re the one who’s ‘passing with flying colors.’”

you nod politely, using every braincell you had to not bitch slap him and run off. "so i've been told."

“uh-huh.” his smile widens. “and you definitely didn’t hear anything you weren’t supposed to.”

“of course not,” you say, deadpan. “i just got here.”

all the cringe videos you watched trying to practice your poker face are really coming in clutch right now.

behind the office door, endeavor exhales. deeply regretful.

this was supposed to be simple.

instead, he’s paired his most promising new operative with his most difficult son, and neither of you look even remotely inclined to make it easy.

the both of you start making your way to the elevator, and you're so ready to just get this over with and jump into your bed.

but for touya, the same couldn't be said. how could he want to return home now when there's such a cute face right infront of him? especially one that's supposed to learn from him— take his orders.

"russia," he says, stepping into the elevator after you.

"japan." you cross your arms, leaning back onto the cold metal wall of the elevator. you eye him, who was leaning on the opposite wall, hands in his pockets.

he snorts. "fair."

you decide to test the waters, since it didn't seem like he was one to respect workplace professionalism. "looks like i hit the jackpot," you said sarcastically. "endeavor's son helping me get stronger? i've been truly blessed."

"yeah yeah," he replies, lazy grin already in place. "keep your panties on, babe. it's temporary."

"first of all, ew. second of all, not your babe," you give him a face of disapproval. "but good. i don't like uneccessary supervision."

that gets his attention.

his eyes sharpen, the amusement shifting into something more alert. “supervision,” he repeats. “that what you think this is?”

“you’re here because you’re heat-resistant,” you say calmly. “not because i need help with my work.”

touya snickers, his piercings glinting from the overhead lights. "wow. flew halfway across the world to insult your boss's son?"

“i flew halfway across the world to do my job,” you correct. “wouldn't waste my breath insulting a nepo-baby. plus, you're incidental.”

he grins wider, clearly delighted. “oh, i like you already.”

you don't return the sentiment.

because before either of you can esclalate, the sound of the elevator chiming interrupted as it reached the ground floor. the doors slid open to the cool night air filtering in through the lobby— mercifully cooler than inside. you stepped out first, not looking back.

the city's nightlife was one thing you liked about this place. the neon lights were beautiful. you pause long enough to orient yourself.

behind you, touya spoke again. "guess i'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"unfortunately," you glance over your shoulder.

he smiles lazily, sharp around the edges. "try not to miss me."

you didn't bother stopping as you walked away.

"i'll do my best." you reply coolly.

you could hear him huff out a laugh behind you and muttering something you couldn't quite hear over the traffic and voices overlapping in the language you were still learning to fully navigate.

tomorrow was going to be a long day.

you’d hoped first impressions would be the worst of it— that whatever irritation touya todoroki sparked would dull with familiarity. instead, it only sharpened.

your first mission together made that abundantly clear.

it went sideways almost immediately.

touya didn’t wait for confirmation before engaging. blue fire tearing through the space with reckless efficiency, forcing you to abandon what little structure you’d planned. you compensated on instinct, working around the heat, adapting faster than you should’ve had to.

somehow, it worked. the damage was contained, civilians were safe, and every hostile was accounted for.

that didn’t make it acceptable.

"subtlety isn't your thing?" you muttered into the comms, grimace on your face as you swung on your web around the site to assess damages.

"still breathing, aren't you?" he shot back. "plus, this shitty warehouse was gonna get demolished anyway. saved the workers a days worth."

the argument started the moment you were out of earshot of the news reporters.

“what the hell's your problem?” you said, trying to hold back the urge to just punch him right in the back of his head. "do you not understand the concept of waiting?"

touya scoffed. “waiting gets people hurt.”

“rushing does too,” you retort, now running a hand down your face. “you spiked the temperature past my tolerance threshold.”

“and you adjusted,” he snapped. “that’s literally what you’re here for.”

you stopped walking.

he turned, surprised to find you no longer following.

“i’m here to do my job,” you said evenly, though your pulse hadn’t settled at all. “not to clean up after yours.”

for a moment, the air between you felt heavier than the heat. dangerous in a way neither of you were used to. touya’s flames flickered, responding to something heavier than anger.

“you think i don’t know what i’m doing?” he asked, voice low.

“no. i think you don’t care who has to adapt around you,” you replied. “there’s a difference.”

silence.

then, unexpectedly, touya laughed— not mocking this time.

“…you’re the first person who’s said that to my face.”

that should’ve defused it.

(it really didn’t.)

“next time,” he said, stepping closer, eyes locked on yours, “say it before the mission.”

your jaw tightened. “how about.. you try listening for once.”

the tension lingered long after the argument ended— unresolved and uncomfortable.

because now it wasn’t just irritation.

you don’t realize it’s a problem until you found yourself being slowed down by a crowd. it was already irritating enough that improving your heat resistance means staying in touya’s vicinity nearly all the time— but somehow, he makes it 100x worse, turning every patrol into a string of petty arguments and unnecessary commentary.

the stares come first, and the attention comes with him.

people recognize touya instantly. phones are already out before anyone gets close, whispers spreading faster than you can track them. someone else nudges their friend hard enough to nearly knock them over.

"ohmygod, it's dabi!"

touya notices and sighs, like this is mildly inconvenient at best. still, when people approach, his posture shifts— relaxed, open.

“hey,” he says easily when a fangirl greets him. “careful, you’re blocking the sidewalk.” he moves her out of the way with a hand on her waist, a charming grin on his face.

and the fangirls absolutely eat this up. squealing and screaming nearly deafened you.

the girl laughs, flustered but thrilled. then, a few quick words, a few photos. he keeps it light, respectful. which was oddly considerate for him.

and then someone notices you.

“wait,” a voice says. “that’s her.”

you freeze.

phones swing in your direction. cameras zoom. suddenly, you’re no longer standing beside touya— you’re on display.

“she was with him in that warehouse mission!” “she’s new, right?” “she’s foreign— did you hear her accent?”

your chest tightens, forcing a smile. small and polite, hands folding together without you realizing.

“um— hi,” you say softly. “i’m sorry, i wasn’t—”

questions overlap.

“your debut mission was amazing! how does it feel?” “what’s it like working with dabi?” “are you partnering with him permanently?”

touya glances over and steps half a pace closer— not blocking you, but grounding the space.

“relax,” he says calmly. “one at a time. she isn't going anywhere.”

it works immediately.

you blink, then take the opening. “i’m still adjusting,” you say, voice gentle but steady. “but i’m grateful for the support. truly.”

a few people smile. someone says you did great. another waves.

and by the time the crowd thins, your cheeks hurt from smiling and your head is buzzing. but when it hits you, your head snaps towards him.

“..so,” you say, a mean look on your face. “you are capable of being normal.”

touya glances over. “what?”

“with them,” you continue, sharp now. “you’re respectful. you're calm. how come i get— this asshole?”

he snorts. “they didn’t tell me my patrol route was inefficient.”

“that’s because they don’t work with you,” you scoff. “and apparently that’s a prerequisite for you being a dickhead.”

he stops walking.

you do too.

“wow,” he says, genuinely amused. “you jealous, babe?— don't worry. you know i only have eyes for you.” he continues sarcastically.

you cringe at the petname. “of that?” you gesture vaguely back toward where the crowd had been. “please. i just didn’t realize you were only unbearable by choice.”

then, working together becomes routine. a loud one at that.

you’re paired constantly— patrols, drills, debriefs, paperwork that somehow turns into arguments. you clash over routes, over timing, over whose fault it is when something goes wrong (it’s always his, according to you; yours, according to him).

and yet— by the end of the day, the job is done. every time.

you sit across from each other at the conference table, both talking at once, correcting each other mid-sentence. endeavor looks like he's aged 20 years since you and touya were assigned to each other.

“she overcomplicates things,” touya says.

“you oversimplify,” you counter. “if you read and write at a third grade level, just say that and move on.”

“wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “didn’t know they trained that in russia.”

“they train literacy,” you reply calmly. “among other things.”

endeavor closes his eyes and clears his throat. "moving on.."

when the meeting finally moves on, touya leans toward you just enough to murmur, “y'know, for someone who hates me, you sure put a lot of thought into insulting me.”

you don’t look at him. “practice.”

his smile lingers far longer than it should. annoyingly, you know he’s enjoying this.

and somehow, despite everything, the metrics improve.

but unfortunately, work has a habit of bleeding into everything else.

rei, touya's mother, brings it up over tea. she doesn't look at him at first, just pours carefully, steam curling between her and touya.

"you're on the news way more lately, it's always so exciting to see." rei says gently.

touya hums. "comes with the job."

"yes," she agrees. then, after a pause, "you aren't alone anymore."

that makes him look up.

"(h/n), was it? the spider girl?" she continues. "she seems polite and thoughtful when she’s interviewed."

"well, don't let looks decieve you, mom," he says flatly. "she's annoying and argues with me constantly."

rei nods like it's acceptable information. "good. you sound fond."

"good?" touya frowns, taking the cup of tea rei places infront of him.

"she argues with you," she smiles softly. "that means she's not afraid of you. not afraid to stand her ground."

touya just stares at his mother as if she's gone crazy. they clearly don't know the same version of the girl they were talking about.

rei finally looks at him. her expression is soft. unyielding.

"i'd like her to come to dinner."

"wha— that's not— why?—"

"because. i'd like to meet the person who stands besides you. and i want to thank her for watching your back." rei says. "also, because you bring her up all the time."

"first of all— i do not," touya tries to explain. "mom— if it weren't for dad forcing me to help her with her damned heat tolerance—"

"you will ask her." rei cuts in, the mom aura™ immediately shutting him up.

"you're impossible..." he exhales after a moment, shaking his head.

"drink your tea before it gets cold," rei smiles, ruffling his white locks and placing a soft kiss on his forehead. "i'm looking forward to seeing her."

which was how you found yourself infront of the todoroki estate— trying to calm your nerves before knocking. feels like deja vu.

you don’t dress to impress.

that’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

the sweater is simple—soft, fitted just enough to look intentional without trying too hard. jean shorts because it’s still warm, because you refuse to melt on someone else’s property, and because you don’t want to look like you overthought this.

the door opens before you even get a chance to knock. seriously— it felt like deja vu.

except this time, its touya's mother standing in front of you.

"oh," rei's eyes light up as if you dangled candy infront of a child. "you're here!"

before you can respond, she steps a little closer, taking you in with a gentle, unhurried gaze— not critical, or invasive though. just observant.

“you’re even prettier in person,” rei adds, smiling warmly. “the cameras don’t do you enough justice.”

your brain short-circuits.

“oh—” you laugh, flustered, heat rushing to your face. “thank you, ma’am. that’s very kind of you.”

“touya didn’t exaggerate.” rei hums, clearly pleased. “also, please, call me rei.”

“i absolutely did not say that,” a voice mutters from somewhere behind her.

rei doesn’t even turn around. “you did not deny it either.”

you glance past her just in time to see touya standing in the hallway, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between resigned and deeply uncomfortable.

your smile widens just a little. “good evening.”

he exhales through his nose. “you look… normal.”

“that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

rei laughs softly, reaching out to guide you inside. “come in, please. you must be tired.”

as you step over the threshold, you feel a shift. the same nerves as before, yes, but softened now by warmth and the unmistakable sense that you’re being welcomed.

behind you, touya closes the door.

rei barely gives you time to recover before ushering you further inside.

“oh, you’re just in time,” she says pleasantly. “everyone’s here.”

'everyone' is not comforting.

you step into the dining area and immediately clock that this is not just a quiet family dinner— it’s a todoroki event.

fuyumi is the first to notice you. she looks up from setting the table and freezes— then beams.

“you must be her!” she says, already crossing the room. “oh my gosh, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

finally is doing a lot of work there.

“i’m fuyumi, this one's natsuo, and the other one's shoto.” she adds quickly, gesturing to them. “i'm touya’s sister. we’ve— uh— we’ve heard a lot about you.”

touya groans from behind you. “no you haven’t.”

“we absolutely have,” natsuo cuts in from his seat, eyeing you with open curiosity. “you’re the spider hero, right? the one who keeps him from blowing things up?”

you smile, a little sheepish. “i try.”

natsuo snorts. “yeah, that tracks.”

before touya can respond, a heavier presence shifts at the head of the table.

you don’t need an introduction to recognize endeavor.

endeavor sits stiff-backed, flames mercifully subdued for once. his gaze sharpens as it lands on you— familiar in a way that makes your spine straighten automatically. (although he's way less intimidating outside of his hero costume). "welcome, (y/n). you're adjusting well, better than expected."

you blink. "thank you, sir."

fuyumi shoots her father a look. “dad. dinner. not a debrief.”

endeavor clears his throat. “…of course.”

rei sets a hand gently on your shoulder. “please, sit. you’re our guest.”

you take the seat touya pulls out— grudgingly polite, like he’s doing it on principle rather than instinct. when you sit, he takes the chair beside you, close enough that your elbows nearly brush.

you settle into the chair, smoothing your sweater instinctively as rei moves around the table, setting dishes down. the quiet hum of conversation starts up again. it soft, overlapping, domestic in a way you’re not used to.

you’re just starting to relax when—

“can i ask you something?”

the voice is calm. direct.

you turn to find shoto looking at you with polite focus, he even had heterochromatic eyes.

“of course,” you say.

“i’ve seen your patrol footage,” he continues evenly. “your movement is very efficient. you change direction mid-air without losing speed.”

touya groans beside you. “oh my god, not this.”

shoto doesn’t even glance at him.

“is that purely quirk-based,” he asks you, “or is it something you trained?”

you were surprised, but not uncomfortable. “training. my webs helps with momentum, but the control comes from repetition."

and you hesitate for half a second, then offer, “if you want, i could show you sometime. just drills.”

touya stiffens. “absolutely not.”

shoto tilts his head, half slurping on his soba noodles. “why?”

“she’s busy,” touya says flatly.

shoto returns to his food, satisfied, like the matter is settled. you exhale quietly, realizing your shoulders have dropped somewhere along the way.

you turn to touya. “i can decide that.”

natsuo snorts. “wow. she’s already family.”

“eat,” their mother says gently, and the argument dies on the spot.

after eating, conversation flows from there— easier than you expect. questions about russia, about what foods you missed. you even learned that natsuo was currently visiting from college, and fuyumi was an elementary school teacher.

when the plates are cleared, conversation softening into something looser, easier. fuyumi offers to help rei in the kitchen, natsuo disappears muttering about something having to meet up with his friends, endeavor retreats into silence like he’s powering down for the night, and shoto heading to bed.

you’re mid-sip of tea when rei turns to you again, eyes bright.

“come,” rei says gently. “i want to show you something.”

touya flinches immediately. “no.”

rei pauses. “you don’t know what i’m showing.”

“yes, i do,” he says flatly. “and no.”

she smiles at him the way mothers do when resistance has already been accounted for. “it will only take a moment.”

you hesitate, glancing between them. “i— um—”

rei takes your hand lightly, already guiding you toward the sitting room. “it’s nothing important,” she says. “just memories.”

“mom,” touya warns behind you. “i am begging you.”

that’s when you know it’s already over.

she sits you down and pulls out a worn photo album, opening it with careful hands.

“oh.”

the first photo is bad. the second is worse.

touya, mid-tantrum, arms crossed, face scrunched in fury— caught forever in the act of being dramatically upset about something no one remembers.

you choke on a laugh. “you looked like a little— something. i don't know what, but something..”

touya groans from the doorway. “well get this, idiot, i was a child.”

rei hums. “a very expressive one.”

“that picture is not for public viewing,” touya snaps. trying to snatch away that damn photo album from your grip.

you glance up at him, grinning and dodging all of his pathetic attempts. “aww, but you were adorable.”

he points at you. “do not side with her.”

and that’s when you realize you absolutely can.

you turn back to rei, instantly softening your expression, hands folding together like you’ve never argued a day in your life.

“i’m sorry,” you say sweetly. “i just think it’s really precious that he was so… passionate.”

touya stares. “you are lying.”

rei smiles at you like she sees exactly what you’re doing— and approves.

“he was,” she agrees warmly. “very passionate.”

you nod earnestly. “you can tell he cared a lot.”

touya exhales sharply. “it's like everyone's against me..”

rei flips another page.

you lean in closer, eyes bright and entirely unrepentant.

and watching you laugh with his mother— comfortable and unafraid— touya realizes something far worse than embarrassment has occurred.

you’re winning.

which meant that it was time for you to go.

“you should probably head out,” he says, already standing like this has been decided. “it’s late.”

"oh, right. i'm so sorry for keeping you so long, dear." rei hums thoughtfully. “touya will walk you home.”

you wave your hands infront of your face, not wanting rei to apologize. “oh— really, it’s okay. i can—”

“she can literally swing across the city,” touya cuts in, gesturing at you. “with webs. on buildings. she’ll be fine.”

rei looks at him. just once.

touya opens his mouth. closes it immediately. and you bite back a smile.

“i don’t mind walking,” you offer, entirely innocent. “if it’s not too much trouble, touya...”

he glares at you. “you’re enjoying this.”

rei smiles at both of you. “be back soon.”

it’s not a request.

five minutes later, you’re standing outside the todoroki estate again— cool night air, city lights humming in the distance— with touya beside you.

“unbelievable,” he mutters.

you glance at him as you bend down to tie your shoes. “what?”

“she knows you can get home on your own,” he says. “this is on purpose.”

you shrug, stifling a laugh. “mothers know best.”

touya scoffs— but doesn’t argue, just shoves you softly into the direction of the road.

and as you start down the quiet street together, you realize this is the first time you’ve been alone with him outside of work.

“y'know,” you say casually, “you’re not that bad when your mom’s around.”

touya snorts. “wow. high praise coming from you.”

“i’m serious,” you add, glancing at him. “she keeps you in check.”

he shoots you a look. “she absolutely does not.”

“you behaved,” you hum. “almost no arguing. no commentary. barely any attitude.”

“that’s because she raised me,” he mutters, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. (well it was..)

“and yet,” you continue, undeterred, “i still get this.. version.”

he smirks. “yeah? lucky you.”

you bump his shoulder lightly as you walk. “so what, you save the asshole personality just for me?”

"mm. special treatment just for you, babe." which earned him a harder nudge from you.

after giving him a quick 'ew', you walk a few steps in silence, then slow just enough to glance at him sideways.

“hey,” you start.

"what now?" touya sighs. “you're even more talkative tonight.”

“you said i looked… normal,” you continue, like this just occurred to you.

he stiffens. just barely. “and?”

you tilt your head, innocent. “you think i just looked normal?” he doesn’t answer right away. so you push. “not even a little pretty?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m just asking,” you say lightly. “i got dressed up and everything.”

“that sweater was.. fine.”

“fine,” you repeat. “woww.”

he scratches the back of his neck, irritation creeping in. “you want a performance review now?”

you grin. "yeah sure, why not?"

he exhales, looking straight ahead. “you looked good. okay?”

you beam. “good?”

“stop smiling,” he snaps.

you don’t.

the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.

and that’s the thing— you weren’t really fishing for the compliment.

you just wanted to see if he’d give it to you. and he did.

you let the moment stretch just long enough to be annoying.

“so,” you say, hands behind your back, walking a little slower now. “you do know how to give compliments.”

he side-eyes you. “don’t get used to it.”

“oh, i absolutely am,” you reply. “i’ll mark it down even. ‘touya todoroki— capable of basic decency when pressed.’”

he huffs. “you had your ego fed. move on.”

“can’t,” you say cheerfully. “i’m savoring it.”

he shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth now— one he doesn’t bother hiding. “careful,” he says. “you keep this up and i might start returning the favor.”

you glance at him. “that a threat?”

“a promise.”

your grin widens.

and that’s when it hits you— this isn’t just bickering anymore. it’s lighter. like you’re both in on the joke.

and speaking of jokes, yours doesn’t last long.

because endeavor and his sidekicks are called away on a short business trip not even a week later.

however, the invitation doesn't get cancelled.

a formal dinner. high-profile. cameras guaranteed. the kind of thing that requires a polished front and a reliable stand-in.

unfortunately, that stand-in ends up being you and touya todoroki.

which means, for once, you can’t afford to be the two bickering idiots everyone’s gotten used to. you had to behave.

later that night, touya stands alone in his room, staring at his phone with your contact open. meanwhile, you're doing your hair and getting all dolled up until your phone buzzes.

Touya (smartass): u alive

You: define alive

Touya (smartass): nervous?

You: i am not i am prepared

Touya (smartass): u convincing me or urself

You: u've done this before i havent... these people eat each other alive for fun

Touya (smartass): oh yeah they're worse in daylight

You: ?? why are u trying to scare me even more hello

Touya (smartass): relax its js dinner no ones expecting anything from you

You: they absolutely are??? i'm the foreign hero crawling on walls swinging from building to building and an accent

Touya (smartass): theyll forget about all that in 5 minutes

You: how do you know

Touya (smartass): because i'll be there

You: wow hogging the spotlight as usual how comforting thanks

Touya (smartass): if anyone gives you trouble i'll handle it

you bite your lip, holding back a smile.

You: since when are you reassuring

Touya (smartass): yeah yeah don't make a thing out of it

You: shit there goes my plans for next week

Touya (smartass): hush be ready in 20 omw

you barely finish fastening your necklace when the sound hits. a low, aggressive rev tearing down your driveway— unapologetic and very much impossible to miss. “…of course.”

there’s no need to look out the window. you already know. no one else announces their arrival like that.

you grab your bag, do one last check in the mirror— hair in place, makeup settled, perfume lingering just enough to feel intentional— and head downstairs just as the engine cuts.

when you step outside, the car is exactly what you expect. sleek. expensive. entirely unnecessary.

and leaning against it— the man himself, touya todoroki.

suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie slightly loosened like he never learned how to wear it properly, blue eyes flicking up the second he sees you. he straightens when he sees you, just a little.

he isn't staring. or gawking. just.. looking, like the sight of you caught him off guard.

“okay,” he says finally, voice a little rougher than before. “yeah.”

“yeah?” you echo.

“just get in the car.”

then, like an afterthought, he holds out the bouquet— your favorite flowers.

you blink. once. twice. “…wow,” you say slowly. “am i being kidnapped or are you picking me up for prom?”

he scoffs. “relax. my mom made me.”

“uh-huh,” you reply, taking the flowers anyway. “so the sports car was her idea too?”

“that part was mine.”

you lift the bouquet slightly. “how'd you know these were my favorite?”

he shrugs. “take it or don’t.”

you smile, soft but smug. “oh, i’m taking it. i just want you to know i’m never letting you live this down.”

he opens the passenger door for you begrudgingly, but real. “get in,” he mutters. “before you make this weird.”

you slide into the seat, flowers in your lap, still grinning. “too late. you brought me flowers.”

then, he shuts the door a little harder than necessary, circling to the driver’s side. as he gets in, he glances over at you. “…you look nice,” he adds, quieter.

you glance back at him, eyebrows lifting. “just nice?”

he starts the car. “don’t push it.”

you laugh, settling back as the engine roars to life again.

the ride was short, all noise and motion, until the car pulls to a stop and the world seems to expand all at once.

in front of you, the hotel is excessive in the way only places meant for important people ever are— too much glass, too much light, doors tall enough to make you feel like you should’ve prepared an apology before stepping through them. the kind of place that doesn’t just host events, but expects something from you.

you slow without meaning to.

it’s stupid, really. you’ve faced villains, cameras, crowds that pressed in close enough to steal your breath. but this— this is quiet, polished, waiting. your heels crunch softly against the gravel path, fingers tightening around your purse like it might anchor you.

touya catches it.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just adjusts his pace so you’re walking together again, close enough that you’re aware of him without looking. then, casually— “don’t psych yourself out,” he says. “s'just a building. i'm here with ya'.”

you glance up at the towering doors. “..that was almost sweet.”

"don't tell anyone." he replies sarcastically, giving you a small nudge towards the door.

and suddenly, you’re inside it.

warmth washes over you first— the hum of voices, the clink of glasses, the low swell of music threading through the space like it belongs there. the interior is just as excessive as the outside promised. marble floors, soft gold lighting, ceilings that feel impossibly high. everything gleams. everything echoes. and everyone is important.

pro heroes clustered together in polished groups, recognizable even out of costume. agency representatives with practiced smiles and sharp eyes. business partners laughing a little too loudly, already comfortable in a space like this.

it’s a sea of familiarity you don’t quite share, faces turning as you pass, curiosity flickering in quick, assessing glances.

you feel it settle between your shoulder blades. the awareness.

before you can think too hard about it, a waiter glides past, tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. glasses of champagne catch the light, bubbles rising innocently.

you don’t hesitate.

you reach out, pluck one from the tray, and bring it to your lips like it’s instinct. survival, really.

a sip. then another.

you exhale, tension easing just a fraction as the fizz hits your tongue. there is absolutely no way you’re doing this completely sober.

“bold move,” touya murmurs beside you.

you glance at him over the rim of the glass. “self-preservation.”

he hums. “it’s barely alcohol.”

you take another sip, pointedly slower this time. “then i’ll just have to pace myself aggressively.”

his mouth twitches. “you’re already planning your downfall.”

around you, conversations swell and dip. laughter brushes past your ears. someone across the room says touya’s name, recognition lighting their expression.

your grip tightens briefly around the stem of the glass.

you lean a little closer to him without realizing it. “please tell me they won’t all try to talk to us at once.”

touya smirks. “oh, they will.”

it doesn’t take long for touya to get pulled into conversation.

not far— never far— but enough that the space around you thickens, bodies shifting and voices overlapping, the room reorganizing itself around people who know exactly where they belong. touya does. he always has.

he moves easily, answering questions, smiling when it’s expected, nodding in that practiced way that says i’ve done this before.

you stay close, close enough that your fingers catch on the rim of his sleeve, knuckles brushing fabric as you follow half a step behind him. you tell yourself it’s practical. easy to lose someone in a crowd like this. but every time he shifts forward, your hand tightens without thinking.

he doesn’t say anything— if anything, he subtly adjusts his pace so you don’t have to.

eventually, someone else joins the circle. older. well-dressed in that expensive, self-satisfied way. his smile is broad and curious, eyes flicking between you and touya with open appraisal.

“todoroki,” the man says warmly. “good to see you again.”

“likewise,” touya replies, pleasant.

the man’s gaze drifts to you. lingers. “and you must be the lucky companion.”

your shoulders tense, and before you can speak, he chuckles. “really outdid yourself,” he adds, voice dropping conspiratorially. “bagging a doll like this.”

his hand lifts, casual, reaching—

you lean back instinctively, discomfort blooming sharp and sudden. your fingers tighten at touya’s sleeve, grip betraying you before you can stop it.

touya notices. his smile doesn’t change.

but he steps just slightly to the side, placing himself between you and the man in a way that looks accidental to anyone not paying attention.

“ah,” touya says mildly, head tilting. “she’s not a prize.”

the man laughs awkwardly. “i meant no offense.”

“i’m sure,” touya replies easily. “still— best not to touch people you haven’t been introduced to.” his tone is polite. conversational. the kind that sounds reasonable enough to be unimpeachable.

the man hesitates, then lowers his hand. “of course. my mistake.”

touya nods once, satisfied. “happens.”

the conversation stumbles after that, momentum lost. within moments, someone else draws the man’s attention away, and the space around you loosens again.

touya doesn’t look at you right away, nor does he bring it up again. he just shifts back into place, close enough that your arm brushes his.

it turns out the compliments don’t stop. if anything, they multiply.

people are kinder than you expect— smiles genuine, voices warm as they take you in, eyes lighting up like they’ve just connected a headline to a person. they tell you the dress looks incredible on you. that it suits you. that you clean up dangerously well.

you laugh, a little breathless. thank them. wave it off. but inside, you’re glowing and mortified all at once.

every compliment lands like a spark, lighting up your chest and making your smile too wide, your hands restless. you keep ducking your head, brushing hair behind your ear like it might hide the way your cheeks feel warm. “you’re too kind,” you say for what feels like the tenth time.

someone laughs. “i’m serious. you look stunning tonight.”

you freeze for half a second, then laugh again, softer this time. “okay, okay— i get it.”

you edge closer to touya without really thinking about it, shoulder bumping lightly into his arm. not because you’re uncomfortable—just because it’s easier to hide your face when he’s there.

“you’re blushing,” he murmurs, barely moving his lips.

you groan under your breath. “do not say that out loud.”

he smirks. “hard not to notice.”

another compliment comes— your hair this time, the way it frames your face— and you laugh again, shaking your head, half-turning so your cheek brushes his shoulder.

“please,” you mutter. “i’m going to start believing them.”

he glances down at you. “what’s wrong with that?”

you look up at him, caught off guard. “…nothing.”

someone nearby comments on how well you two look together. you don’t even register it fully— you’re too busy trying to cool your face, fingers curling into the fabric of touya’s sleeve as you hide a smile.

he doesn’t tease you for it. just shifts closer, like it’s natural. like it’s nothing.

your dress really is a killer, judging by the attention— but standing there, half-turned into him, laughter bubbling up every time someone says something too nice— you don’t feel overwhelmed.

just a little dazzled. and maybe… enjoying it more than you’d ever admit.

by the end of the night, you are absolutely not okay.

the hotel fades behind you in a blur of warm lights and polite goodbyes you barely remember making. you’re guided more than you’re walking, heels clicking unevenly against the pavement as cool night air finally hits your face.

you laugh at something. you’re not sure what.

the car door opens, and you practically melt into the seat, bouquet long (but safely) abandoned somewhere between your knees and the floor.

“wow,” you sigh, staring at the ceiling. “cars are.. so..”

there’s a pause.

then touya closes the door a little more carefully than necessary and circles to the driver’s side.

“how many glasses did you have,” he asks flatly once he’s seated.

you squint at him. “define… many.”

he starts the engine. “that’s not reassuring.”

you giggle, leaning sideways in your seat, head bumping lightly against the window. “everyone kept refilling them. and i didn’t want to be rude. that would be—” you pause, very serious. “diplomatically bad.”

“uh-huh.”

“also,” you continue, pointing vaguely at him, “you kept saying ‘just one more’.”

“i did not.”

“you did,” you insist. “with your eyes.”

he snorts. “yeah, no, i really didn't.”

you grin at that, wide and unapologetic, then suddenly lean forward like you’ve just remembered something very important. “did you see that guy,” you say, whispering loudly, “who tripped over nothing?”

“…yes.”

“must be the work of the dark reunion,” you conclude, nodding to yourself.

the car pulls away from the curb, city lights stretching into long streaks outside the window. you hum under your breath, some partynextdoor song that was playing on the car speakers, hands moving as if you’re conducting an invisible orchestra.

touya glances over. “what are you doing.”

“enhancing the ambiance.”

“please stop enhancing.”

you laugh again, softer this time, then sink back into the seat, eyelids fluttering as the motion of the car lulls you just enough to make everything fuzzy around the edges.

after a moment, you mumble, “y'know… you were very cool tonight.”

he raises a brow. “yeah?”

“very,” you nod seriously. “like… socially competent. proud of you.”

he exhales through his nose. “thrilled to hear that.”

you turn your head toward him, eyes heavy but bright. “also you’re gonna have to walk me inside.”

“obviously.”

“because,” you add thoughtfully, “i don’t trust stairs.”

he smirks. “smart.”

you smile to yourself, words tangling together as the city hums around you, champagne still fizzing somewhere behind your eyes.

by the time you’re pulling into your driveway, you’re halfway slumped against the door, laughing quietly at a joke you never quite finish telling.

touya shuts off the engine and looks at you, expression softening just a fraction.

“…you had fun,” he says.

you nod, slow and earnest. “yeah.”

and somehow, that makes the whole night worth it.

although the car's come to a stop, you just sit there, fingers still curled around nothing, staring out the windshield like if you don’t acknowledge it, the night won’t end.

“we’re here,” touya says.

you hum. “i know.” you make no effort to open the door.

he watches you for a second, unimpressed. “you gonna get out, orr are we living here now.”

you turn slowly to look at him. squint. “i don’t want to.”

he sighs, already unbuckling. “yeah. figured.”

you barely protest when he comes around to your side, barely manage to stand on your own before you’re swaying, balance clearly optional at this point. he steadies you immediately, arm firm around your waist.

“easy,” he mutters. “you’re not indestructible.”

“but i'm like spiderman,” you mumble, forehead briefly resting against his chest like it belongs there.

he freezes. then exhales. “come on.”

you make it inside mostly on autopilot. the stairs are… offensive. rude, even. you stare at them like they’ve personally wronged you.

“nope,” you decide.

“yep,” he replies.

next thing you know, you’re being lifted, feet leaving the ground, arms instinctively hooking around his neck. “touya..,” you protest weakly.

“shh,” he says. “don’t fight it.”

you do not fight it.

he carries you up the stairs like it’s nothing, like you don’t weigh anything at all, and you’re too busy watching his jaw flex to comment on it.

your room comes into focus in pieces— the soft glow of a lamp, familiar sheets, the faint scent of you everywhere.

he sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, movements careful despite the way his grip tightens like he’s relieved to finally have you still.

“stay,” he tells you, already crouching to slip your heels off. you watch him like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

he reaches for your makeup wipes on your desk, then pauses, assessing you.

“hold still,” he says, cupping your chin and having you look up at him.

“why.”

"want me to take your makeup off or what?"

"oh, right..."

he’s careful as he wipes away your makeup, gentle in a way that feels illegal. you try to keep your eyes open. fail. let them flutter shut instead.

“you’re very close to my face,” you murmur.

"have to see if i'm doing a good job."

when he’s done, he straightens, clearly intending to leave now that you’re settled— safe, shoes off, tucked in like you belong there. he turns toward the door.

“wait.”

he stops, hand hovering near the frame. “what.”

you push yourself up on your elbows, suddenly solemn, eyes glossy but intent. “i have to tell you a secret.”

he squints. “right now?”

you nod seriously. “yes. very important.”

he hesitates, then leans in anyway. “okay. what.”

you don’t whisper.

instead, you tilt forward and press a soft, clumsy kiss right onto his cheek. your lipstick leaves its mark immediately— warm and unmistakable.

he freezes.

you pull back just enough to look at him, smiling lazily. “you looked really handsome tonight,” you say, voice low and earnest. “like… really handsome.”

his breath catches, barely audible.

“…you’re drunk,” he says again, like he needs the reminder.

“maybe,” you shrug. “but i’m not lying.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t wipe the lipstick away. just stays there for a second longer than necessary, eyes unreadable, heart probably doing something annoying behind his ribs.

finally, he straightens. “get some sleep.”

you nod, already sinking back into the pillows, eyelids heavy. “don’t forget to wash your face,” you mumble. “you have a kiss.”

he snorts quietly.

and when the door closes behind him, it’s gentle— like he’s afraid of waking you, even though you’re already halfway asleep, smiling at a moment you won’t fully remember in the morning.

but he will.

and unfortunately for him, he’s reminded far earlier than he expects.

the todoroki household is still lit when he gets back— warm lights glowing through the windows, the quiet hum of a night that hasn’t quite wound down yet. it’s not unusual. friday nights tend to stretch.

he steps inside, toeing off his shoes, already halfway through shrugging out of his suit jacket.

“welcome home,” rei says gently.

touya looks up.

his mother is standing just a few steps away, hands folded, expression soft and familiar— until her eyes lift to his face. she pauses. just briefly.

then she smiles. slow, knowing.

“you had a nice evening,” she says. it’s not a question, he can tell. "dinner went well?"

touya frowns. “yeah. why—”

rei tilts her head, studying him the way only a mother can. then, without warning, she reaches up and brushes her thumb lightly against his cheek which causes him to stiffen.

she pulls her hand back. there’s a faint pink smudge on her thumb.

his stomach drops. “…oh,” he mutters, before dragging a hand down his face. “you were waiting for that.”

“i wasn’t,” she replies, stifling her laugh. “but i am glad i didn’t miss it.”

“she was drunk,” he adds quickly.

rei hums knowingly. and from the couch, a quiet click cuts through the moment.

touya whips his head around.

fuyumi is holding her phone, eyes wide and delighted. “oh my god.”

natsuo leans over her shoulder. “no way. zoom in.”

another click.

“delete that,” touya snaps.

“absolutely not,” fuyumi says cheerfully. “this is history.”

shoto looks up from where he’s been sitting quietly, gaze landing on touya’s cheek. he blinks once. “…you have lipstick on your face,”

touya groans. “i am aware.”

fuyumi gasps. “wait— stay still, the lighting’s better—”

that’s it.

touya bolts.

he’s halfway up the stairs before anyone can stop him, muttering curses under his breath, jacket abandoned, dignity left somewhere near the front door.

behind him, laughter fills the house.

rei watches him disappear, smile soft and satisfied. “drive safely next time,” she calls after him.

from upstairs, a door slams.

fuyumi looks at her phone again, grinning. “i’m sending this to the group chat.”

rei chuckles quietly. “be kind.”

“i am being kind,” fuyumi replies. “i cropped it nicely.”

and somewhere in his room, touya stares at his reflection, finally wiping the lipstick away— way too late.

because some things, once seen, are never forgotten.

hello im back after like a week DOES THIS NEED A PT2 THOOO THIS WAS WAYYY TOO LONG, i used up all my braincells writing this

秦彻 SYLUS QIN

It’s all a blur—the cramps twisting inside you, your head spinning, vision blurring. The gun slips from your shaking hand, but Sylus doesn’t notice that. He notices the way your scent changes, sweet and sharp, his pupils shrinking in horror before widening with something worse.

You barely hear him call your name before glass shatters and his Evol drags you both out of danger.

Fuck. This wasn’t how he was supposed to find out you weren’t a beta. You’d been so careful—suppressants doubled, routine perfected—but you hadn’t accounted for a high-risk mission throwing your cycle off balance.

“Pheromones,” you croak, clutching your stomach, curling fetal in the passenger seat.

He doesn’t hesitate. Soon, the car is heavy with his presence. His pheromones wrap around you—warm like a leather jacket left in the sun, like the earth after rain, rich and grounding. Your cramps dull…for a moment. Until they hit again.

“Please. m’sorry,” you murmur, guiding his hand to your cunt, soaking through your pants.

“Kitten.” His jaw is tight—warning—or pleading—it’s impossible to tell apart.

“For fuck’s sake, Sylus. Please.”

That’s all it takes. His hand shoves into your pants, sliding two fingers in while the other stays on the wheel.

“Fucking soaked,” he grunts, his pheromones thickening as your cunt holds him in a hot grip.  

He groans once more as you clamp tight. “Heat suppressants. Is that why this is that bad?”

You give him a look. But he just curls his fingers in you, making a whorish moan rip from your throat. “Fuck—fuck me. please.” You cling to his arm like a lifeline.

“Sweetie.” His brows furrow but God he’s so hard at that. “Do you realise what you’re saying?”

“Just shut up—for once and listen to me.” your jaw tightens as you hold back a sob.

It’s how you’re on his bed, pants off, the angry tip of his cock already dragging between your soaked lips. his face is close to your hot one, his arms secured around your arched body.

His cock slips into you. he pushes forward once—his delicious weight crushing your body. And the draaaaag of his stupidly thick dick along your pulsating walls—ohhh—

“Sy—!” a weak moan escapes you as you cum around him.

“Already, kitten? I’ve barely filled you.” he cradles your face as your eyes open. Your hips rock once, pushing his head deeper.

He sighs, and lifts off you. you nearly whimper at the lack of his skin against yours. But soon, his pheromones come alive, drowning you. his hand snakes below you knee, hooking it up and pressing it way back to your chest.

“Now that you’ve come to,” he drawls, pulling his hips back until only his tip remains. “Let us begin.” And with that, he surges forward, filling you in one long stroke.

You mouth hangs open as you fall limp under him, your cheek wet from drool. Your cramps have dulled and there’s only the pressure of his dick filling your womb so perfectly at each brutal snap of his hips to yours.

Your body rocks at each thrust. Strings of whimpers fall from your mouth as he fucks you. You don’t know if you’re imagining it but his pheromones tickle your skin like they have a mind of their own. How long had you been suppressing your heat?

“Stay with me.” Sylus grips your chin, his cock never stopping its heavenly abuse.

“mmpph—please more,” where do you find the audacity, truly?

He chuckles darky until he pulls back and thrusts hard. “ah—hah yes fucking perfect!”

His finger finds your clit, just keeping it there, still, it has your body quivering. He buries himself to the hilt once and spills into you with a deep groan.  

And as if your womb has a brain of its own—you cum with him. Just at the taste of his cum.

“Your pheromones are going haywire.” He rasps, eyes closing briefly. You’re so ferally horny that even the syllables he articulates has your pussy fluttering around him. Why wouldn’t you though? Sylus had always been such an alluring alpha. And now that he’s bred you, you wanted more.

…you wanted his knot.

Yeah, you’ve lost your mind.

“Tightening around me,” he groans low in chest, keeping you full of his dick, kissing your womb each time. “If you keep this up, I might knot you.”

“Do it,” you feel him throb inside you. Hard. Like he was swelling—

“don’t—” he bites his tongue, nostrils flaring as he tries to calm the way his blood pumps to his cock. He gives you another thrust regardless—before his energy links slither around your body, flipping you on your stomach.

You whine. But he has to. If he doesn’t—if you keep your slutty mouth running—you’re gonna have a thick knot swelling in you, plugging you and keeping you full of his warm cum.

his hand snakes around your throat, bringing your face back close to his. Your back is arched, ass flush against his hips as his cock drives deeper into your pliant hole. Already overstimulated from finishing so wildly.

“g-god sy—too deep—please!”

“Why did you lie?” his thrusts turn punishing. Sharp.

“I—ngh! Thought you didn’t want a weak partner.” His fingers curls around your neck. Your face feels hotter now. Your thighs press together as you inch closer to cumming hard on his heavy cock again.

“Weak?” he nearly spits those words out. “Kitten. You’re the last person on this planet I’d describe as weak.”

His hand comes down again, to find your clit. His cock screws into you with precision. Making your gummy walls pulsate happily around him.

“fuuuuck. fuck sylus!” you cry out.

“Alpha, beta or omega. It doesn’t fucking matter to me. you’ll always be the strongest woman in my life. And you’re the only one I’d want by my side.”

You’re soaking up the sheets at this point. Your juices spilling and spilling endlessly.

“cum for me.” his lips trace the shell of your ear, before biting your earlobe. And that’s it. You cum around him. Desperately. Pathetically.

Pussy wringing him for his cum. Begging to be bred full. And he gives you. Loads and loads and loads of his cum. It doesn’t stop. And your pussy doesn’t let up on milking him until he’s completely dry.

“You’ll spend your heat cycles with me from now on.”

Who are you to argue.

夏以昼 CALEB XIA

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You thought you could skip your heat suppressants this month. Your doctor had listed all the side effects of the pills. So maybe since you were all alone this weekend, you could let your body be for once. Caleb wasn’t coming over this week. Or so he said.

But here he was, outside your door.

How were you supposed to know he was planning a surprise?

You can’t stop your pheromones. you can’t pretend Caleb’s not knocking on your door and louder now that he can smell your essence flowing through.

“you got an omega in there?” the knocks get insistent. Shit.

“y-yeah. just—just leave for today, okay?” you lie through clenched teeth, one arm over the couch for support. Did you truly think this would repel him?

The door opens. When did he get the key—

The minute his eyes fall on you, he freezes in horror. “no fucking way…” he breathes.

“Caleb I—lets discuss this—” you tremble, falling to the ground. He rushes to crouch beside you. Caleb’s pheromones come alive in response to your wild ones. He has to hold his breath to keep himself in check. And you sense it. His restraint. The only way to escape the interrogation is—

Your lips crash to his, and it doesn’t even take him a second to devour you right back.

“make it stop. Please.” Your hand trails down, low to his hard on. Of course.

That pretty much seals your fate. He lifts you with one hand, and within ten paces he’s putting you on the bed.

He’s on you, nose buried in the crook of your neck, drinking in that sweet scent you keep spilling.

“fuck is this what you needed? An alpha to make it all go away?” his hand traverses down, between your legs where you keep oozing your love juices. You whimper at his words, back arching with need.

“caleb please—”

“you think you’re in the place to make demands pips?” he murmurs darkly. And then you feel it. The way his cock springs free and hits your stomach. Hot and heavy and—you look down—leaking precum that makes your cunt spasm. He taps your clit with the angry red head of his cock.

Before you can let out the whimper stuck in your throat, he pushes in.

“ohh—oh please—” your legs spread wider to accommodate him to no avail. He’s too big. Filling you up too much. Your walls are forced to open for him. “too—hic—big!”

He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust before he’s driving into you again, tits bouncing at each hard thrust, allll the way back out and then alllll the way in. your jaw falls slack, eyes glazed with need.

“pretty pussy takin me so well though, baby.” He leans back, watching his dick get smothered in your juices as it keeps disappearing in your little hole.

His finger finds your clit, wetting it with all the mess you dribble out around his cock.

“hngh—! Cale—”

“why’d you hide it from me?” he asks, yanking you closer by your thighs.

“you’d—mmph—treat me like a baby—” your eyes flutter shut as he slams his cock right against your sweet spot buried deep in your gummy walls.

“like what? Do things for you?” he smirks, his thumb teasing your hole as his cock stretches it. “don’t you like it? Me spoiling you?” he groans to himself at it.

You manage to shake your head even as every thought gets fucked out of you.

“no?” he stops abruptly and you whine so pathetically that it reverses each statement of self-respect you’ve made.

You feel weightless as his evol lifts you and places you on him, slamming you back down on his cock. “Well go ahead. Show me how much you hate it when I do the work.”

Your thighs shake as you attempt to move. You try to move. To prove something. But your legs quake, your body burns, and you end up grinding helplessly against him. Not deep enough. Not full enough.

“Fuck, Caleb—”

He cups your face, brings you nose-to-nose.

“Just say it,” he whispers. “Say you need me.” you nod erratically at that.

Wet thwops echoing as he fucks up into you, bullying your hole into swallowing him deeper. “ohmygod—mmfuck!” your head lolls back, eyes shut as he drives into you from below. One sharp thrust and it has you pulsing around him as you cum.

One more thrust and he’s spurting ropes of his cum into you. but then…

“ca—caleb—?!” he grows. His cock gets bigger, and you pussy keeps milking it as his knot swells inside you.

“sorry pips. I need to.” He groans deep as his knot keeps all the thick seed in you—plugged. He lasts only a moment until he’s grinding you on his knot.

“hahh! Istoomuch!” his knot probes your g spot, and the more he grinds, the more it massages that spot making you see fuckin stars even though you’re mad overstimulated, pussy still fluttering in the aftershocks. Tears fall free now.

“Take it. Cum ‘round my knot, baby.” He grunts, pulling you against him, his knot shifting to a delicious angle, pressing so perfectly against that swollen spot—your pussy just dumbly clamping around him, sensitive from all that overuse.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles.

“gonna cum—hah—again, pips. You’re gonna take it like a good girl, riight?” his eyes fall on the bulge that forms in your lower tummy. “fuck, you ready to be bred?”

Your nod’s barely a tremor, but it’s enough. He grips your hips, thrusting up hard, deep, relentless. Wet, obscene sounds fill the room. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and shattering, and his follows—hot and heavy—until you feel it.

And after hours, your heat finally tames into dull cramps.

Maybe having Caleb find out wasn’t as bad as you had thought.

沈星回 XAVIER SHEN

The Association knew your ABO type. Not your cute coworker-slash-neighbour living upstairs. And really, you hadn’t even lied. When he’d assumed you were a beta, you’d simply… not corrected him. A harmless omission.

Until one day, your heat hits. The consecutive missions had been weighing on your mind. Enough to make you forget to take your heat suppressants for the month.

You’d shut all the windows, even taped the edges halfway before a worse wave of cramps hit and you had to curl in fetal on the couch. And as you’re trying to take controlled breaths, you see a basket being lowered onto your balcony. Curiosity drives you toward it.

it’s from Xavier. Painkillers, lavender essential oil and a note. Fuckin hell he knows.

I had some painkillers at home. and the other stuff. Hope it is helpful.

And so, one thing leads to another and you’re begging him to come downstairs.

He has you close to him—back pressed against yours, hands in your panties and two of his fingers in your cunt.

“Xavier… this isn’t helping.” You croak helplessly, hips grinding back against him. You hear him suck in a sharp breath. His pheromones start feeling thicker now.

“you want my cock?” it’s a sultry whisper in your ear. Far from innocent.

“y-yes…”

Your panties are slid aside as the blunt head of his cock teases your hole, coating his own cock in your warm syrup—before slipping in, making you stretch open around him inch by inch.

You whimper into the pillow when he buries himself to the hilt.

“m’so full.” You mewl, hips chasing it.

“and you still want more?” he raises a brow behind you. “okay.”

And he drives back in. filling you once more. Your thighs tremble, pressing together as he fucks you slow and deep. The angle makes your head spin. He’s nestled against that deep spot so well that you’re already close.

Still, you whimper for more—restless. For that itchy emptiness in your womb to be filled. His palm rests on the side of your waist as he leans close, making the head of his cock shift closer to where you want him.

“what’re you begging for?” his voice is low whisper in your ear.

“wanna-wanna be filled.” You manage. You feel him halt for a moment before he hikes up a thigh. You yelp in surprise but he’s already pounding the blunt head of his cock back into your gummy walls.

“hngh—Xav-Xavier.” You babble incoherently the minute he kisses your cervix. His essence comes alive, encompassing you as he brands you with his cock over and over again.

By the time he slows his pace, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum or how many times he’s filled you full.

Xavier pulls out, only to see your walls push out his creamy spend in a weak pulse. The sound you make is barely human. He exhales something rough, something that sounds like he’s losing the last thread of restraint he ever had.

His thumb presses lightly to your swollen rim, puffy pussy lips tingling with need, circling it once as if testing how sensitive you are. The answer hits him immediately when your whole body jolts.

“…greedy,” he mutters under his breath, voice ragged. “You don’t want to let any of it go, do you?”

“mmh—no—please—”

Your hips twitch, your hand reaching back for him without thought. He catches your wrist, pins it to the small of your back, and watches another bead of slick roll down your thigh.

Then he pushes two fingers back inside you.

You gasp, going taut around them, sucking them in like your pussy recognizes him now and refuses to let him go. His fingers curl, gathering the creamy mess he left inside you and nudging it deeper, deeper to your womb.

“you’re—,” he murmurs, leaning over your spine, his breath hot against your ear. “Still clenching. You’re not done.”

Your breath stutters. “Xavier… please… need—”

“You need me to keep you full,” he finishes for you, like he’s reading straight out of your instincts. He withdraws his fingers, slick and dripping, and you feel the heavy drag of his cock settle between your thighs again. Thicker now. Harder, if that’s even possible.

He guides himself back to your messy pussy lips, tapping lightly against your overstimulated hole before pushing the head in, slow enough to make your eyes cross. The stretch burns in the sweetest way, your walls fluttering as they try to pull him deeper.

“Good,” he whispers when you moan. “Open for me.”

Your legs fall apart on instinct.

He shoves in with a single, unhesitating thrust.

Your mewl against the pillow as his hips mold flush to yours, your body accepting him like it’s starved for it. His chest presses to your back, trapping you under him as his hand slides under your lower belly, holding you in place while he grinds deeper, deeper, deeper—

“Stay like this,” he says against your neck. “I’m not stopping until your heat settles.”

You sob in blisfull agreement.

Xavier starts moving.

Slow at first. Deep enough that your toes curl with every roll of his hips. Then faster, his rhythm tightening into sharp, precise strokes that spear straight into that molten spot inside you. Your breath breaks, your vision shatters, and you’re already trembling before the next orgasm even crests.

Your body clamps around him so hard he groans into your skin, low.

“That’s it,” he hisses. “Keep milking me. You’re going to take all of it this time.”

His hand slides down, thumb working tight circles over your clit while he fucks you deeper, the bed shaking underneath both of you. Pressure coils so brutally that you’re practically ripped open by the pleasure when it hits, your walls spasming around him in relentless waves.

Xavier isn’t far behind. His pace stutters, his grip on your waist bruises, and with a groan that sounds dragged from the bottom of his lungs, he spills inside you again, thick and hot and endless.

Your body shudders, overstimulated and so full it aches.

Xavier breathes hard against your shoulder, but he doesn’t pull out. His fingers hold your hips steady, keeping every drop inside you.

“Not done,” he mumbles, voice a deep, exhausted rasp. “Your heat’s nowhere near finished.”

You whimper, already trembling under him. And he rolls his hips again.

祁煜 RAFAYEL QI

Your fork barely touches the plate before the first cramp hits. You try to school your face, but Rafayel’s eyes are on you instantly, bright and nosy as always.

“You good, cutie?” he drawls, tipping his head, curls falling over his cheek. “You look like you just saw your report card.”

You force a shaky laugh and wave him off. “Just… gas.”

He hums, unconvinced. Meanwhile, your heat is blooming too fast, rising under your skin, threatening to drag you under. Why weren’t the suppressants working well?

Another cramp snarls through your abdomen. You grip the table edge.

His eyes narrow. “Okay. That wasn’t a ‘gas’ thing. What’s going on?”

Your pulse skitters. You need relief. Something to anchor you. You swallow hard and manage, “Your… your pheromones. I just—what do they smell like, again?”

There’s a beat where he just blinks. Then his brows lift, slow, almost elegant.

“My pheromones,” he repeats. He leans in like a cat catching a scent trail. “You’ve been hiding something from me, miss bodyguard.”

The way he says it feels like a fingertip down your spine. You don’t answer. You can’t. Another wave hits and you shudder, breath hitching.

Rafayel’s expression shifts, his dramatic flair flickering into something sharper. Calmer. A tone you’ve never heard from him.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

It doesn’t take him much time to drive you back to his place. He carries you down the hall, pushes into his room, and sets you on the bed with a care that barely matches the tension in his body. The scent of him settles around you, curling warm and sweet, thick enough to make your thighs part on instinct.

Rafayel’s gaze drops between your legs, breath stuttering. “Cutie… your scent is driving me insane.”

Your heat spikes at the sound of his voice. You reach for him, dragging him in by his shirt. He kisses you immediately, deep and dizzying, his mouth soft but insistent as your body arches up against him. His pheromones hit you in a hot wave and you moan into his lips.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You do, chest rising and falling too fast, the need clawing through your skin. He slides his hands up your thighs, pushes your panties aside, and the moment the cooler air hits you, you gasp.

“cutiee,” he whispers, eyes darkening as slick gathers between your legs. “You’re already dripping.”

You try to squeeze your thighs together but he stops you, fingers pressing them open again. He leans down, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh… then settles right between your legs.

The first slow lick of his tongue makes your hips jump. The second pulls a broken sound from your throat. He sucks gently at your swollen clit, breath warm against you, one hand holding your thigh steady while the other slides under your ass to lift your hips closer to his mouth.

Your heat flares. Hard. Violent. You grab at his hair as your back arches off the bed.

“Rafa—Rafayel, I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His voice is thick, hungry. “You need this, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he flattens his tongue against you and pushes two fingers inside you. Your body clamps down instantly, drawing them deeper. The relief is so sharp you whimper, hips rocking helplessly.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you today, miss bodyguard.”

You fall apart on his fingers, pleasure hitting so fast you barely manage a gasp before the orgasm crashes over you. He doesn’t pull back. He keeps licking you through it, his spit mixing with the sweet syrup you ooze out. He keeps fucking you with his fingers until the overstimulation burns into need again.

You’re shaking when he finally lifts his head. His lips and chin are slick with you. His pupils blown wide.

“Round one.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls up your body, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your throat. “You’re not done, cutie.”

You barely register his clothes being pulled off him, his body settling over yours, his cock heavy and leaking against your soaked entrance. He cups your face, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone.

Your eyes meet his and his pheromones roll out in a deep, sweet rush that goes straight to your spine.

The second he pushes into you, your breath breaks. The stretch is intense, perfect, your walls gripping him so tight he groans against your ear.

“Warm… so warm…” His hips snap forward, burying him fully inside you. “suuuch a sweet pussy. Clinging so pathetically.”

You cling to him, heat twisting your nerves raw as he starts to thrust. Slow at first, deep enough to make your toes curl. Then faster, his grip tightening on your waist as he pounds into your syrupy cunt, every stroke hitting the spot that makes your vision blur.

Your legs lock around him. “ohhmmhhh ye—rafayel—ah—please—”

He catches your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning down until his forehead touches yours. “I know. Just take it. You need it reeal bad.”

His thrusts get sharper. Harder. The bed creaks. Sweat slicks your bodies together. The smell of your heat and his pheromones mixes into something thick, intoxicating. Your climax builds hot and brutal, tearing through you the moment his thumb drops to your clit.

You cry his name. Your poor cunt spasms around him. He groans, hips jerking as he presses as deep as your body will take him.

He fills you. Hot. Thick. Pulse after pulse until you’re trembling under him, stuffed full of his creamy goodness.

But he doesn’t soften.

He kisses your jaw, breath shaky. “That’s two.”

“wha—angh!”

His hips roll again, slow, deliberate, keeping everything inside you.

“You’re not done,” he whispers, licking into your mouth as he starts moving again. “Your heat wants more.”

And he gives it to you. Again. And again. Until the room smells like nothing but the two of you tangled in instinct and sweat and pleasure, until you lose count of rounds and the world narrows to the feeling of his body claiming yours until your heat finally, finally settles.

Rafayel collapses beside you, pulls you against his chest, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your hair, “just ask nicely, baby.”

黎深 ZAYNE LI

"breeding.”

—Is the last word you’d use with Zayne. much less ask for it. Yet here you are after his little pheromone outburst at the hospital. You’d lied about being a beta right from the beginning. Avoided the Akso hospital to get yourself checked, avoided Zayne half your high school after you bloomed late.

All because of one thing—like his evol, Zayne had a hard time containing his pheromones. and being a decently dominant alpha, his pheromones would often push omegas around him into heat.

As it did to you when you thought of visiting him to drop by lunch. The moment you entered his office, your knees weakened. Your stomach twisted in painful knots. and he—he had to rush you back home after learning everything. Even your unhealthy dosage of heat suppressants that you ingested each month because of him.

“I’m not leaving until you’re alright.” He kneels by your bed as you curl up in pain.

“s’not your f-faul-fuckinsonofa—” you breathe once as a cramp hits. “just leave. It’s—” a breath again “…fine.”

“untrue.” His jaw flexes. Adamant idiot. It’s the pain that makes your brain fry enough to forget all boundaries.

“breeding. Tha—aghh—! Is what’ll stop it.”

You don’t give him a chance to process before your lips are crashing with his. He freezes for a moment until he melts into it, slowly rising from the floor and onto the bed when you clutch his collar.

“there is a high chance this might result in unwanted—”

“I know. We’ll get me some pills.” You huff, guiding his hand to your soaked, hot cunt.

His wrist twists, catching yours. “are you certain?” his eyes are softer. Scared.

You nod. And then cup his face despite your womb internally punching you.

“of course.” With that, he pulls you on him, keeping you close, thighs against his knees.

His fingers find the edge of your panties, slipping through easily. Two fingers circle your entrance before pushing in. you grind on his lap. His hips lift for a moment, chasing that friction.

You whimper in pain and that’s what makes Zayne finally pull out his cock. Thick, heavy and so, sooo ready to ruin you.

But the moment you lift your hips to finally sink, your cramp hits.

“I’ve got you.” he murmurs, stroking your hair with one hand and the other guiding his leaky tip to your pussy.

Your hips roll once and you wince again. “stop.” His brows furrow in a silent correction.

“relax.” He murmurs as he eases into you, slowly, filling every inch sooo good that it has you whimpering. Your walls stretch around him inch by inch.

“zay—mmhh so—” your eyes roll back, mouth open.

He lets out a soft sound at the way you clutch around him so perfectly. Fit him like a fuckin glove.

His hips raise once. Testing. And judging by your already fucked out look, he thrusts harder this time. your nails dig into his shoulders as your own hips roll once the pain ebbs away giving way to molten pleasure.

Your walls flutter around him at each kiss of his cock to your overly welcoming womb.

“m’so close…” you whisper, burying your head into his neck, breathing in his scent that singlehandedly calms your pain. His fingers find your clit, rubbing taut circles on your swollen nub, smearing your arousal over it.

Your pussy keeps clamping around him tighter and tighter and tighter—

“c-cumming—ohhhmy—zaynee—” he fills you to the hilt, giving your syrupy, greedy walls something to milk.

And ohhh that you do. Enough to have him explode into you, filling you with hot ribbons of cum, making it cream around your hole—mixing with your honey.

He slowly sets you down are you come down from your high. But his cock is insistent. Still hard, still keeping you full of him.

“s’not enough—” your hand comes down to your stomach. But Zayne captures it, bringing it to his lips, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“then let me satisfy you.” He pulls back only to fill you up again.

Messy strings of his cum dribbles out of you, spilling onto the sheets. His hips move again, this time—pounding you.

Deep, looong strokes, each reaching the end of you and back out.

“hngh—m’too full—” you babble, moans stuck in your throat.

His hands part your thighs, hiking them up so your body can take him deeper if that were even possible.

Your walls flutter around him hungrily again with every deep thrust, your hips rolling on instinct as he fills you relentlessly. Strings of his cum mix with your arousal, dripping down the curve of your thighs, and the scent—his pheromones, his essence—wraps around you, making you all hot and coaxing you towards your orgasm.

“Zayne—mhh… s-so deep…” you whimper, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps moving, slow at first, then harder. A cocktail that messes your brain chemistry.

 Each stroke hits that perfect spot, and you sob, lost between pleasure and the ache that still lingers from your heat.

His hands move to your waist, holding you firmly, but gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, almost tender, brushing a strand of sweat-damp hair from your temple. “I wish I could control it—”

You shake your head weakly, lips parting in a soft moan. “S’not your fault… Zayne,” you breathe, tilting your head to kiss his jawline, tasting the mixture of him and yourself. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He groans softly at your confession, letting it wash over him before pressing back into you, hips snapping against yours with a fresh, deliberate force.

“cum for me, my sweet.” A kiss is planted to your temple. “please.” He adds softly as he reaches down to rub your clit, pushing you closer to your climax.

But he beats you to it. Breeding you full—once more—giving you everything you’ve begged for tonight. Still, he mumbles apologies, thrusting into you—pushing through his overstimulation. He nearly cries out when you cum around him for the last time tonight.

“let me help you through these henceforth.”