toyaluvr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. You did.

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

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

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

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

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

One… Two… Three…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s go back in time for a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widen. It was coming at you.

You hear your friends squeal.

Then— smack.

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

Ouch.

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

Yeah, you noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips at the reminder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.” He gives you an infuriating grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stifle a laugh, “Says who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Same thing.” Atsumu shrugs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should really stop jinxing yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bread with peanut butter,” Atsumu says immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… kinda…” your boyfriend admits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re just you.” Atsumu hums. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen?”

“Seen what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you 10:05 AM Are you on your way?

Atsumu replies ten minutes later.

atsushit 10:15 AM shit was that today?

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

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

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

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

atsushit 10:17 AM i have a shoot today

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

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

You regret it after you send it.

atsushit 10:20 AM why are you mad?

You felt a tick on your forehead. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

atsushit 10:23 AM sweets?

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

10:30 AM i can’t cancel my shoot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

You needed to get rid of these feelings fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that meant more tips for both you and Nishinoya.

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

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

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

“Y/N! GUESS WHAT I BROUGHT BACK?”

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

“Yuu, you’re finally back.”

“Yup! And look what I found!”

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

“W-what? Where did you get this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, let me handle it, Y/n!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a little bit.”

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

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

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

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

Your eye flinches.

Our?

He was barely ever here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OW!”

“Yuu! What the hell was that about?”

Nishinoya rubbed the back of his head, feigning innocence. 

“Huh? What was what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Did you hear that right?

Did Yuu Nishinoya just tell you he was jealous?

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

“W-what?”

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

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

You turn red.

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

And shyness.

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

“OW!”

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

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

You pause, embarrassed, but still slightly annoyed.

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

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

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

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

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

ah. he actually blocked you.

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

well. that went horribly.

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

after all, there's still the 5.

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

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

you snort quietly into your blanket.

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

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

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

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

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

your phone vibrates again before you can answer.

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

you fall asleep smiling at your phone despite yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yeah, you could go on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grin.

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

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

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

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

and also, because one time he texted:

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

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

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

you stifle a laugh, then return to your cereal.

not even a minute later, though-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you bro someone walked into me and nearly knocked me over

and at the exact same time you send it-

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

you stop dead in your tracks.

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

slowly, you look up.

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

then he looks up too.

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

no. way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

like, fast. really fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

one night he randomly sends:

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

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

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

then he comes back texting like nothing happened.

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

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

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

three whole minutes pass.

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

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

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

you blink.

why does that annoy you a little..

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

you stare.

yeah.. he definitely got his phone taken away.

frowning, you lock your phone harder than necessary.

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

later that evening, he texts again.

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

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

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

you hate how warm your face feels.

the first actual real conversation happens accidentally.

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

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

run(a)way queen you alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you turn your head, and-

oh.

oh, he's pretty.

the first coherent thought that hits you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“and.. you chose flight.”

“obviously.”

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

you stare at each other awkwardly for two seconds.

then at the same time,

“you really are pretty–”

“you really do talk too much–”

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

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

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

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

“absolutely not.”

“you think i'm pretty–”

“oh my god shut up.”

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

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

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

“what?’ you demand.

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

“it was two sentences you nincompoop-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you're staring,” he says casually.

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

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

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

he smiles. “is that a compliment?”

“not really.”

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

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

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

“bye, i'm leaving-”

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

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

you don’t know that, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“touché,” the robotic tone says.

he bursts into a fit of laughter.

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

he shifts his weight awkwardly.

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

“you’re welcome, tiny gremlin.”

“die-”

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

“oh, i’m not joking.”

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

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

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

“wait.”

you glance back, confused.

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

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

you stare at him blankly.

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

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

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

run(a)way queen look left ;)

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

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

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

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

not strangers, and not exactly friends either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you don't say that.

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

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

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

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

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

well.

annoyingly good.

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

“oikawa-san's seriously so cool.”

“who? number 1?”

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

your head snaps up.

oikawa? oikawa.

of course his name is something like oikawa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“l/n-channn.”

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

“dramatic.”

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

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

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

those are your favourite.

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

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

“what happened?”

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

“liar.”

“wha- i’m serious.”

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

“did someone hurt your feelings?”

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

“answer the question.”

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

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

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

“who?” oikawa says urgently.

“it doesn’t matter.”

“it matters if you sound sad.”

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

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

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

“wow. that sucks.”

you smile faintly. “thanks.”

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

“wanna come watch me practice tomorrow?”

you blink. “what?”

“you heard me loud and clear.”

“that's your solution?”

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

it only takes a second to make up your mind.

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

so, the next day you go.

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

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

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

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

“oi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

you choke. “sorry, the what?”

oikawa visibly pales.

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

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

“not to their face–”

you stare at him, expression beginning to turn amused.

“..phone person?” you repeat slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

“alright, that is such a lie–”

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

“i-”

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

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

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

you stare at him blankly.

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

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

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

“you made your teammates help you text me?”

“once..”

“three times,” somebody corrects from the back.

“nobody asked you.”

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

his eyes narrow. “don’t.” that only makes it worse.

“you were workshopping your texts?” you manage between chortles.

“okay, wow,” he says, looking betrayed. “this is a vulnerable moment for me, you know? don't rub it in.”

you lose it a little after that, enough that a laugh slips out before you can stop it.

and the thing is, the second it does, oikawa just.. stares at you, like he forgot there are other people in the room.

the way he's just looking at you causes your laugh to falter, and the two of you lock eyes for a long moment until he clears his throat. 

“l/n-”

and the moment is gone when someone smacks the back of oikawa's head while walking past.

“quit flirting and practice,” the guy says bluntly, prompty smacking him again but harder.

“OW– iwa-chan!”

you laugh again, louder this time, and oikawa turns toward you looking extremely offended.

“you're enjoying this way too much.”

“because it’s funny.”

“my suffering should not amuse you.”

“your suffering is the funniest thing about you sorry to say.”

he gasps like you've personally stabbed him in the chest, then points dramatically. “see? this is what i deal with.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and cross your arms. “you love me, really,” you say offhandedly.

oikawa's ears dust a bright red.

it doesn't occur to you how important he's becoming to you until oikawa slowly starts disappearing.

it starts as slower replies, missing calls, and shorter messages. you tell yourself he's busy.

until nothing at all.

you hey. you alive? seen

and oikawa always replies – even if it's just to be annoying.

three days later, he finally texts.

pretty boy oikawa.. sorry been busy

and that's it. your stomach sinks.

you everything okay? pretty boy oikawa.. yeah dw about it

which is an obvious lie, but every time you try asking after that, he just brushes it off.

eventually you just stop asking.

you find out through social media; some volleyball account posts clips from a tournament.

the caption says:

‘aoba johsai eliminated after intense semifinal loss’.

that's oikawa's team.

and it all makes sense now. you stare at your screen, and immediately text him.

no answer, so you call.

straight to voicemail.

and you don't have to think before grabbing your stuff and heading out where you think he's most likely to be.

the gym is dead silent when you arrive, lights dim.

you almost think he's not there and are prepared to leave until you hear a volleyball bouncing somewhere inside.

you follow the sound, and find him alone.

he doesn’t notice you at first – he seems to be serving repeatedly at the far wall, hard enough that the impact echoes through the gym.

again

again

again

agai-

“oikawa.”

he freezes, and the ball rolls away slowly across the floor.

for a second he just stands there with his back to you, then laughs quietly.

except it sounds wrong, forced and twisted and sounds so unnatural coming out of the brown haired boy.

“you, ah- weren’t supposed to see this.”

your throat tightens, and oikawa finally turns around.

and oh,

he looks awful. eyes tired, eyebags hanging, smile plastered on and barely there.

“why didn't you tell me?” you ask softly.

oikawa shrugs like you're not even there, not worth talking to you. his shoulders hang low, drooping. “didn't really feel like talking.”

“you.. disappeared.”

“sorry.” he says lightly, like it doesn't matter.

you step closer, footstep sounding loudly against the wooden floorboards and state, “you lost one match.” not gentle.

his jaw tightens, eyes fiery. “it wasn't just one match.”

right. of course it wasn't.

for him, volleyball is everything.

you suddenly remember all those late night calls, all the pressure he puts on himself every single day, all the moments where he'd laugh something off before changing the subject too quickly. all the times he acted overly confident like he was trying to convince himself just as much as everyone else. that maybe, just maybe, if he stopped moving for even a second, everything would finally catch up to him.

then, quietly, he murmurs, “i'm so tired.”

and oikawa never says things like that. he complains dramatically all the time, sure, but never seriously. never in a way that sounds this honest. this exhausted.

you don't know what to do. standing there suddenly feels awkward, and maybe you shouldn't have come after all, like maybe this is something private and ugly and painful and hurting that he never wanted you seeing. 

but then he laughs again under his breath, except it still sounds wrong, jagged around the edges, and you realise he's waiting for you to treat this like a joke so he can pretend he's fine again.

instead, you walk toward him slowly until you're close enough to see how his shoulders shaking.

his eyes flick up to yours, surprised. 

you could melt, drown in them and be happy. 

so before you can think too hard about it, you wrap your arms around him.

oikawa goes completely still like his brain short circuited, like he wasn't expecting comfort from you at all. you can feel the sharp inhale he takes against your shoulder, and for one horrible second you wonder if you crossed a line.

then his arms wrap around you, leaning in and burying his head into your shoulder.

he's still shaking.

you close your eyes. “hey,” you mumble quietly.

he lets out this weak little laugh, muffled into your shoulder. “don't. this is kinda embarrassing for me.”

“i don't care.”

“i do.”

“good thing this isn't about you then.” you wince; maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. 

thankfully, another laugh escapes him at that, and he doesn't let go. if anything, oikawa's grip tightens more, fingers bunching in the back of your hoodie like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

the gym is completely silent around the two of you now except for the faint buzzing of the overhead lights.

after a long moment, he says in a tiny voice, “i really wanted to win.”

and god, that hurts.

he feels so painfully human. just a boy who wanted something so badly and still couldn't reach it.

you embrace him tighter. “i know.”

he exhales shakily. “i hate losing.”

“i know.”

another pause. then he mutters against your shoulder, again. “oh, you're gonna think i'm pathetic after this.”

you pull back immediately just enough to glare up at him. “don't say that.”

“i'm serious. i'm literally standing here having a breakdown over volleyball.”

“yeah,” you answer, frowning. “because it matters to you.”

his expression shifts. the exhaustion is still there, heavy under his eyes, but something else slips through now too. surprise, maybe. or relief. like he expected you to brush this off the same way he always tries to.

instead you're still here.

oikawa stares at you for a long minute before speaking again. “you came all the way here.”

you blink. “obviously.”

“why obviously?”

you open your mouth automatically, ready to answer, but nothing comes out.

why obviously?

because hearing he lost made your stomach drop.

because the thought of him sitting here alone hurt worse than it should have.

because over the last few months, he somehow became the first person you want to tell things to. the first notification you look for when your phone lights up. the person you think about constantly without even trying or wanting to.

because somewhere along the way, you fell in love with him.

oh.

oh no.

your face must give something away because his entire face changes.

“l/n-chan?”

you can’t breathe properly all of a sudden.

this is bad.

actually terrifying.

because what if you ruin this? what if you care too much? what if all the flirting and jokes meant more to you than they ever did to him?

“hey,” he says again.

oikawa's hand lifts hesitantly, fingertips brushing against your sleeve as if he's not fully sure you'll let him.

“what happened?”

you stare at him helplessly, and apparently that's enough.

his eyes widen slightly before cracking in a way that completely wrecks you.

“oh,” is the only thing that comes out, his mouth an ‘o’ shape.

“don't,” you blurt out before he can say anything else.

oikawa blinks. “don't what?”

“make it weird.”

“make what weird?”

you gesture vaguely between the two of you, mortified. “this.”

oikawa merely looks at you. then the corners of his mouth lift a little.

“a bit too little too late for that.” ayo laufey reference

your throat burns, and it hurts to swallow. “oikawa–”

“i think i started liking you the first time you insulted me.”

now it's your turn to stare at him. “huh?”

he smiles weakly. “you called me grandma.”

despite everything, a laugh bubbles out of you. “that's your romantic origin story?”

“don't judge me,” he mutters. “i was charmed. you were charming.”

you shake your head, still laughing breathlessly, and when you do something in his expression relaxes. maybe he was nervous too, and that maybe he thought imagined the whole thing.

oikawa reaches for you again, giving you enough time to pull away if you want to.

you don't.

his arms wrap around you, almost cautiously now, like you're something fragile in his eyes. you can hear his heartbeat through his thin shirt, fast enough to make warmth spread through your chest.

“hey,” he murmurs into your hair after a while. “are you.. crying?”

“no, shut up.”

“this might be the best day of my life.”

you laugh wetly into his chest. “you're so annoying.”

“yeah,” he says gently, tilting your chin up to gaze into your eyes. “but you like me anyway.”

when oikawa pulls back, he's smiling properly for the first time since you got there. tired still, but smiling. his eyes flick down toward your mouth for a split second before darting back up again, and he looks.. nervous.

is he.. is he going to–

“..can i kiss you,” oikawa asks carefully, “or are you gonna bite me.”

you blink at him in disbelief. “that is genuinely the worst thing you could've said.”

“sorry,” he says immediately. “i got i want to kiss you disease.”

you snort, heart melting on the spot at the same time.

because this is oikawa. loud, confident, obnoxious oikawa who flirts with literally everyone without blinking. and somehow, he's standing in front of you looking like the answer really matters to him.

so before you can overthink it anymore, you grab the front of his hoodie and kiss him.

he makes a startled sound against your mouth before kissing you back instantly, one hand coming up to cup your face like he's scared you'll disappear halfway through it.

truthfully, a kiss worthy of the fairytales.

and when you pull away, oikawa's staring at you like he just won the lottery.

“wow,” he breathes. “i- wow.”

you point a warning finger at him. “don't start.”

“you're literally in love with me.”

“you love me more though.”

oikawa's grin widens so fast, almost blinding.

“hey, y/n-chan?”

“what.”

“remember when you hoped i wasn't a forty five year old man?”

you groan so loudly it echoes through the gym, and oikawa laughs hard enough that he has to lean against you to stay standing. 

hearing that sound again feels like finally being able to breathe.

you wake up to your phone vibrating nonstop against your mattress. you're surprised it isn't leaping into the air.

still half asleep, you blindly grab it, fumbling and squinting at the brightness.

tooru 🤍 good morning my amazingly amazing significant other >’v’< hm that sounds off sorry sorry good morning situationship  that sounds worse actually ignore that you're not my situationship.. i love you good morning love of my life  good morning DARLING ;))

you drop your face back into your pillow, groaning. he’s so endearing.

another text follows.

tooru 🤍 HELLO??? are you ignoring me this relationship is so toxic you oh my god shut up why are you awake tooru 🤍 i’m experiencing great joy and whimsy! darling you reacted 😐 to this message you tone it down a little tooru 🤍 never

dating oikawa turns out to be exactly as exhausting – in a good way — as you expected, now that he’s officially decided you're his person.

he gets dramatically offended if you take too long to answer texts (“i’m your top priority!”) he throws himself across your shoulders whenever he sees you after practice like he's been separated from you for years instead of six hours (“reunited at last!”). he complains constantly that you ‘don’t compliment him enough’, despite the fact you called him beautiful once and he looked so emotional about it for the rest of the day.

but there are quieter things too, things he does without noticing.

saving the seat next to him automatically, and walking on the outside of the sidewalk. tugging you closer absentmindedly whenever crowds get too big like it’s second nature, and falling asleep on calls because he says your voice helps him unwind and relax after practice.

one afternoon, while you're sitting across from oikawa in a café, you zone out so badly you don't even realise he's talking to you until he flicks your forehead lightly.

“ow? what was that for??”

“you're doing the thing again,” oikawa replies, chin in his hands and elbows propped on the table as he gazes at you with those eyes you could drown in.

you blink twice. “what thing?”

“the overthinking thing!”

“uh, that’s not helpful at all,” you grin, amused, stirring your tea. the scent wafts up, drifting into your nose, and you inhale deeply.

“is it not true?”

oikawa reaches across the table, hooking his fingers loosely around yours. he’s been doing that quite a lot lately. 

“what’s going on in that scary little brain?” he asks, tracing little shapes onto the back of your hand. imagine he wrote will you marry me lmao

you hesitate before shrugging nonchalantly. “nothing.”

oikawa frowns, stopping his thumb movements and causing you to jut out your bottom lip. “you know you don't always have to do that, right?”

“do what?”

“pretend everything's fine before you've figured out if it actually is.”

you look away toward the café window, a little annoyed.

“you do that too. and i just don't wanna ruin stuff.”

“ruin what stuff? y/n, darling-”

you gesture between the two of you.

oikawa stares at you for a second before snorting.

you narrow your eyes at him. “tooru. what now?”

“sorry,” he says, already laughing. “i just remembered you literally texted me because a forty-five-year-old blocked you.”

you groan, drawing it out as you thud your head down on the table. “can you stop reminding me? my gosh, that was ages ago.”

“and now we’re here.”

his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles.

“you're not gonna ruin us, idiot.”

us.

like there's never been another option.

a week later, you discover he has screenshots of your texts saved.

“YOU SAVED THESE?”

oikawa, sprawled comfortably across your bed, looks completely unashamed. “of course i did!”

“why.”

“because they’re cute, why else?”

“they are not cute.”

he gasps dramatically before turning on his phone and reading one aloud.

“‘go away you're literally annoying.’ wow. true romance right there.”

you immediately lunge for his phone while he yelps and nearly falls off the bed cackling.

“give it!”

“never!”

“tooru–”

“wait wait, this one's my favorite.” his voice softens slightly while he reads. “‘text me when you get home okay?’”

you stop moving. you remember sending that, late at night after practice when he sounded exhausted over the phone and you got worried.

but you didn't realise how much it meant to him.

oikawa glances up at you with his stupidly fond little smile.

“that was one of the first times i thought i was completely screwed.”

whenever oikawa has a game, he never directly asks you to come. instead, he send things like:

tooru 🤍 match tomorrow btw you okay tooru 🤍 okay??? thats all??? you good luck? tooru 🤍 woah i can really feel the support you reacted 😊 to this message

it's worth it, though, when you show up regardless, and his entire face lights up as he spots you in the stands.

like he's surprised someone came for him specifically, even though he has a million fangirls that giggle his name.

oikawa only cares about you.

naturally, iwaizumi talks to you first about it.

one day after practice he falls into step beside you while oikawa's distracted arguing with kyotani, probably about something stupid.

“thanks,” iwaizumi says suddenly.

your brow furrows, and you turn your head. “er- for what?”

“for dealing with him.”

you snicker. “that sounds concerning.”

“oh, you have no idea.” he has an exasperated expression on his face, but then it shifts. “he's happier lately.”

before you can answer, oikawa appears out of nowhere and throws himself dramatically over your shoulders.

“iwa-chan, are you talking shit about me?”

“always.” iwaizumi deadpans.

oikawa gasps mockingly. “fake friend.”

“shittykawa.”

“shittyzumi.” then oikawa turns to you pleadingly. “save me.”

“nah. go on, iwaizumi. how many others you got?”

“no!”

it's funny how one stupid, impulsive text at two in the morning somehow flipped your entire life around – now your days are full of him. oikawa. your boyfriend. it still feels surreal to say.

his voice. his laugh. his constant whining. his hand finding yours automatically.

oikawa loves loudly, openly, like he's physically incapable of hiding it. he talks about you constantly, drapes himself all over you every chance he gets, looks at you like you're the best thing he’s ever found.

one night after practice, the two of you end up lying on the floor of his bedroom while he complains dramatically about training.

“i'm dying,” oikawa groans, letting his long legs flop over your stomach.

“you said that half an hour ago.” you half-heartedly attempt to push his legs off, to no avail.

“it's a slow death.”

you snort quietly, glancing over at him. his hair's still damp from his shower and there's a bruise forming near his knee. 

you reach over and brush your fingers lightly against his hand, and he immediately intertwines your fingers together without even opening his eyes.

automatic, like breathing.

“hey,” he says after a minute.

“hm?”

oikawa lowers his arm to stare at you properly before smiling brightly.

“thanks for texting me after. imagine if you’d only texted the forty five year ol–”

you burst out into a fit of laughter. “oh my god–”

he grins sleepily before rubbing his thumb absentmindedly across your knuckles just like he likes to do.

“seriously, though,” he says more softly. “meeting you kinda changed everything for me.”

pursing your lips, you murmur, “that's disgustingly cheesy.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. for me too, though.”

“aww.”

you squeeze his hand tighter, smiling helplessly. “good thing you answered, then.”

“best decision i've ever made.” followed by, because he physically cannot stay serious for more than ten consecutive seconds:

“also, thank goodness i'm hot.”

you grumble and shove his face away while he laughs hard enough to nearly fall onto the floor completely. sadly, he didn't and his heavy as fuck legs are still laying on you.

tooru 🤍 i love you my number neighbour you i love you too my number neighbour that isn’t the forty five year old man 😚 tooru 🤍 you ruined it 😠 you EMOJI tooru 🤍 so what anyway what if i text MY other number neighbour you oikaw fucking tooru tooru 🤍 OKAY you liked this message

“tooru?”

“yes, my darling?” 

“why are we texting when we're right next to eachother?”

oikawa smirks at you. “romance.”

i wrote this on google docs so the quotation marks look so different.. but anyway fucking hell that was a ride to write!! sorry, kat. i tried to make it 6.7k words for you but there was so much i wanted to fit in there so it ended up um exceeding that by 2k 😚

© akaashiit

The Zenin Clan compound sprawled across the rolling hills just outside Kyoto like a fortress carved from old money and older pride. High walls of weathered stone and dark timber enclosed courtyards lined with meticulously raked gravel, ancient cherry trees, and training grounds where the air always hummed with the faint crackle of cursed energy. Inside the main hall there was vast, tatami-floored, and lit by paper lanterns that cast long, golden shadows. Every pillar and sliding screen whispered of hierarchy. Strength was currency here. Weakness was erased.

You had been assigned to the clan three months ago as a contracted Grade 1 sorcerer. Your technique, Reverse Cursed Technique with an unusual affinity for stabilizing others’ cursed energy during high-stakes missions made you useful. Not family. Not heir. Just… useful. The elders tolerated your presence because you delivered results without asking for glory. The younger sorcerers mostly ignored you. And Naoya Zenin?

He had yet to decide what to do with you.

The hall was crowded tonight. Naobito’s youngest son had just returned from a solo extermination in the mountains north of the city. A Grade 1 cursed spirit that had been terrorizing rural villages for weeks. Word spread fast. Servants moved like ghosts, laying out low tables with sake and small plates of kaiseki. Clan members in traditional robes or crisp modern suits clustered near the center, their voices a low, reverent hum.

You stood near the back wall, half-hidden behind a lacquered pillar, clipboard in hand. The mission report you’d been asked to review rested on the wooden surface, but your eyes weren’t really on the words. You were watching the room the way you always did. Detached, cataloguing exits, cursed energy signatures, potential threats. Habit. Nothing more.

The heavy sliding doors at the far end whispered open.

Naoya Zenin stepped through.

He was exactly as the rumors painted him: tall, slim but powerfully built, the kind of athletic frame that moved like it had never known hesitation. His dyed blond hair with roots a deep, living green swept back from his forehead in that signature undercut, the longer top strands catching the lantern light like polished gold. Sharp brown eyes scanned the room with predatory ease. Three silver piercings glinted in his left ear. The arrogant grin was already fixed in place, as natural to him as breathing. He wore the clan’s traditional attire with effortless arrogance: a white long-sleeved shirt buttoned high under a teal kimono that shifted like liquid shadow with every step, light hakama, and waraji sandals that barely made a sound on the tatami.

The room reacted instantly.

Heads bowed. Shoulders straightened. A ripple of murmured praise washed through the crowd “Naoya-sama,” “Well done,” “As expected of the heir.” A few of the younger sorcerers practically vibrated with admiration. One woman who’s a daughter of a branch family actually flushed when his gaze flicked her way. An elder clapped him on the shoulder, voice booming about how the Zenin bloodline continued to produce perfection.

Naoya accepted it all like oxygen. He rolled one shoulder, the grin widening just enough to show teeth.

“Obviously,” he drawled, voice carrying across the hall with that lazy, cutting confidence. “Did you really think some half-rate curse would slow me down? Projection Sorcery makes short work of anything that doesn’t know its place.” He flicked a hand dismissively. “Though I will admit the thing had decent speed. For a worm.”

Laughter. More bowing. Someone pressed a cup of sake into his hand; he took it without looking, eyes already drifting over the crowd as if searching for the next source of validation.

You didn’t move.

Your pen kept scratching notes on the clipboard. Small, precise handwriting detailing the energy signatures from the report. You didn’t glance up. Didn’t straighten. Didn’t offer the polite smile or the deferential nod everyone else seemed programmed to give. He was background noise, like the distant chirp of crickets outside or the soft clink of porcelain. Present. Irrelevant.

Naoya’s gaze landed on you.

It lingered.

You felt it. The weight of those sharp brown eyes, the way they narrowed just a fraction when you failed to react. Most people would have at least looked. A quick bow. A murmured “Congratulations, Naoya-sama.” Something. Anything.

You turned a page.

He took a slow step forward, still speaking to the group but clearly directing the next words toward the back of the room. “The technique’s getting faster every time. Twenty-four frames per second, flawless execution. No one else in this clan could have handled it so cleanly.” A pause. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Several heads turned your way expectantly.

You finished your note, capped the pen, and finally lifted your gaze. Just enough to meet the elder who had asked you to review the report earlier. “The stabilization matrix held,” you said evenly, voice calm and professional. “No residual damage to the surrounding area. Efficient work.” You gave a small, polite nod to the elder. Nothing more.

Not to Naoya.

Not a single glance in his direction.

The silence that followed was microscopic, it was barely a heartbeat, but you felt it crackle.

Naoya’s grin didn’t falter on the surface, but something behind his eyes shifted. Confusion, maybe. Mild irritation, like a speck of dust on an otherwise pristine blade. He was used to eyes on him. Used to people orbiting him like satellites. Women especially would have been flustered, eager, desperate for even a scrap of his attention. Men respected him or feared him or both. No one simply… continued existing in his presence as if he were furniture.

He took another step, closer now, the hem of his hakama brushing the tatami. The crowd parted slightly, giving him space. “You’re the transfer, right?” His tone was light, almost conversational, but edged with that unmistakable Zenin superiority. “The one with the healing trick. Useful little ability. Must be nice, riding the coattails of real sorcerers.”

A few chuckles from the sycophants.

You adjusted the clipboard under your arm, eyes already drifting back to the report. “The technique is Reverse Cursed Technique, specialized for field stabilization,” you corrected mildly, without heat. “And yes, it’s proven effective on joint missions.” Still no eye contact. Still no acknowledgment of the subtle barb.

Naoya’s fingers tightened around the sake cup. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But he noticed the way his own pulse kicked up, just a fraction. Confusion sharpened into something closer to annoyance. She’s doing it on purpose, he thought. No one is this dense. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone reacts.

He waited.

You didn’t.

After a beat, he let out a low chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes. “ Acting professional.” He turned back to the group, but the grin was tighter now. “Anyway. The mission was flawless, as expected. Drinks are on the clan tonight.”

Cheers went up. The moment passed, or seemed to.

But as the crowd surged forward again, offering more praise, more sake, more deference, Naoya’s gaze kept sliding back to you. You had already moved toward one of the side doors, slipping out of the main gathering like a shadow that refused to be pinned down. No backward glance. No lingering. Just… gone.

He drained the sake in one swallow, the liquid burning pleasantly down his throat.

Who the hell does she think she is?

The thought lodged in his mind like a splinter. Small. Irritating. Impossible to ignore once it was there.

Later that night, long after the lanterns had been dimmed and the hall emptied, Naoya stood alone on the engawa overlooking the moonlit training grounds. The cool spring air carried the faint scent of blooming wisteria. His kimono hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms. He should have been basking in the afterglow of victory. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that one indifferent face in the crowd.

She hadn’t even looked at him.

Not once.

The realization sat heavy in his chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Naoya Zenin did not get ignored. He was the center. The standard. The one everyone measured themselves against. And yet some contracted nobody with a clipboard and a flat voice had treated him like background noise.

His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in it.

“Interesting,” he murmured to the empty night, voice low and dangerous. “Very interesting.”

He flexed his fingers, cursed energy flickering faintly around them like static. Projection Sorcery hummed under his skin, ready at a thought.

She wanted to act like he didn’t exist?

Fine.

He’d make sure she couldn’t look anywhere else.

Three days had passed since the welcome banquet, and the Zenin Clan compound had settled back into its usual rhythm of rigid discipline and simmering ambition. Dawn painted the eastern sky in bruised pinks and golds, casting long shadows across the gravel paths that crisscrossed the training grounds. The air smelled of dew on moss and the faint ozone tang of cursed energy being honed like blades. Servants moved silently between the low wooden buildings, carrying trays of rice and miso for the early risers. In the main dojo, a vast, open-air pavilion with tatami mats worn smooth by generations of feet, sorcerers gathered for morning drills.

You were already there, as always.

Positioned at the far edge of the mats near a row of wooden practice dummies, you wore the standard field uniform: dark, reinforced jacket over a fitted shirt, pants tucked into sturdy boots. Your hair was pulled back neatly, out of the way. No makeup, no jewelry, nothing that drew attention. Just a contracted Grade 1 doing her job. You were reviewing a mission briefing scroll the elders had assigned you last night. Something about stabilizing a team during an upcoming Grade 2 incursion near Osaka. Your Reverse Cursed Technique made you the perfect support; you didn’t need praise for it. You didn’t seek it.

You didn’t seek anything from anyone here.

Especially not him.

Naoya Zenin arrived exactly on time, because of course he did. He never allowed himself to be late; tardiness was for the weak. He strode onto the training grounds in his usual attire. White button-up open at the collar just enough to show the sharp line of his clavicle, teal kimono draped over one shoulder like a casual afterthought, hakama swaying with each purposeful step. The dyed blond hair caught the morning light, green roots visible at the scalp like a reminder of the raw power beneath the polish. Three silver piercings winked in his left ear. His expression was the same arrogant half-smirk he wore like armor, but his sharp brown eyes scanned the dojo with a new intensity.

They found you immediately.

He’d spent the last three nights replaying that banquet in his head. The way you’d turned a page on your clipboard without so much as a flicker of acknowledgment. The way his words and his very presence had slid right off you like water on oiled steel. At first it had been amusing. A novelty. Then irritating. Now it festered.

No one ignored Naoya Zenin. Not the elders. Not the branch families groveling for favor. Not the women who practically tripped over themselves to catch his eye. And certainly not some outsider with a fancy healing trick.

She’s doing it on purpose, he’d decided by the second night. Playing some long game to make herself interesting. Well. Two could play.

He didn’t head straight for the center of the dojo where the main group waited, bowing and murmuring greetings. Instead, he veered toward the edge, toward you.

You felt him coming before you saw him. The shift in cursed energy was unmistakable: Projection Sorcery humming like a live wire, controlled but always ready to snap forward in those perfect twenty-four frames per second. You kept your eyes on the scroll, pen scratching notes in the margin.

“Morning briefings already?” His voice cut through the quiet dojo like a blade, loud enough for the nearby sorcerers to hear but pitched just for you. He stopped directly in your path, close enough that the hem of his hakama brushed the edge of your boot. “How dedicated. Or is it just an excuse to avoid real training?”

You finished the line you were writing. Then, without lifting your gaze, you stepped sideways, it was smooth and unhurried. You then continued toward the next dummy. “The briefing is for the Osaka team,” you said evenly, voice neutral as still water. “I’m support, not frontline. Efficiency matters.”

No eye contact. No deference. No reaction to the way he’d planted himself like a wall.

Naoya’s smirk twitched. He moved again, faster this time, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Hust enough to close the distance in a blur most eyes would miss. He was in front of you once more, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly as if studying a mildly defective tool.

“Efficiency, huh?” He leaned in, invading your space without touching. You could smell the faint scent of his soap. It was something sharp and expensive, like citrus and smoke, and you could feel the heat radiating off him. “That’s cute. Most people would kill for a chance to train under me. Projection Sorcery isn’t something you just watch from the sidelines.” His voice dropped, laced with that signature Zenin condescension. “Or are you scared you’ll look weak next to perfection?”

A few of the younger clan members nearby exchanged glances, smirks hidden behind hands. They knew the game. Naoya was toying with the new girl. It was entertainment.

You simply sidestepped again, circling around him as if he were a misplaced training post. Your shoulder nearly brushed his arm, but you adjusted at the last second to avoid it. “I’ve stabilized worse than Grade 2s,” you replied, still not looking at him. “Fear doesn’t factor into the technique.” You reached the dummy and began channeling a thin thread of Reverse Cursed Technique into its core, testing the wood’s structural integrity. The faint blue glow of your energy was precise, controlled. Professional.

Naoya’s fingers flexed at his sides. No reaction. Not even a flicker of annoyance on your face. No flush, no stammer, no wide-eyed deference. Just… nothing. It was like shouting into a void.

He hated it.

The irritation coiled tighter in his chest, hotter than any curse he’d ever crushed. He was Naoya Zenin. The heir, prodigy, the one who made the clan’s future look inevitable. People orbited him. They begged for scraps of his attention. And this woman treated him like static in the background.

Fine.

He’d make himself impossible to ignore.

The rest of the morning drill became a slow, deliberate game. Naoya didn’t join the main formation. He prowled the perimeter instead, always finding reasons to cross your path. During partner drills, he “accidentally” positioned himself so you had to maneuver around him to reach your assigned station. When you moved to retrieve a set of cursed tools from the rack, he was already there. Leaning against it, long legs stretched out, blocking the way.

“Looking for something?” he drawled, eyes locked on your face even though yours stayed fixed on the tools behind him. He didn’t move. “These are clan-grade. Might be a little advanced for support work. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

You paused for half a second, then reached past him. Arm brushing the open collar of his shirt, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but never lingering. You selected the tool you needed without comment and stepped back. “They’re standard issue,” you said flatly. “I’ve used them before.” Then you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there with the echo of your indifference ringing in his ears.

By midday, the game had spread through the compound like wildfire among the gossiping younger sorcerers. “Naoya-sama’s got it out for the transfer girl,” they whispered. “She won’t even look at him.” Some laughed. Others watched with wary fascination.

Naoya noticed none of it. His focus had narrowed to a single point: you.

He told himself it was still just irritation. A challenge to his authority. But as the afternoon wore on and he found excuses to interrupt your solo stabilization drills. Leaning over your shoulder to “correct” your form (his breath warm against your ear, voice a low taunt: “Too slow. You’d be dead in a real fight”), standing so close in the narrow corridor leading back to the main hall that you had to turn sideways to pass. He felt something darker stirring beneath the annoyance.

Curiosity.

A sharp, gnawing need to crack the shell of your indifference and see what was underneath.

She has to react eventually, he thought, watching from the engawa as you disappeared into the archive building without a backward glance. No one sustains this forever. Not with me.

That night, long after the compound had quieted and lanterns flickered low, Naoya stood alone in his private quarters. The room was sparse by clan standards. Only the essentials, because excess was for the weak, but the sliding doors opened onto a private garden. He hadn’t slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that same neutral expression. Heard that same flat voice.

He paced, bare feet silent on the tatami, cursed energy crackling faintly at his fingertips like restrained lightning.

Tomorrow he’d push harder. Stand closer. Say things that cut deeper. Force her into a corner where ignoring him became impossible.

Because the alternative that she truly didn’t care, that he was background noise in her world was unacceptable.

It was starting to feel like a game he was losing.

And Naoya Zenin did not lose.

He stopped at the edge of the engawa, staring out into the moonlit garden where your quarters lay on the opposite side of the compound. A faint light still glowed in your window.

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Keep pretending I don’t exist,” he murmured to the night, voice low and edged with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. “See how long that lasts.”

The days blurred into a deliberate campaign.

Naoya Zenin had never needed to chase anyone in his life. People came to him, drawn like moths to the sharp, blinding light of his confidence, his power, his name. Yet here he was, three days after the morning drills, rearranging his entire schedule around one indifferent woman who refused to play the game correctly.

It started small. Logical, he told himself. He simply needed to observe the anomaly up close.

He learned your routines with the precision of a hunter mapping prey paths.

You rose before dawn, always. A quick run along the outer perimeter path that circled the wisteria garden, then straight to the auxiliary training hall for solo Reverse Cursed Technique drills. Breakfast was taken alone in the small side courtyard near the archives. Usually rice balls and green tea, eaten while reviewing reports. Mid-mornings were spent in the main archive building, cross-referencing mission data or stabilizing cursed tools for the next excursion. Afternoons involved accompanying lower-grade teams on practice missions or handling stabilization requests from the elders. Evenings: you disappeared into your modest quarters on the eastern wing, light burning late as you wrote detailed logs in that neat, unemotional handwriting.

Naoya memorized it all.

He told the elders he wanted to “personally oversee the support division’s efficiency.” They didn’t question it. Why would they? Naoya-sama’s standards were famously high.

He began appearing where you were.

Everywhere.

That first morning after the dojo incident, he was already on the perimeter path when you started your run. Leaning against a cherry tree, arms crossed, blond hair still damp from his own training. He didn’t greet you. Just watched as you approached, eyes tracking every stride with predatory focus.

You didn’t slow down. Didn’t glance his way. You simply adjusted your route by a few meters, passing him at a wider arc as if he were another tree in the landscape.

Naoya’s jaw tightened. He fell into step beside you anyway. Long legs eating up the distance effortlessly. Projection Sorcery let him match your pace without breaking a sweat.

“Running alone again?” His voice was smooth, mocking. “No partner? Afraid they’ll see how mediocre your little healing trick actually is when there’s no one to impress?”

You kept your breathing even, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Solo runs improve focus,” you answered after a measured beat. Nothing more. No denial. No defense. You veered left at the next fork, leaving him behind without another word.

He let you go that time. But only because he already knew where you’d head next.

The auxiliary training hall.

He was waiting inside when you arrived, standing in the exact center of the mats like he owned the air itself. A few lower-rank clan members were present, but they scattered the moment he waved a lazy hand. “Out. I’m using this space.”

They bowed and fled.

You entered anyway, setting your water bottle down near the wall. Without hesitation, you moved to the far corner and began your drills. Channeling thin threads of Reverse Cursed Technique into a series of damaged practice dummies, repairing micro-fractures in the wood with precise, glowing blue energy.

Naoya didn’t join you. He simply… watched.

Leaned against the wall, arms folded, sharp brown eyes never leaving your form. He catalogued everything: the way your shoulders moved with controlled power, the faint sheen of sweat at your temple after twenty minutes, how your cursed energy flowed clean and steady without waste. Most sorcerers faltered under his stare. They’d stumble, blush, try too hard.

You didn’t even acknowledge he was there.

After thirty minutes of silence broken only by the soft hum of your technique, he pushed off the wall and stalked closer. Close enough that his shadow fell over the dummy you were working on.

“Your output is stable,” he commented, tone dripping superiority. “Boringly so. No flair. No ambition. Just… adequate.” He tilted his head, leaning in until his breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Tell me. Does it get you off, being this forgettable? Or are you saving all that energy for when someone finally forces you to react?”

Your hands didn’t pause. The blue glow brightened slightly as you reinforced a deeper crack. “The technique doesn’t require flair,” you said quietly, professionally. “It requires precision. Results speak for themselves.” You finished the dummy, stepped back, and moved to the next one.Circling around him without brushing a single thread of his kimono.

Naoya’s fingers twitched. The urge to use Projection Sorcery to freeze you mid-step, force you to face him in twenty-four perfect frames was almost overwhelming. But he held back. Not yet. Making her acknowledge me by force would be too easy. Too cheap. He wanted the crack to come naturally. Wanted to see the exact moment her indifference shattered.

He started creating situations instead.

During lunch in the side courtyard, he appeared at the entrance just as you unwrapped your rice balls. Sat down on the opposite bench, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours under the low table, without invitation. He didn’t eat. Just stared.

“Quiet type, aren’t you?” he said after five full minutes of silence. “Most women in this clan can’t shut up around me. They simper. They laugh at every half-witted joke. They beg for a look.” His voice lowered, edged with frustration he didn’t bother hiding anymore. “You? You act like the air I breathe is beneath your notice.”

You took a slow sip of tea, eyes on the scroll beside your plate. “I have reports due by evening,” was all you offered. Then you stood, gathered your things, and left the courtyard through the opposite gate.

He followed you to the archives that afternoon.

You were deep in the stacks, pulling ancient texts on cursed energy stabilization. The narrow aisles between the tall wooden shelves left little room for two people. Naoya made sure to take up all of it.

He stepped into the aisle behind you, so close his chest nearly brushed your back when you reached for a higher shelf. One hand braced on the wood beside your head, caging you without quite touching. The scent of him filled the confined space.

“Need help reaching that?” he murmured, voice velvet over razors. “Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself on something so… beneath you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t press back into him. You simply turned sideways in the tight space. Your shoulder grazing his arm for the briefest second, and pulled the book down yourself. “I’ve got it,” you said, voice steady. Then you slipped past him, pages already flipping open as you walked away.

Naoya stayed there for a long moment, hand still pressed to the shelf, breathing harder than the minor exertion warranted.

This was no longer mild irritation.

It was becoming an obsession.

He started watching you even when he didn’t approach. From rooftops. From shadowed engawa. From the training grounds’ perimeter. He told himself it was strategy. Learning weaknesses, finding the perfect pressure point. But the truth gnawed at him in the quiet hours: he was seeking you out because the compound felt wrong when you weren’t in his line of sight.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the compound in blood-orange light, he cornered one of the archive assistants. “The transfer sorcerer. What does she do after hours?”

The young man bowed low, nervous. “She… usually writes logs in her quarters, Naoya-sama. Sometimes walks the eastern garden if the weather is clear.”

Naoya dismissed him with a flick of his wrist.

That night, he found himself on the engawa overlooking the eastern garden. Your light was on again. He could see the faint silhouette through the shoji screen. Head bent over papers, pen moving steadily.

His chest tightened with something ugly and unfamiliar.

Why her?

Why did her refusal to look at him burn hotter than any praise ever had?

He flexed his hand, cursed energy sparking. Projection Sorcery could bridge the distance in an instant. He could be in front of her door before she finished her next sentence. Force the interaction. Make her see him.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he stayed in the shadows, eyes fixed on that small window like a man possessed.

“She’ll break,” he whispered to the night, voice rough with the edge of something dangerously close to need. “Everyone does. And when she finally looks at me… she won’t look away again.”

The game had shifted.

It wasn’t about winning her attention anymore.

It was about making sure no one else could ever have it.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over the Zenin training grounds, turning the gravel paths into shimmering ribbons of heat. A light breeze carried the scent of blooming wisteria and sweat-soaked fabric. The main courtyard had been cleared for a joint drill between the main family’s elite squad and several contracted sorcerers including you.

You stood near the edge of the formation, clipboard in hand as usual, noting energy output readings for the support team. Your expression remained calm and focused, the same professional mask you wore every day. No smiles for the crowd. No nervous energy. Just quiet competence.

Naoya watched from the elevated platform where the elders sometimes observed. He wasn’t supposed to be there today. His own training schedule had him elsewhere, but he had rearranged it. Again. His sharp eyes tracked your every movement with increasing fixation. The way you moved between stations, offering precise adjustments to cursed energy flow without fanfare. The way you never once glanced toward the central group where he stood, arms crossed, teal kimono draped perfectly over his shoulders.

He had grown used to the burn of your indifference by now. It no longer surprised him; it fueled him. Every time you stepped around him in the archives, every time you answered with that flat, minimal voice and walked away, the splinter in his chest twisted deeper.

Today, though, the splinter would snap.

The drill involved paired stabilization exercises. One sorcerer would push their cursed energy to the limit while the other maintained balance with support techniques. You were assigned to assist a mid-rank clan member named Kaito. A tall, easy-going man from a branch family with a wind-manipulation technique. He wasn’t particularly powerful, but he was competent, friendly, and had a habit of cracking dry jokes during downtime.

Kaito approached you with a casual wave. “Hey, looks like we’re paired up. Try not to make me look too bad out there, yeah?”

You glanced up from your notes. For the first time in weeks, your lips curved into a small, genuine smile. Not wide, not flirtatious, just easy. Natural. “I’ll keep the feedback constructive,” you replied, voice lighter than Naoya had ever heard it. “Your wind bursts are strong, but the dispersion at the edges needs tightening. We can work on that.”

Kaito laughed. It was a warm, open sound that carried across the courtyard. “Straight to the point. I like it. Most people here just nod and hope I don’t embarrass the family. Let’s do this.”

They moved to their station.

Naoya’s fingers dug into his forearms hard enough to leave faint crescents.

He watched as you worked with Kaito. You gave clear, patient instructions. When Kaito overextended and his cursed energy spiked unevenly, you stepped in smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder to channel Reverse Cursed Technique. The blue glow stabilized him instantly. Kaito grinned at you, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Damn, that feels way better,” he said, voice carrying. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously, most support types are either scared or sucking up. You just… fix it. No drama.”

You let out a soft laugh. Quiet, but real. It wasn’t loud or performative. It was the sound of someone relaxing for half a second because the interaction required no performance. “It’s literally my job,” you said, still smiling faintly. “But thanks. Your control improved on that last set. Keep the rotation tighter next time.”

Kaito bumped your shoulder lightly with his fist, it was friendly and brotherly. “You’re good at this. We should grab tea after drills sometime. I know a spot in the village that doesn’t suck.”

You nodded once, easy agreement. “Sure. If schedules line up.”

Another laugh from Kaito. Another easy exchange.

Naoya felt it like a curse tearing through his ribs.

She can react.

The thought slammed into him harder than any physical blow. She can smile. She can laugh. She can offer casual conversation and light touches and future plans like it’s nothing.

Just not to me.

His vision narrowed. The rest of the courtyard faded into a dull hum. All he saw was you, smiling at someone ordinary. Someone who hadn’t earned it. Someone who hadn’t spent weeks pushing, invading, obsessing just to get a single scrap of acknowledgment.

The ego damage was visceral. Deeper than jealousy. This wasn’t about wanting what another man had. This was the realization that your indifference wasn’t a universal trait. It was targeted. Deliberate. You chose to give warmth and attention to others while treating him—Naoya Zenin, the heir, the prodigy—like he was less than the gravel under your boots.

His chest burned. Projection Sorcery flickered involuntarily around his hands, twenty-four frames of restrained violence itching to be unleashed.

How dare she.

How dare she have that in her and withhold it from him.

The drill continued for another twenty minutes. Every laugh, every easy word between you and Kaito scraped against Naoya’s nerves like sandpaper on raw skin. When the session finally ended and Kaito gave you another friendly wave before heading off, Naoya didn’t wait.

He descended from the platform in a blur, Projection Sorcery carrying him across the courtyard faster than anyone could track. He reached you just as you were gathering your clipboard.

You sensed him coming, his cursed energy crackling like a storm, but you didn’t look up. You simply turned toward the exit path.

Naoya stepped directly into your way. No teasing lean this time. No mocking drawl. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes burning with something sharper than irritation.

“You seem chatty today,” he said, voice low and edged with ice. No smile. No arrogance masking the cut. Just raw, unfiltered confrontation. “Laughing. Making plans. Touching. All that warmth for a branch family nobody who can barely hold a Grade 2 on his own.”

You paused, finally lifting your gaze, but only to his chest, not his face. “The exercise went well,” you replied evenly. “Feedback helps the team.”

He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head slightly if you wanted to avoid looking at him. His hand came up not grabbing, but hovering near your arm, fingers trembling with the effort not to close the distance. “Team,” he repeated, the word dripping venom. “You give them smiles. You give them laughs. You give them your time like it costs nothing.” His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “But me? I get nothing. Not a glance. Not a reaction. Not even basic fucking courtesy.”

The air between you thickened. A few lingering sorcerers glanced over, sensing the shift in tension, but they quickly looked away. No one interfered with Naoya Zenin when he looked like this.

You didn’t back down. Didn’t step away. You simply adjusted your grip on the clipboard. “I respond when it’s necessary, Naoya-sama.”

The honorific felt like a slap.

His eyes darkened. For the first time, the obsession cracked open fully in his chest, no longer disguised as mere provocation.

“So you can react,” he said, almost to himself, the words bitter. “Just not to me.”

He wanted to grab your chin. Force your eyes up. Make you see exactly who was standing in front of you. But he held back, barely. The restraint only made the fire worse.

You sidestepped him again, the movement smooth and unhurried, and continued toward the archives.

Naoya didn’t follow immediately. He stood there in the courtyard, fists clenched at his sides, blond hair shifting in the breeze as the green roots seemed to darken with his mood.

The game had changed.

No more testing.

No more waiting for you to slip.

He would corner you. Force the reaction. Make you understand that ignoring him was no longer an option.

Because the thought of you laughing with anyone else. Giving even a fraction of that easy warmth to someone beneath him made something possessive and ugly uncoil in his gut.

He wanted your attention.

He wanted your reactions.

He wanted you.

And he would have them. All of them.

Even if he had to break his own rules to get there.

The archive building was quiet after sunset. Most of the clan had retired to their quarters or the main hall for evening sake and strategy talks. Only the faint glow of lanterns and the occasional rustle of turning pages broke the silence in the long, narrow corridors lined with towering shelves of ancient scrolls and cursed tool ledgers.

You were alone in the restricted section at the back, a small reading alcove tucked behind a sliding shoji screen. A single lantern cast warm light over the low table where you sat cross-legged, surrounded by open texts on advanced Reverse Cursed Technique applications. Your pen moved steadily across fresh paper, logging observations from the day’s drill. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and the faint cedar of the wooden beams.

You didn’t hear him approach at first.

Naoya moved like a predator who had already decided the hunt was over.

Projection Sorcery carried him through the empty halls in near-silence. Twenty-four flawless frames per second, each step calculated so that the tatami barely whispered under his waraji. He had waited until the last assistant left. Until the compound settled. Until there was nowhere left for you to slip away.

He stopped just outside the alcove, one hand resting on the wooden frame of the shoji. His shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the lantern light. The teal kimono hung open at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of his chest and the faint sheen of sweat from hours of restrained tension. Blond hair fell slightly messier than usual, green roots stark in the low light. His sharp brown eyes locked onto you with burning intensity.

You felt the shift in cursed energy immediately. Heavy, crackling, barely leashed. But you kept writing. One more line. One more note.

Naoya slid the shoji screen shut behind him with a soft click. The sound was final. No escape route. No audience. Just the two of you in the confined space.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, staring down at you. The silence stretched, thick and charged.

Then, voice low and rough, edged with weeks of festering frustration:

“You ignore me on purpose.”

It wasn’t a question.

You paused, pen stilling on the paper. For the first time in all these encounters, you slowly lifted your gaze and meeting his eyes directly. Not wide-eyed. Not fearful. Just… calm. Steady. As if you had been waiting for this moment to arrive.

You didn’t deny it.

The lack of denial seemed to snap something inside him.

Naoya took one step forward, then another, until he was towering over the low table. His presence filled the alcove, the heat of his body cutting through the cool night air. He dropped into a crouch in front of you close, too close, his knees bracketing the edge of the table so you couldn’t easily stand without brushing against him.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Right now. Stop pretending I’m fucking background noise.”

Your eyes stayed on his. Unflinching. “I’m not pretending anything, Naoya-sama.”

The honorific sounded hollow again. It only fueled the fire.

He leaned in further, one hand planting on the table beside your notes, the other gripping the edge of the wooden surface so tightly the grain creaked. His face was inches from yours now. Close enough that you could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his piercings caught the lantern light, the raw, obsessive hunger burning in those sharp brown eyes.

“You laugh with that branch-family idiot,” he hissed, the words spilling out sharper than he intended. “You smile. You touch him like it’s nothing. You make plans. But when I speak, when I stand right in front of you, you act like I don’t exist.” His breath ghosted across your lips. “Why? What makes me so fucking beneath your notice?”

You held his gaze. Your voice remained even, but there was a new undercurrent. Something quieter, almost curious. “Because everyone else wants something from you. Praise. Favor. A reaction. I don’t.”

The honesty hit him like a curse technique to the chest.

Naoya’s eyes darkened. He reached out and caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Not rough, but firm. Unavoidable. He tilted your face up, forcing you to keep looking at him even as you tried to maintain that careful distance.

“Then give me one,” he said, voice rough and low, vibrating with frustration and something far darker. “React. Say something. Fight back. Do anything except this… nothing.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip, barely there, but the touch sent a spark through the confined space. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he stayed there, crouched in front of you, body caging yours against the table, cursed energy humming around him like a storm about to break.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Your eyes searched his face for a long moment. Taking in the arrogant set of his jaw, the possessive glint in his stare, the way his breathing had grown uneven.

“I see you, Naoya,” you said finally, quiet but clear. “I just don’t need to orbit you like everyone else does.”

Something in him cracked.

It wasn’t softness. It wasn’t romance.

It was raw, frustrated need.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But he leaned in until his forehead nearly touched yours, his grip on your chin tightening just enough to remind you he could hold you there if he wanted.

“You will,” he whispered, the words almost a threat. “You’ll look at me. You’ll react to me. You’ll stop walking away like I’m nothing.” His free hand moved to brace on the table behind you, fully caging you now. The heat of his body pressed close. Chest inches from yours, thigh brushing your knee. “Because I’m done playing this game. You’ve been under my skin for weeks, acting like you’re immune. You’re not.”

The air crackled with tension. His cursed energy flickered, Projection Sorcery ready to freeze the moment if you tried to slip away again. But you didn’t move.

You just looked at him, really looked, seeing the obsession that had taken root behind the arrogance.

Naoya’s breath hitched. The realization slammed into him harder than ever:

This wasn’t about winning anymore.

This wasn’t about ego.

He wanted you. Specifically you. Your attention. Your reactions. Your indifference broken only for him.

And he was no longer willing to wait.

“Say something,” he demanded again, voice hoarse, thumb still tracing your lip with deliberate slowness. “Anything. Or I’ll make sure you can’t ignore me ever again.”

The lantern flame flickered between you, casting shifting shadows across his sharp, beautiful, dangerous face.

The confrontation had begun.

And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting you walk away from it unchanged.

The lantern in the archive alcove flickered low, casting long, dancing shadows across the wooden beams and scattered scrolls. The air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of old paper, ink, and the sharp, clean citrus-smoke of Naoya’s presence. His hand still held your chin. His thumb pressing lightly against your lower lip, not painful, but insistent. Unyielding. His sharp brown eyes bored into yours, pupils blown wide with a mix of frustration, fascination, and something far more dangerous.

He was close. Too close.

His knee had shifted forward between yours where you sat on the floor cushion, caging you against the low table. The open collar of his white shirt revealed the taut line of his collarbone and the faint sheen of tension on his skin. The teal kimono had slipped further off one shoulder, exposing the powerful slope of muscle. Projection Sorcery hummed faintly around him, a barely-contained vibration that made the air between your bodies feel electric.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t lean in either.

You simply held his gaze, steady and unafraid, as if this entire storm of obsession was something you had expected all along.

That lack of fear that complete refusal to be intimidated or impressed only twisted the knife deeper in Naoya’s chest.

His thumb dragged slowly across your lower lip, deliberate and testing. The touch was rougher now, less controlled. “You’re not scared,” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost accusatory. “Not even a little. Everyone else in this compound flinches when I look at them the wrong way. Women practically melt or run. But you…” He leaned in closer, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your mouth. “You just look at me like I’m another scroll on the shelf.”

He released your chin only to slide his hand along your jaw, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding. Possessing. Testing how far he could push before you finally reacted.

“Say something,” he demanded again, the words edged with that familiar arrogance, but cracked open by raw need. “React. Tell me I’m wasting my time. Tell me to fuck off. Anything but this silence.”

Your breathing remained even, though your pulse had quickened just enough for him to feel it under his fingertips. “You’re not wasting your time if this is what you want,” you said quietly, voice calm but no longer completely detached. There was a new undercurrent there. Something sharper, almost challenging. “But I won’t perform for you, Naoya.”

His eyes flashed.

The use of his name without the honorific this time hit him like a spark on dry tinder.

He moved.

In one fluid motion, Projection Sorcery blurring the transition, he rose and pulled you up with him. His hands gripped your waist, firm and unyielding, spinning you so your back pressed against the nearest shelf. Scrolls rattled softly behind you. The wooden edge dug into your spine, but his body crowded forward immediately, pinning you there with his hips and chest.

He was hard against you. Thighs bracketing yours, one hand braced beside your head on the shelf, the other still tangled in your hair. The heat of him seeped through your uniform, overwhelming. His face hovered inches away, lips brushing the corner of your mouth as he spoke.

“You think this is a performance?” he growled, voice dropping into something darker, more obsessive. “This isn’t a game anymore. You’ve been walking around this compound like you’re above it all. Above me. While I can’t stop thinking about how to make you look at me.” His hips pressed forward slightly, deliberate, letting you feel the growing evidence of his frustration. “Every time you stepped around me, every time you refused to even glance my way… it drove me insane.”

He tilted his head, nose tracing along your jawline, breath hot against your ear. “I watch you now. Your routines. Your drills. The way you breathe when you’re concentrating. I know when you take your tea. I know how long you stay in the garden at night.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. Light, testing, not quite a bite. “And still you act like I don’t exist.”

His free hand slid down your side, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, then lower to grip your hip. He pulled you tighter against him, the movement slow and intentional, grinding just enough to make his point without crossing fully into violence.

“You’re not impressed by me,” he continued, voice hoarse now, lips brushing your neck. “Not intimidated. Not trying to use me for status or power or anything the others want.” He laughed once. “That’s what makes you dangerous. That’s why I can’t stop.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, eyes dark and burning. His hand left your hair to cup your face, thumb dragging down your throat, pressing lightly over your pulse.

“React to me,” he whispered, the command laced with desperate fascination. “Fight me. Want me. Hate me. I don’t care anymore, as long as it’s me you’re feeling it for.”

The tension in the small alcove was suffocating. His body was a wall of heat and muscle, hips still pressed flush against yours, one thigh nudged between your legs to keep you pinned. Cursed energy crackled faintly around both of you. His Projection Sorcery mixing with the steady blue glow of your Reverse Cursed Technique that had begun to flicker unconsciously in response to the proximity.

You could feel every inch of his restraint fraying. The way his fingers trembled slightly against your skin. The way his breathing had grown ragged. The arrogant heir who had never needed to chase anyone was now obsessed, fixated, unraveling because one woman refused to give him what everyone else handed over freely.

He leaned in again, lips hovering just above yours. Close enough that the slightest movement would close the distance.

“Say my name again,” he ordered, voice rough and low, almost pleading beneath the demand. “Look at me while you do it. And don’t you dare look away this time.”

His hips rolled once more. Slow, deliberate, a clear promise of everything he was barely holding back.

The spice had ignited.

And Naoya Zenin had no intention of letting the fire die until you finally burned with him.

He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling against yours, the open collar of his shirt allowing skin-to-skin contact where the fabric had slipped. His sharp brown eyes never left yours. Dark, obsessive, burning with weeks of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.

Your pulse thrummed under his thumb. You held his gaze, unflinching, even as heat pooled low in your belly from the relentless proximity. “Naoya,” you said quietly, the name slipping out softer this time, but still steady. No tremor. No submission. Just acknowledgment laced with that same calm challenge.

Something feral flashed across his face.

He closed the last inch.

His mouth crashed against yours. It was hungry, demanding, all sharp teeth and arrogant possession. There was nothing gentle about it. This was Naoya Zenin claiming what had tormented him for weeks. His tongue swept in without waiting for permission, tasting, conquering, devouring the indifference he hated so much. One hand tangled deeper into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you tighter against his grinding hips.

You tasted like tea and ink and the quiet defiance that had driven him insane. He groaned into the kiss, low and frustrated, the sound vibrating through his chest. His thigh pressed higher between your legs, rubbing with deliberate friction as his hips rocked again. Though slower this time, more intentional, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was for you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse, wrecked. “You taste like nothing I’ve ever wanted before. And I hate how much I need it.”

He didn’t give you time to respond. His mouth moved to your neck, lips and teeth scraping along the sensitive skin, sucking a mark just below your jaw. His actions were dark, possessive, and impossible to hide. His hand slid under the hem of your uniform jacket, fingers splaying hot across your bare waist, nails digging in as he pulled you even closer. The roll of his hips became more insistent, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against you in a rhythm that made the shelf behind you creak softly.

“You feel that?” he rasped, biting down on your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That’s what your silence does to me. Weeks of you walking away, acting like I’m nothing… and now I can’t stop thinking about bending you over every surface in this compound until you can’t ignore me anymore.”

His cursed energy flared, Projection Sorcery flickering for a split second. Freezing the moment just long enough to make the friction sharper, more overwhelming before releasing it again. He was losing control, and he didn’t care. The arrogant heir who never chased was now rutting against you like a man starved, lips trailing back to your mouth for another bruising kiss.

But then, you shifted.

Your hands came up to his chest, not pushing him away exactly, but creating the slightest space. Your breathing was ragged now, lips swollen from his kisses, but that familiar calm was creeping back into your eyes. You started to turn your head, body angling as if to slip sideways along the shelf. The same way you had moved around him so many times before. Walking away mid-interaction. Denying him even in the heat of the moment.

Naoya’s reaction was pure instinct.

His hand shot out, slamming against the shelf beside your head with enough force to rattle the scrolls. His other arm wrapped around your waist like a steel band, yanking you back flush against him. Projection Sorcery activated fully this time, locking the frame for a heartbeat so you couldn’t complete the sidestep.

“No,” he snarled, the word torn from deep in his chest. “You don’t get to walk away. Not now. Not from this.”

He held you there, trapped against his body, his forehead pressed hard to yours, breathing ragged and hot. His hips had stilled, but his cock was still throbbing against you, heavy and insistent. The grip on your waist was bruising, possessive.

And in that frozen second when his body acted before his mind could catch up, the realization slammed into him like a curse breaking through his ribs.

This wasn’t about attention anymore.

It wasn’t about winning the game or repairing his ego or forcing a reaction just to prove he could.

He wanted you.

Specifically you.

Not the praise. Not the admiration. Not even the satisfaction of breaking your indifference.

He wanted the woman who looked at him without awe or fear. The one who moved through the compound like a quiet storm he couldn’t control. The one whose calm voice and steady hands made his blood burn hotter than any battle ever had.

He wanted your time. Your touch. Your rare smiles turned toward him. Your body under his. Your voice saying his name like it mattered.

Not because everyone else gave it freely.

Because it was you.

Naoya’s eyes widened fractionally, the obsessive fire in them shifting into something deeper, more dangerous. His grip loosened just enough to be less punishing, but he didn’t let go. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip again, almost reverent now, though his voice stayed blunt and annoyed, pure Naoya.

“You’re irritating as hell,” he muttered, voice rough and low, forehead still pressed to yours. “Acting like I don’t exist when all I can think about is you. Stop it.”

What he meant was: Don’t ignore me. Don’t walk away. Don’t make me chase what I now realize I can’t live without.

His hips rolled once more. Slower, deeper, a deliberate grind that dragged his clothed cock along your core with aching friction. His hand slid higher under your jacket, palm hot against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric.

“I want you,” he said bluntly, the confession sounding almost angry on his tongue. “Not your reaction. Not your submission. You. Specifically you. And I’m done pretending it’s anything else.”

He kissed you again. It was now hard, claiming, but with a new edge of raw honesty beneath the arrogance. His body pressed fully against yours, thigh spreading your legs wider, hips moving in a slow, filthy rhythm that promised everything he was barely holding back.

The lantern light flickered over his sharp, flushed face. Blond hair messy, green roots dark with sweat, piercings glinting as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Tell me you feel it too,” he demanded, voice hoarse, hips still grinding slow and relentless. “Or I’ll keep you here until you do.”

The obsession had cracked open completely.

And Naoya Zenin was no longer fighting it.

The restricted alcove in the archive building had become a pressure cooker. Lantern light flickered weakly across scattered scrolls and the low table, but neither of you paid any attention to the mess. Naoya’s body was a solid wall of heat and tension, pressing you back against the wooden shelf with unrelenting insistence. His thigh remained wedged between yours, hips grinding in slow, deliberate circles that dragged the thick, hard length of his cock against your core through too many layers of fabric. Each roll sent sparks of friction straight through you, making your breath hitch despite your best efforts to stay composed.

His mouth was on yours again. He kissed like he fought: no mercy, no hesitation, all raw dominance tempered by the obsessive need that had been eating him alive for weeks. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head exactly how he wanted. The other had pushed fully under your uniform jacket, palm hot and rough against your ribs, fingers splaying wide as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, teasing the edge of fabric without quite giving you more.

He pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound, lips swollen, breathing ragged. His sharp brown eyes, dark with lust and that deeper, dangerous fixation locked onto yours. Blond hair fell messier across his forehead, green roots visible and damp with sweat. The three silver piercings in his left ear caught the light as he tilted his head, studying you like a man who had finally stopped pretending.

“You’re still not running,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost annoyed at how much that pleased him. “Everyone else would have begged or cried or thrown themselves at me by now. But you…” He rolled his hips harder, grinding the ridge of his erection right against your clit with precise, filthy pressure. “You just take it. Look at me like you’re waiting for me to break first.”

His hand slid higher, finally cupping your breast fully, squeezing with arrogant possession as his thumb circled your nipple through the thin layer of your shirt. He pinched lightly, then harder when your body arched into him despite yourself. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest.

“Fuck… look at that reaction,” he muttered, leaning in to scrape his teeth along your jaw, then down to the mark he’d already sucked into your neck. He bit down again harder this time sucking until the skin bloomed dark under his mouth. “You’re wet for me, aren’t you? All that calm indifference, and your body’s betraying you right here against my cock.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand dropped to your hip, gripping hard as he rocked against you in a steady, relentless rhythm. The friction was maddening. Thick and hot, the outline of him rubbing perfectly with every grind. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both for a split second, sharpening the sensation until it felt like there was nothing between you.

Then he stopped.

Pulled back just enough to look at you properly, chest heaving.

Instead of another taunt or demand, his expression shifted. The arrogance was still there but beneath it was something rawer. More honest. Still very much Naoya.

“You’re irritating,” he said bluntly, voice hoarse but direct. His hand stayed on your breast, thumb lazily stroking your nipple as if he couldn’t stop touching you. “Acting like I don’t exist when I can’t get you out of my head. I watch you run in the mornings. I know exactly how long you spend in the archives. I rearrange my entire fucking day just to stand in your way… and you still treat me like background noise.”

He leaned in again, forehead pressing to yours, hips giving one slow, deep grind that made his cock twitch against you. His breath was hot against your lips.

“Stop it.”

The words were simple. Annoyed. Almost petulant in that Zenin way.

But what he meant hung heavy in the charged air between you:

Don’t ignore me anymore.

Don’t walk away mid-sentence.

Don’t make me chase what I now know I need.

His hand left your breast only to slide down your side, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. He didn’t pull them down, not yet, but the intention was clear. His palm pressed flat against your lower stomach, thumb dipping just beneath the fabric, brushing the sensitive skin there.

“I want you,” he continued, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Not the reaction. Not the ego boost. You. Specifically you. The one who doesn’t simper or beg or look at me like I’m some prize. The one who makes me lose control just by existing in the same compound.” He nipped at your lower lip, then soothed it with his tongue. “It pisses me off how much I want this. How much I want to pin you down every night until the only name you remember is mine.”

The touch became more intentional now. His fingers slipped lower, tracing the edge of your underwear before pressing firmly against your clothed heat. He rubbed slow circles, feeling the dampness there, a smug yet frustrated smirk tugging at his lips even as his eyes stayed dark with obsession.

“Feel that?” he murmured, voice thick. “That’s mine now. This whole fucking indifference act ends tonight. You’re going to look at me. You’re going to moan for me. And you’re going to stop pretending I’m not the only thing you think about when you’re alone in that quiet little room of yours.”

He kissed you again. Less frantic conquest, more deliberate possession. His fingers continued their teasing pressure between your legs, building the heat without rushing to the end. His hips rocked gently against his own hand and your thigh, letting you feel how painfully hard he still was.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours once more. The lantern light cast sharp shadows across his flushed face.

“No more games,” he said, blunt and final, thumb pressing firmer against your clit through the fabric. “You’re staying right here until you admit it. Until you feel it. Until you’re as obsessed as I am.”

His fingers slipped beneath the last layer of fabric, finally touching bare, slick skin. Two fingers dragged slowly through your folds, gathering wetness before circling your clit with precise, torturous pressure.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice a low growl against your mouth. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me you want this, you want me, as much as I want you.”

The breaking point had arrived.

Naoya Zenin wasn’t asking anymore.

He was claiming.

And in the flickering lantern light of the private alcove, with his body pressed hot and heavy against yours, fingers working you with arrogant skill and obsessive focus, the tension finally shattered into something raw, addictive, and undeniably mutual.

“Say it,” he growled again, voice low and rough, thumb pressing harder on your clit as his fingers teased your entrance. “Tell me you’re done ignoring me. Tell me this pussy is already mine.”

You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed. But instead of the surrender he clearly expected, the corner of your mouth twitched into a small, defiant smirk.

“Make me,” you whispered, voice breathy but laced with clear challenge. You rolled your hips once against his hand then pulled back just enough to deny him the full friction. “You’ve been chasing me for weeks, Naoya. If you want me that badly… earn it.”

Brat.

The single word flashed across Naoya’s mind like a curse.

His eyes narrowed instantly. The arrogant set of his jaw tightened, and a dangerous smirk curled his lips sharp and predatory, it was pure Zenin superiority. The playful frustration in his expression vanished, replaced by cold, controlled annoyance.

“Oh?” His voice dropped dangerously low, the casual drawl gone. “You think you can still play games with me? After all this?”

Before you could retort, his hand withdrew from your pants entirely. You barely had time to register the loss before he spun you around with effortless strength. Projection Sorcery blurring the motion so fast your back hit the shelf again, this time facing away from him. His chest pressed flush to your back, one arm banding around your waist like iron while his free hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply so your neck arched.

“You want to act like a brat?” he hissed directly into your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “Fine. I’ll treat you like one.”

His hips snapped forward, grinding his cock hard against your ass through the fabric. The thick, heavy length rubbed insistently, letting you feel exactly how little patience he had left. With a rough tug, he yanked your uniform jacket and shirt up in one motion, exposing your back and breasts to the cool air. His hand immediately palmed one breast, squeezing hard, pinching your nipple between thumb and forefinger with mean precision.

“Naoya—” you started, the challenge still in your tone.

“Shut up,” he snapped, voice sharp and commanding. He bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder. Hard enough to leave teeth marks then soothed it with a rough lick. “You’ve had your fun ignoring me. Walking away. Acting like I’m nothing. Now you’re going to learn exactly who owns your attention.”

He shoved your pants and underwear down in one swift, impatient motion, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked core, but it was immediately replaced by the heat of his hand as he reached between your legs from behind. Two fingers plunged inside you without warning. It was deep, stretching, curling instantly against that spot that made your knees buckle.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he growled, pumping his fingers hard and fast, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet alcove. “All that bratty mouth and your cunt is clenching around me like it’s starving. Pathetic.”

You tried to push back against him, still challenging, a breathy “Is that all you’ve got—” slipping out.

Naoya’s response was immediate and merciless.

He pulled his fingers out, spun you again to face him, and lifted you clean off the ground with Projection Sorcery assisting the motion. Your back slammed against the shelf once more as he pinned you there, your legs forced around his waist. He freed his cock with his other hand. He was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip and dragged the head through your folds once, twice, coating himself in your wetness.

“Still talking?” he sneered, eyes dark with annoyed lust. “Let’s fix that.”

He thrust into you in one brutal stroke. Burying himself to the hilt, stretching you open around his cock with zero mercy. The sudden fullness punched the air from your lungs. Naoya groaned, deep and satisfied, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he savored the tight heat.

“Shit… so fucking tight,” he muttered, then pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm immediately. Each thrust was deep, hard, and perfectly controlled. Projection Sorcery letting him hit exactly where he wanted, over and over. The shelf rattled behind you with every snap of his hips. His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he fucked you against the wood.

“You wanted me to earn it?” he taunted between thrusts, voice rough and breathless but dripping with superiority. “This is me earning it. This is what happens when you push me, brat. You get fucked until the only thing you can say is my name.”

He angled his hips, grinding deep on every stroke so the head of his cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside you. One hand left your ass to wrap around your throat. Not choking, but firm, possessive, tilting your head so you had no choice but to look at him.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, sharp and final. “No looking away. No ignoring me. You’re going to watch me fuck the attitude right out of you.”

His pace quickened, thrusts turning shorter and harder, skin slapping against skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blond hair sticking to his skin, green roots dark. His piercings glinted with every movement. He leaned in, biting your lower lip hard before kissing you. The kiss was messy, dominating, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock.

Every thrust drove the point home: he was in control now. Completely.

No more chasing.

No more games.

You were his, and he was going to make sure you felt it in every bruise, every mark, every deep, relentless stroke.

“Say it,” he demanded again, voice strained with pleasure but still commanding. He slammed in particularly hard, holding himself deep as he ground against your clit. “Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you’re done being a fucking brat and you’ll look at me from now on.”

His hand tightened slightly on your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw as he kept fucking you with single-minded, obsessive intensity.

Naoya Zenin had finally taken full control.

And he wasn’t stopping until you broke exactly the way he wanted.

Naoya’s cock was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing, stretching you open with every brutal snap of his hips. The wooden shelf dug into your back as he fucked you against it with relentless force, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin and the low, arrogant growl rumbling from his chest. His hands gripped your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he held you suspended, legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

Sweat glistened on his sharp collarbones, his white shirt hanging open and clinging to his skin. Blond hair stuck to his forehead, green roots dark and messy. Those sharp brown eyes burned into yours with pure, obsessive dominance. No mercy, no softness, only the raw need to break the last of your defiance.

And you were still pushing him.

Even as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly, even as your walls fluttered helplessly around his cock with every deep stroke, you managed a breathless, bratty smirk.

“Is that… all you’ve got?” you gasped between thrusts, voice shaky but challenging. “Thought the great Naoya Zenin would last longer than this…”

His eyes flashed with pure annoyance.

He slammed into you harder, grinding the head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you until your vision blurred. Then, he stopped.

Completely.

Buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, he held perfectly still. Projection Sorcery flickered around you both, freezing the moment so you couldn’t even rock against him for friction. The sudden denial made your core clench desperately around nothing but his thick length, the orgasm that had been building crashing back down into agonizing frustration.

Naoya’s lips curled into a dangerous, mocking smirk. His hand moved to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse jump under his palm.

“Still running that mouth?” he hissed, voice low and venomous. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

He pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the swollen head inside you, then thrust back in once before stopping again. The sharp spike of pleasure followed immediately by nothing made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“You want to cum?” he taunted, leaning in so his lips brushed your ear, hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “Then beg properly, brat. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ll never ignore me again. Say the words and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you fall apart on my cock.”

You bit your lip, hips twitching uselessly against his hold. The denial burned. Your body was screaming for release, walls pulsing around his cock, but he refused to move.

“Naoya…” you tried, voice strained, still trying to sound defiant.

He laughed. Short, cruel, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Wrong answer.”

He started moving again, but slower this time. Torturously slow. Long, deep strokes that dragged the thick head of his cock against every sensitive ridge inside you, building you right back up to the edge with merciless precision. His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, firm circles that had your thighs shaking around his waist.

Every time your breathing hitched, every time your walls started to flutter and tighten around him, he stopped.

Completely.

Pulled out until only the tip remained, or froze with Projection Sorcery, leaving you dangling on the precipice of orgasm with nothing but aching emptiness.

Over and over.

The fourth time he edged you, tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his open shirt. Your voice cracked.

“Naoya—please—”

“Please what?” he growled, slamming in deep once more before stilling again. His cock twitched inside you, hot and heavy, but he refused to give you the final push. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your collarbone. His grip on your throat tightened slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. “Use your words, little brat. Tell me exactly what I want to hear.”

You whimpered, hips desperately trying to grind against him, but his hold was ironclad. The pleasure was unbearable now—coiled so tight it hurt, every nerve ending screaming for release.

“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, voice breaking on the words. “I’m yours, Naoya—fuck—I won’t ignore you anymore. I won’t walk away. I won’t… I won’t pretend you don’t exist. Please—please let me cum—”

Naoya’s eyes darkened with savage satisfaction. The arrogant smirk widened, but there was something deeper in his gaze now.

“That’s better,” he murmured, voice rough and approving. “But say it like you mean it.”

He started moving again. Harder this time, faster, each thrust punishing and perfect. His cock drove into you with brutal precision, hitting that spot over and over while his thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.

“I’m yours!” you cried out, the words tumbling desperately now. “I’m yours, Naoya—only yours. I won’t ignore you again—I swear—please, I need—”

He cut you off with a bruising kiss, tongue claiming your mouth as he fucked you with single-minded intensity. The denial finally shattered.

“Come,” he commanded against your lips, voice dark and final. “Cum on my cock like the brat you are. Show me who owns you now.”

The orgasm crashed over you like a curse breaking. Violent, overwhelming, white-hot pleasure ripping through every nerve. Your walls clamped down around him, pulsing and fluttering as you came hard, a broken moan of his name tearing from your throat. Your vision whited out, body shaking violently in his hold as wave after wave tore through you.

Naoya didn’t stop.

He fucked you straight through it, hips snapping relentlessly, drawing out every last tremor until you were oversensitive and whimpering. Only then did he bury himself deep one final time, groaning low and guttural as he came inside you. Hot, thick pulses filling you up while his fingers dug bruises into your hips.

He stayed buried inside you as you both came down, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. His hand loosened on your throat, sliding up to cup your jaw instead. Still possessive, still controlling, but with a new, darker satisfaction burning in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice hoarse but dripping with arrogant triumph. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He kissed you again but slower this time, no less claiming. Then pulled back just enough to look at you with that sharp, obsessive gaze.

“No more ignoring me,” he warned, still deep inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks. “From now on, you look at me. You react to me. You belong to me. Understand?”

His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, eyes narrowing with that familiar Zenin intensity.

“Or next time, I’ll edge you for hours.”

The resolution had come.

Naoya Zenin had won.

And the possessive, obsessive fire between you had only just begun to burn.

The morning light filtered through the shoji screens of Naoya’s private quarters, painting the tatami in soft gold and shadow. The compound outside was already stirring. The distant sounds of training drills, servants moving along the engawa, the faint clash of cursed energy in the air. But inside this room, the world had narrowed to the large futon and the two bodies tangled within it.

You woke first, or at least you thought you did.

Naoya’s arm was draped heavily across your waist, possessive even in sleep. His bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and marked with the faint scratches your nails had left the night before. His cock, half-hard and still nestled between your thighs, twitched faintly as you shifted. The marks he’d left on your neck and shoulders throbbed pleasantly. Dark bites and bruises that would be impossible to hide under your uniform collar.

You tried to slip out from under his arm, moving slowly, testing.

The arm tightened instantly.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was rough with sleep, low and dangerous, lips brushing the back of your neck. He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his hips rolled forward, pressing his growing erection more firmly against your ass. “Didn’t I tell you last night? No more walking away.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. Still a little defiant, still testing the new boundaries. “I was just going to get water, Naoya. Not running to the archives to ignore you.”

He hummed, unconvinced. In one smooth motion, he flipped you onto your back and loomed over you, blond hair messy, green roots visible, sharp brown eyes finally cracking open with that familiar arrogant glint. The three silver piercings in his ear caught the morning light as he smirked down at you.

“Liar,” he murmured, voice still thick. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down your body to cup between your legs. His fingers found you still slick from the night before. His cum and your own release making everything messy and sensitive. “You were going to slip out like always. Old habits.”

Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling lazily as his thumb brushed your clit. You gasped, hips jerking, but he held you down easily.

“Naoya—” you started, the challenge creeping back into your tone even as pleasure sparked through you.

He leaned down, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. “Say it again,” he ordered, pumping his fingers slowly, deliberately building you up. “Tell me who you belong to. Right now.”

You bit back a moan, eyes narrowing up at him in that same bratty spark. “Make me.”

His eyes darkened instantly. The smirk turned sharper, more dangerous.

“Oh, you still haven’t learned?”

He withdrew his fingers, ignoring your frustrated whine, and replaced them with the thick head of his cock. He pushed in slowly this time inch by inch, stretching you open with deliberate control until he was buried to the hilt. Then he stilled.

Completely.

“No moving,” he warned when you tried to roll your hips. Projection Sorcery flickered, locking your lower body in place so you couldn’t chase the friction. “Not until you say it properly.”

He stayed there, buried deep, cock twitching inside you, while his free hand lazily traced circles around your clit. Light enough to tease, never enough to satisfy.

You lasted maybe thirty seconds before the words tumbled out, breathless and edged with need.

“I’m yours,” you gasped, thighs trembling against the invisible hold. “I’m yours, Naoya. I won’t ignore you again. I won’t walk away. Just—please—”

The smirk widened into something almost feral.

“Good girl.”

He released the Projection Sorcery and started moving deep, steady thrusts that quickly turned punishing. The futon creaked beneath you as he fucked you into the mattress, one hand still pinning your wrists, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust drove the point home: you were his now. Completely. No more indifference. No more slipping away.

When you came shaking, crying out his name. He followed right after, spilling deep inside you with a low, satisfied groan.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breathing slowing.

“Better,” he muttered, voice still rough but laced with dark satisfaction. “Keep that up and I might even let you walk around the compound without me shadowing every step.”

You raised an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “Might?”

He nipped at your jaw. “Don’t push it.”

Later that morning, the Zenin compound buzzed with its usual rigid energy.

Naoya walked the main path toward the training grounds with you at his side. Not behind him. Not ahead. Right beside him, close enough that his kimono sleeve occasionally brushed your arm. His posture was the same arrogant stride as always, but his sharp eyes kept sliding toward you, possessive and watchful.

The younger clan members stared openly. Whispers rippled through the courtyard.

“Naoya-sama… with the transfer?”

“He never lets anyone walk beside him like that…”

Kaito, the branch family sorcerer from the drill, passed by and offered you a friendly nod and wave. “Morning! Still up for that tea later—”

He didn’t finish.

Naoya’s arm shot out, wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against his side. His gaze on Kaito was ice-cold, laced with clear warning.

“She’s busy,” Naoya said flatly, voice dripping superiority. “Permanently.”

Kaito blinked, then bowed quickly and hurried off.

You glanced up at Naoya, a small, challenging smile tugging at your lips. “Jealous?”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing your ear as you walked.

“Call it what you want,” he murmured, hand tightening on your waist. “But from now on, the only person who gets your smiles, your laughs, your attention… is me. Understand?”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch—just slightly, enough to make his breath hitch.

“Yes, Naoya,” you said, voice soft but with that familiar spark. “I understand.”

He smirked, satisfied, but the obsessive glint in his eyes promised there would be more “lessons” later if you ever tested him again.

The dynamic had shifted.

No longer neglect versus ego.

Now it was sharp, intense, addictive fire. Bratty challenges met with ruthless control, indifference burned away into raw, possessive obsession.

Naoya Zenin had what he wanted.

You.

And he had no intention of ever letting you look anywhere else.

“Cause I can get him outta here if he’s giving you a hard time.”

“I’m all good, thanks P,” you smiled, lifting your glass over the bartop to nudge his wrist. “Buuuut, you can top me up again.”

“You’re out of it, kid,” he laughed, but took the glass from you anyway. He hadn’t asked you about Jason the whole night, and despite how refreshing it was, it still felt sort of odd.

Did everybody know where he was except you? Or was the alcohol finally turning you into the pitiful sap you always knew you were?

That solace turned reflection was cut short however.

“I’m just saying, everybody’s skirtin’ around it and looking at me sideways.” The Slimeball chuckled to himself, as if he expected the tiny crowd to join in his amusement. “But you’re a good looking girl… like a fine piece a’ somethin’ you know?”

Paulie, in the middle of mixing your drink, looked to you, then to the guy, and back to you again.

You only shrugged. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.

“What? Are you shy?” The guy turned to face you now, the sleazy grin of his face growing by the second. “Don’t pay attention to them, baby, focus on me.” His stool scraped the floor with a high pitched squeak and in the next second he was on his feet towards you.

Immediately, you tensed, but he leaned forward just as quickly. “You actually need to back up—”

“Hey, man— you need to watch it. Jace doesn’t play about that one,” came a random voice you’re sure you recognize, another neighborhood cousin or something.

“And you need to mind your fuckin’ business,” Grimey Guy whipped his head around. “Cause if that’s true, it’s his fault for not watching his girl.”

Upon turning around though, he reached a hand out to touch you.

Your drink was already raised halfway when Paulie and another guy rounded the counter and practically yanked the guy out of his chair. For good measure — and some well needed release of frustration — you downed half your drink then threw the rest in his face, after which he was dragged out back and kicked out — and maybe kicked around a bit, who knows?

But, Jay’s Girl remained triumphant, and the fairytale lived on, until it didn’t. Sort of.

“Well, that sure is a sight.” Roy whistled long and low over the thumping bass. He twirled a Marlboro Red between his fingers idly, grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Meanwhile, Dick’s mouth fell open, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as a hand reached up to clutch his chest. “No way... isn’t that…?”

“Shut up,” Jason, who stood only a few steps away from their little wives-at-teatime gossip huddle grumbled. His lips were set in a deep frown, eyebrows knitted tight and gaze dark.

A humorous sight, if one were to take into consideration that all three of them were in ‘disguise’ for tonight, gathering intel on some high profile guest here at Eden, aka The Cathouse, one of if not the most popular nightclub in East End.

It was alive, electric, bass vibrating through the floorboards and the scent of fruity liquor cloaking the air.

Across the sea of bodies was you, dressed in a silky little thing that was borderline obscene, and the very picture of everything Jason did not want to see, but so desperately needed to.

In truth, this was supposed to be Roy’s job but the fuck-up fucked up and so now he’s here with reinforcements — a bored Dick Grayson who should’ve been back in Blüdhaven yesterday but caught wind of the breakup, which he called ‘The Great Departure’ and figured he’d stick around to boost his poor little bro’s morale — so now Jason is here.

He’s here in this shitty club where some illiterate hog had his hand inching closer to your ass by the second.

You were dancing, hips swaying and chest heaving with the rhythm, yet despite the effort you looked perfect, every bit of you.

From the slight staticky halo of your hair to the soft shine of sweat on your collarbone that looked like glitter and stardust and all things sweet, to your lips that moved in sync with the lyrics of the loud music — those lips, even when painted or lined or plain he can remember the exact curve and shape of them around the syllables of his name, the hiccup of a ti amo, the whisper of an amore mio, the shout of a fuck you, when he suggested that maybe another break is what you two needed.

“Wow,” a whisper came from Roy and Dick nudged him so hard with his elbow that the fake mustache he was wearing hung loose on one side.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jason huffed, downing the last of a shot of something whoever left on the bar counter. And that fucking mustache just kept itching him, Jesus Christ.

The hog in question, God forgive him, had his hands on your hips, chest pressed tight against your back — a little bird’s chest, Jason thought.

His uncle, or really his neighbor that he called Zio Laurenzo because it was just how he grew up — would say it’s a cardinal sin to not have some meat on your bones to keep a woman warm.

Did he keep you warm? Jason wondered. He knew he always ran cold, you’d tease him for it all the time but he didn’t even know why he was wondering about that now. Zio Laurenzo was a bum with a beer belly and two divorces under his belt. The only thing warm about him was his zuppa di pollo.

Madonna, he cursed in his head. He’d been listening to punks and bums all his life, no wonder he messed up with you.

“You’re a natural,” the guy whose name you’d already forgotten murmured against your ear. “You related to Lola Falana maybe?”

You laughed loud and loose, just the slightest bit tipsy and feeling yourself too much. It’s been a minute since you’ve gone out, a couple more minutes since you’ve entertained a guy just for the sake of it.

“Maybe.” It felt good. Not exactly fulfilling, but fun. You needed fun.

His hands guided your hips into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat matching each bump of the heavy bass.

You got lost in the music, in the heat rather quickly, your collarbones and forearms slightly slick with sweat and cold to touch but the alcohol hot inside your veins, the bumping and grinding of your hips against his even hotter.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he shouted near your ear over the music, taking a gentle hold of your hand and spinning you around to face him. And oh boy, was he fine.

You told him your name with a playful smirk teasing at your lips, eyes hung low and a hand on his bicep.

The moment the last syllable left your mouth, the guy looked at you as if he’d seen a ghost, the heat of the club long diffused and an expression on his face that read bewilderment instead of sex.

“Repeat that?”

You said your name again and a hand came over his mouth instantaneously in utter shock. You could hardly believe it. “Woman, you tryin’ to get me killed?” He exclaimed in horror.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Your lips curved into a frown.

He drew in a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “Look, you’re a nice girl and all…” he met your gaze and cringed just a little, fearful. “Like what I mean is, you’re nice— in a friend kinda way— like I wasn’t tryin’ to put no kind of word to you or nothing like that—”

The longer he spoke, the more your shoulders slumped and your nose scrunched up in confusion. Was this guy one of those fucking mood-swing-having kind of drunks, because the fuck?

“It’s just… you know, I don’t know what’s the situation with you two and if you’re steppin’ out,” he went on, scratching the back of his neck. “But I can’t go there— not that I was trying to, of course! Let’s get that solid— cause you’re Jay’s girl and I—”

“Excuse me?”

“Nah, I’m good.” He shook his head firmly. “Everybody knows he doesn’t play about you.”

“Everybody knows this?” Your face screwed up in a mix of disbelief and offense. “Listen, we broke up—”

He barked a laugh, right in your face. “Look, dolly, I came for a good time, not to get my ass beat. So I suggest you sing that little freshly divorced song with like, I don’t know, at least six feet between us.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You have a good night,” he shrugged. “And congrats when you two get back together,” he said, giving you a quick nod before he walked away, easing between swaying bodies in the direction of the bar.

“Fucking punk!” You yelled after him. What a drag.

“Do I have to keep wearing this mustache?” Dick groaned, index finger itching at his upper lip. He was sitting on one of the barstools, attempting to survey the crowd.

“Oh, lookey here!” Roy’s posture straightened and his teeth shone in a grin, a tiny umbrella that he plucked from a glass idly twirling between his forefinger and thumb. “Cassio is steadily approaching.”

He turned to Dick who gave him a quizzical look.

“You’re not well read at all, man,” he continued, tossing the umbrella towards a brooding Jason, leaning against the bar with his hands crossed over his chest.

“And who are you supposed to be, Bianca?” Jason’s brows rose, then his expression shifted as he realized who Cassio was in question — the fucker that was dancing with you earlier.

A silence fell over the group as the guy rounded the bar and ordered a drink, scratching at his brow. He looked at Roy, then at Dick, both pretending not to look back at him.

Then he looked at Jason who was staring him head on.

“Do I know you?” The guy squinted, brows furrowed and head tilted forward. “You from around here?”

“No.” Jason responded, voice a little deeper for his disguise, or maybe something else entirely. Either way, it was fucking hilarious.

“Ah,” the guy nodded, looking away. The air was heavy and awkward, and Roy’s lips pursed with the effort of holding back a laugh.

“So, uh,” Dick cleared his throat, fingers thrumming against the bartop. “That’s a nice necklace, man.”

The guy looked up at him oddly. “You tryna rob me or something?”

There was a pause, and Dick stuttered slightly before the guy chuckled. “Just fucking with you, sorry. But, yeah, thanks,” he reached a hand up to finger the chain. It was a silver cross with a few tiny diamonds. “My girl got it for me.”

Jason’s jaw ticked.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Roy grinned. Dick turned away to stifle a laugh under his mustache. “Damn. That’s real sweet, huh, Johnny?”

Johnny — or Jason, grunted under his breath in response. “Li mortacci tua.”

No way you moved on already. And least of all with BirdChest. No way, there’s just no way.

He reached for the Marlboro Red that Roy abandoned on the bartop and fished a lighter out of his pants pocket. Before he could light it, Dick snatched it from his hands.

“Yeah, she’s a real nice girl… nags like hell though,” Random guy who you might’ve possibly moved on with, said. “Just the way these broads are, I guess.”

“It’s a bit much talkin’ shit about a lady who can’t defend herself ‘cause she’s across the room,” Jason intervened. Which he might as well, now that the scrub was calling you out of your name and he didn’t have a cigarette between his teeth because somebody felt like parenting him on what should be a covert operation.

“Oh, that one? Nah, not her.” The guy shrugged, sipping his drink. “That one just set me up to fucking die, can you believe that shit? Came out to escape the nagging and what I get instead is a one way ticket to Death Row.”

“What do you mean?” Dick leaned closer, and when Roy looked at him with a bottom lip drawn between his teeth to hold a laugh, he only shrugged. Good goss is good goss.

“She’s a real cute thing, you saw her right?” Roy and Dick nodded simultaneously. Jason scoffed. “We’re dancing, right? And I’m feeling her and she’s feeling me—”

“Yeah, fuckin’ stunad…” Jason grumbled to himself.

“Then I go and ask her name, she tells me, and I’m thinking to myself, where do I know this piece from, y’know?” The guy continued. He shook his head. “Man, would you believe that’s Jay’s girl?”

Dick and Roy exchanged a look, then shrugged in faux ignorance.

“Jay? You know how many Jays are in Gotham—” Roy started.

“Fuckin’ Jay from the Alley, man,” the guy exclaimed. “Big, burly son of a bitch. The one with the scar on his face. Motherfucker’s built like a matador—”

“Oh, really?” Dick rested a hand against his jaw.

“Really,” the guy huffed. “And she’s just out here looking like that and dancing on people— have you seen the size of that guy’s fist? Fuck’s sake… I could’ve lost my life...”

Jason smirked to himself then shook his head to get rid of it. You weren’t his girl, you weren’t. Not really and not in all the ways that mattered.

Was he wrong for feeling a liiitle bit on cloud nine at the notion of Bird Chest the Handsy Hog fucking off because of two words? Maybe. But he’d been wrong about plenty of things in his life, he could do with another on his conscience.

“Yo, Benny!” Came a shout and the guy in question whipped his head around. Oh, Bird Chest Benny. You would’ve loved to witness this in real time, he thought.

“Go easy, fellas,” Benny said, downing the last of his drink and stuffing a few bills under the glass. “And watch out for that girl I told you about. Wouldn’t wanna see any of you on the Missing Persons’ list.”

When Benny left the bar there was silence between the trio, a heavy, amused silence as Dick cradled his stomach to keep from bursting out into a guffaw.

Roy was the first to speak, and he sighed, long and dramatic, rising from his stool to stretch his aching arms. “O beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green eyed monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on—”

“—You’re done.” Jason interrupted, damn near lunging towards Roy who cackled with mischief, and Dick, who was still sitting there holding his stomach, had his lips pursed in intense thought.

“Oh, wait a minute, I get it now!” Dick shouted, rising from his seat. “Othello!”

“Need a light?”

Your entire body went stiff for a moment and a yelp escaped your throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” you whipped your head around, cigarette dangling carelessly between your fingers and eyes wide with momentary fright.

“Announce yourself first, Dracula.”

Jason could only fix his face in a sheepish little smile, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket to fish out the lighter he’d intended to use earlier but didn’t have the chance.

The music from inside the club was muffled, the bass reduced to something like a tickle under your feet from where you both stood at the darkened back entrance.

You leaned forward, hands cupped and raised up to the click of his calloused thumb against the lighter, the small flame warming your fingertips.

“You got a ride home?” Jason asked, one hand cradling both of yours and raising them nearer to the flame, the tip of the cigarette finally catching light.

“Something like that,” you murmured, drawing in a puff, a soft plume of smoke leaving your nostrils. You withdrew your hands from his and he nodded, shoving the lighter back into his pocket.

He understood why. Of course, this wasn’t a thing, not exactly and not anymore. So he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, still unable to hide the long gaze that raked over your features from where the timid light of the cigarette and the brightness of the moon cast shadows over your face. You were beautiful.

“What’s with the mustache?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You were so beautiful and he was so stupid.

“Oh, that… that, uh…” Jason reached up to peel the embarrassingly fluffy, hairy thing off his face. “That was part of a covert operation,” he said, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended it to.

You laughed despite yourself. “A covert operation?”

“What’s it to you, Columbo?” He grumbled, a smile stretching on his mouth. He missed you. You hadn’t even been apart for long and he missed you.

You dug your heels into the asphalt, taking a deep drag of the cigarette between your fingers. With a long exhale, you looked over at him then looked away, but he caught your gaze in between, his gaze shooting to the ground.

“So… you and that guy in there—”

“Is that seriously how you wanna start right now?” You turned to look at him. “You were watching me?”

“I was gonna say sorry,” he looked up at you. “For ruining your night. He didn’t seem to stick around long, so I figured…”

“No, you’re not.” You shook your head, an almost bitter laugh of disbelief leaving your mouth in huffs of smoke. “No, you’re not, you fucking asshole—”

You were laughing, hiccuping through each harsh draw of breath and wheeze of laughter. Jason bit back a shit eating grin because of course you knew him well enough to call his bluff.

“You’re right,” he nodded, the words coming as a brief mumble under his breath. “I… I don’t know, I just can’t remember why we broke up.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted a break—”

He turned his body towards you and interrupted. “A break, not a break up.” Jason sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “And then you just started throwing shit at me, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, Jason,” you flicked your cigarette away, outing the meek flame under your shoe. “Maybe call? Maybe come look for me? Maybe don’t spy on me with the Jay sanctioned protection squad?”

He straightened his posture, blinking slowly. “If this is about what happened at Paulie’s…”

You scoffed. “What happened at Paulie’s was none of your business. I can handle myself.”

Jason’s eyebrows rose in mock pride. “Yeah, word on the street is you waterboarded the guy with a glass of rum and coke.” The smile on his face faltered slightly, and his voice came quieter. “I know you can. I know that. It’s just different because—”

“Because I’m yours?” Your gaze met his, and you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look the slightest bit pathetic. Good, he deserved that. You wasted half a rum and coke because of his stupid ass. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He swallowed, taking his hands from his pockets and wiping them on his jeans. Okay, so yeah, he did deserve that. “I was an idiot. I’m still an idiot… And I didn’t mean to disappear on you like that.”

“But you did.”

“But I did,” he hung his head. “I did, and I fucked up, and you shouldn’t even hear me out. Because I was too much of a fuckin’ coward to come find you but seeing you here tonight, I just….”

“You just what?” He watched the way your mouth curved over the syllables. “Got jealous?”

“Follia,” he huffed. “Don’t get hasty, I didn’t say all that—”

“Oh my God, you were jealous,” you grinned wolfishly, eyes bright with amusement as you stepped closer to him. “You thought I was with that guy in there.”

“As if,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Look at him and look at you, in what world would you ever go for that sorta—”

“But I was with him and not you,” your lips pursed just the slightest, a tease, but nothing short of the truth. “Did it make you mad?”

A brief silence passed between you two, his dark blue eyes drifting from your eyes down to your lips, then back up again.

“What do you think?”

“Jealous, mad,” you raised two fingers, wiggling them slightly as you counted. “Mad or jealous. Uno dei due.”

“Brava,” he hummed. “You’re a natural.”

You tried to ignore the way your stomach did a somersault. “I’m still mad at you, and probably will be for a long time,” you said, lifting your head and pointing your nose at him firmly. “So, if you felt jealous, boo fuckin’ hoo, that’s your penance to pay.”

“I know that,” he nodded. “And I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me, not unless I really worked for it, I’m sure.” Jason reached for your hand and you let him, a calloused thumb stroking the back of your hand.

He was so warm compared to you right now, even though he ran cold. “But I do want to apologize, if you’ll let me.”

You pretended to think about it, your other hand reaching up to scratch the side of your head. “I mean, it really depends on the quality of your apology. You did leave me high and dry to go dress up as Mr. Potato Head—”

“Again, it was a covert operation—”

“I just don’t think a little apology is gonna cut it…” you sighed with faux hurt.

“I swear to God, I will get on my knees right now.” Jason said, deadpan.

You quirked a brow at him. “You wouldn’t.”

Before the last syllable had left your mouth, his knees hit the cold asphalt in front of you, those dark blue eyes staring up at you, electric and determined. Your heartbeat roared all the way up to your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, Jason—” you ducked your head in embarrassment, a shameful heat prickling your skin. You were suddenly aware of everyone and everything that could witness this display. A car driving by, a girl slipping outside to answer her phone, a guy idling on a bike parked a decent few feet away.

“Guardarmi,” he whispered. You looked up at him immediately. “Focus on me. Let me fix this.”

Your breath stuttered but you nodded all the same. “Apologize,” you said.

“I was wrong,” he scooted closer. “I was wrong and I’m sorry and I swear to you—”

“Don’t promise me anything,” you interrupted, looking down at him. The faintest redness dusted the flesh of his cheeks. “Apologize, better.”

“I messed up,” he continued. His hands rested on the dips of your waist. “I should’ve called or come to you but I didn’t. But I’ll fix it, I’ll do better by you. I know I don’t own you… I know that, but when you take me back—”

“If I take you back,” you clarified firmly. “I’m not your girl—”

Jason pressed a kiss to the hem of your shirt. “And if you don’t like it, I’ll set it straight so no one calls you that again, you know? I never need you to be my girl — maybe not even mine, I just need you.”

“Not your girl yet,” you murmured, finishing your previous sentence. “I don’t hear you apologizing.”

“Madonna Santa,” Jason nuzzled his forehead against your stomach. “I know, I fuckin’ know and I’m begging on my knees here, doll,” he groaned. “Mi dispiace, mi perdoni…”

He looked up at you with those eyes and you covered your face in defense. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that, it’s cheating.”

“Amore,” he whispered but you shook your head with a muffled mm-mm. “Ho bisogno del suo perdono.”

You peeked down at him from between your fingers, and he was still staring up at you with those big, wet eyes.

“Oh my God, get up, you look stupid,” you huffed, but a smile played at the corner of your mouth the whole time.

“Does this mean—?” Jason shifted, rising onto one knee.

“Fuck no,” you rolled your eyes. “At least take me home first,” you grumbled and he deflated slightly, the sadness evident in the smallest downturn of his lips. You had to bite back a laugh.

“But, you do owe me a rum and coke,” you continued as he rose to his feet, already walking ahead of him. Jason tried and failed to hide his enthusiasm, a grin blooming on his features.

“Yeah?”

“What about your little entourage?” You asked and he looked at you quizzically. “The rest of Mustache Incorporated.”

Jason’s brows rose in realization. Roy and Dick were still inside. Nevertheless, he shrugged. “They’re uh… working on some notes about Othello for me.”

“Othello?” You chuckled, and he caught up to your side.

“Covert operation, remember?” Jason whistled. “We have to have codenames.”

Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Panic explodes in your chest, tight and suffocating. Your hands fly up to press against your sternum, feeling the frantic thud of a heart that isn’t supposed to be yours. Cold sweat prickles along your hairline and down your back. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. If I don’t change this right now, he will kill me. I have to win him over — the man I’ve been completely obsessed with — before he decides I’m still that same woman who deserves to die.

The heavy wooden door creaks open. Two maids slip inside, heads bowed low, shoulders hunched like they’re expecting the worst. They carry a tray between them with a pitcher of steaming water, neatly folded linens, and a small bowl of scented oil. Their footsteps are quick but nearly silent on the cold stone floor, as if they’re trying to disturb you as little as possible.

“My Lady,” the older maid says quietly, almost whispering as she carefully sets the tray down on the side table. “We’re here to help you dress. Your usual silks today?”

You swallow and keep your voice soft. “No, not the silks. Something simpler and warmer, please. I’m going down to have breakfast with the Duke in the dining hall.”

The younger maid’s eyes go wide. She almost drops the pitcher, water sloshing dangerously over the rim and dripping onto the floor. “Breakfast… with His Grace?” she blurts, voice cracking with surprise. “In the dining hall?”

The older maid quickly elbows her and forces a nervous smile, though her hands are visibly shaking. “Are you sure, My Lady? He always eats alone. He might not… like it if you show up.”

You nod, sliding your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is icy against your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. “I’m sure. Please help me get ready.” You pause, then add gently, “And thank you. Both of you.”

The maids go completely still. The younger one stares at you with her mouth slightly open, pitcher forgotten in her hands. The older one blinks rapidly, her hands freezing mid-air above the tray. They exchange a wide-eyed, startled glance, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. The silence stretches for a long, awkward moment, thick with confusion and unease.

Finally, the older maid clears her throat. “Of course, My Lady. Right away.”

They hesitate for another heartbeat, still stealing uncertain glances at you, before hurrying into motion. Their hands are a little clumsier than usual as they help you out of the nightgown and into a heavy charcoal gown with long sleeves. The soft wool feels warm and comforting against the chill in the air. While they brush out your hair and pin it up in a simple style, they keep darting quick, nervous looks at your reflection in the mirror. The younger maid’s fingers tremble slightly as she works, and the older one’s breathing is a touch too shallow.

They finish dressing you in tense, heavy silence. Once they step back, you thank them again. They both bow deeply, still visibly unsettled, and you step out into the torch-lit corridor. Servants you pass press themselves flat against the walls, whispering frantically the moment your back is turned. Your heart hammers louder with every step toward the grand dining hall.

The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.

There he is.

Duke Ryomen Sukuna sits alone at the head of the long oak table. Pale morning light filters through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. Loose strands of pink hair have escaped their tie and fall across his forehead. His dark tunic stretches tight over broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, the collar open just enough to reveal the edges of intricate black tattoos that swirl across his collarbones and down his arms. Crimson eyes are narrowed in concentration as he cuts into a thick slab of meat with slow, deliberate strokes of his knife. Old scars mark the visible skin of his neck and the backs of his large, calloused hands. He radiates raw, quiet danger — the kind that makes the air feel heavier. This is the man you’ve spent months fantasizing about, the one whose every appearance in the manhwa made your pulse race.

You walk straight to the chair on his right — the seat that has stayed empty for the entire six months of your marriage — and sit down.

His knife stops mid-cut.

The silence is immediate and suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire.

Sukuna’s crimson gaze lifts slowly. It locks onto you with raw disbelief and burning disgust. His jaw clenches, the scar along his cheek tightening. For a long moment he simply stares, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or some new form of insult.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low and rough, laced with irritation.

You swallow hard, hands trembling under the table. You force a small, nervous smile and say softly, “Good morning, husband. I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together for once.”

The words hang in the air.

Sukuna’s expression darkens. He sets the knife down with a sharp clink that echoes through the hall. Slowly he rises to his full height, towering over you — tall, broad-chested, every inch the warlord who has killed without hesitation. The look he gives you is ice-cold.

“You thought it would be nice?” His voice is low, cold, and dripping with contempt. “Six fucking months you couldn’t even be bothered to speak to me… and now you suddenly decide to play house?”

He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape and rises to his full height, towering over you. His large hand clenches so tightly around the back of the chair that the wood groans in protest.

“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”

Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel. His cloak snaps behind him like a whip as he stalks out of the hall. The heavy doors slam shut with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and makes the silverware rattle on the table.

You’re left completely alone at the long table, staring at his abandoned plate as the food rapidly cools. Your heart pounds violently in your chest.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.

But you don’t run. You pick up your fork with still-shaking fingers, take a small bite of the now-lukewarm food, and force yourself to swallow. A heavy, determined weight settles in your stomach alongside the food.

The rest of the morning dragged by in a haze of nervous energy. You moved carefully through the castle, speaking softly to the servants, thanking them for small things, and trying not to overwhelm anyone with your sudden change in behavior. Every time someone flinched or stared too long, your stomach twisted. You knew they were waiting for the old you to snap back into place.

By mid-afternoon the light outside had shifted to a softer gold, and the castle felt a little less oppressive. You decided it was time to try something more direct.

You found one of the kitchen maids and asked her to prepare a simple tray — strong black tea, warm bread, and a few slices of roasted meat. These were the things you remembered him enjoying in the manhwa, the small details you’d clung to while reading late at night. Nothing too elaborate. When the tray was ready, you took it yourself, ignoring the wide-eyed, startled looks from the staff as you carried it down the long corridor toward Sukuna’s private study. Your heart beat faster with every step.

Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of your throat. Two guards outside the heavy double doors stared at you in open confusion but didn’t stop you. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and knocked once.

A gruff “Come in” came from inside.

You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.

The room was exactly the kind of place you’d pictured him in — tall shelves lined with old books and rolled scrolls, a massive oak desk covered in maps and scattered letters, weapons mounted neatly on one wall. A fire burned low in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of smoke and polished leather. Sukuna sat behind the desk, quill in hand, pink hair tied back messily with a few loose strands falling forward. He didn’t look up right away, focused on whatever he was writing.

Then his crimson eyes flicked up.

The moment they landed on you holding the tray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His expression shifted from irritation to pure suspicion in a heartbeat.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice low and flat, like he was already tired of whatever game he thought you were playing.

You stepped further inside and carefully set the tray down on the edge of his desk, trying not to let your hands shake too obviously. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything at breakfast,” you said quietly. “So I brought some tea and a few things. It’s nothing fancy. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry by now.”

Sukuna leaned back in his chair, studying you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. He glanced at the tray, then back at your face.

“You brought me food,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the words. “You suddenly show up with tea and bread like we’re… what? Friends now?”

He pushed his chair back and stood, circling around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of you. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Up close he was even more overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and steel and something darker, the way his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space between you.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I know I’ve been terrible to you,” you said, voice soft but steady. “I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I just… I want to try and do better. That’s all.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out and picked up one of the slices of bread, turning it over in his large hand as if checking it for poison. Then he dropped it back onto the tray with a quiet scoff.

“You want to try,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and a sharp edge of mockery. “How convenient. Tell me, wife — what exactly changed overnight? Did someone put you up to this?”

His hand suddenly came up, fingers gripping your chin firmly but not harshly, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His touch was warm, rough from years of fighting, and the closeness made your pulse spike.

“Or are you just scared I’ll finally do what everyone’s been expecting me to do for months?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Your breath caught. Being this close to him — feeling the intensity rolling off him in waves — made fear and something far more complicated twist together in your stomach.

“I’m not here to scheme,” you whispered. “I just don’t want things to keep being like this.”

Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His thumb brushed once over your jaw, almost absentmindedly, before he let go and stepped back.

“Get out,” he said, the words cold but quieter than you expected. “And take your pity tray with you.”

He didn’t move away any further. He stayed standing there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes — like he was waiting to see whether you would actually leave… or do something else.

You didn’t argue.

You simply picked up the tray with both hands, gave him a small nod, and left the study without another word. The heavy doors clicked shut behind you. The hallway felt longer than usual as you walked back toward your chambers, the tray growing heavier with every step.

Once inside your room, you set the tray down on a side table and closed the door. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

That went badly.

You let out a slow breath, rubbing your hands over your thighs. The memory of Sukuna’s cold stare and dismissive words kept replaying in your head. He hadn’t even touched the food. He’d barely listened.

Of course he didn’t. Months of silence doesn’t just disappear because I brought him tea.

You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the canopy above the bed. The situation felt heavier now. Fixing this relationship was going to be a lot harder than you’d hoped. He clearly still saw you as the same person who had ignored and schemed against him for half a year. And why wouldn’t he?

If you couldn’t turn this around, things were only going to get worse. You didn’t want to think about how the original story ended, but the possibility lingered in the back of your mind anyway.

You sat there for a while, the afternoon light slowly shifting across the room. Eventually you stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the grounds. Your mind kept turning over what to try next. Another small gesture? Giving him more space? Something else entirely?

It was going to take time. A lot of it. And patience you weren’t sure you had.

You sighed quietly and moved away from the window, already thinking about what you could do tomorrow.

The next morning arrived quietly.

You woke earlier than usual, the soft grey light filtering through the tall windows pulling you from a restless sleep. For a few minutes you lay there, staring at the velvet canopy above the bed, thinking about yesterday. The rejections still stung, but you refused to give up after just one bad day.

You got up, washed, and chose a simple but elegant deep-grey gown. After eating a light breakfast alone in your room, you decided on a different approach today. No trays, no forcing your way into his meals. Just quiet presence.

You made your way to the castle’s main library — a spacious, peaceful room lined with tall shelves of books and scrolls. You picked a thick volume on regional history from the shelves and settled into a comfortable chair near the window where the light was good. Not too close to his usual spot, but not hiding either.

About an hour later, the door opened.

Sukuna walked in, still wearing his cloak from whatever business he’d been handling outside. He stopped short when he saw you already there, book open in your lap.

For a brief second his expression flickered with surprise before settling back into that familiar guarded look.

“You’re here too now,” he said, voice flat as he moved toward the large table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading some documents in front of him. “Is there anywhere in this castle that’s still mine?”

You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.

“I can leave if you want,” you offered calmly. “I just thought it might be nice to read in here. It’s quiet.”

Sukuna didn’t tell you to go. He leaned back in his chair and studied you for a moment, crimson eyes sharp and assessing.

“You’ve been talking quite a bit these past two days,” he said, tone dry. “More than I’m used to.”

You gave a small, honest shrug. “I know. I’m trying to change that.”

He tapped his fingers once against the table, watching you openly now. “Trying,” he echoed, like he was testing the word. “That’s what you keep saying. But I still don’t know why.”

You hesitated, then answered simply, “Because I don’t like how things have been between us. And I think we could be… better. If we tried.”

Sukuna let out a short, humorless breath and leaned back further, still studying you.

“Better,” he repeated. “That’s a bold claim.” He paused, then added quietly, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in pretending.”

But he didn’t ask you to leave.

You stayed in the library for another hour, reading in silence while he worked across from you. He didn’t speak again, but every so often you caught him glancing in your direction — wary, confused, and just a little unsettled.

It wasn’t much.

But it also wasn’t outright rejection.

You stayed in the library for another hour, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of the fire. You kept your eyes mostly on your book, though you were barely absorbing the words. Every now and then you felt Sukuna’s gaze on you — heavy, searching, and still full of suspicion.

Eventually, he set his quill down with a quiet tap. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked at you directly.

“If you’re serious about wanting to fix things,” he said, voice low and even, “then maybe you should start by actually appearing publicly with me.”

You looked up from your book, surprised. He continued before you could respond.

“There’s a ball tomorrow night at the capital. I’m expected to attend.” He paused, studying your reaction. “Rumors have already reached half the empire that my wife hates me. It would be good to change the public perception a little. At least act like a fucking couple for once.”

The invitation — if it could even be called that — hung in the air. It wasn’t warm or romantic. It was a test, plain and simple.

You closed your book slowly and met his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. “If that’s what you want.”

Sukuna watched you for a long moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, something unreadable flickered across his face.

“Good,” he said simply. Then he stood up, gathering some of his documents. “Be ready by evening tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”

He headed toward the door, cloak shifting over his shoulders. Just before he left, he paused and glanced back at you one last time.

“And try not to embarrass me,” he added, though his tone was less biting than before. Almost… cautious.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet library once again.

You let out a long breath and leaned back in your chair, heart still racing. A public ball. Tomorrow. With Sukuna.

This was a big step — and a dangerous one. You’d have to be careful. Very careful.

But it was also an opportunity. A chance to stand beside him in front of everyone and start showing that you were different.

You stood up, clutching the book to your chest, a mix of nerves and quiet determination settling in your stomach.

Tomorrow it is.

The next day passed in a quiet blur of nerves and preparation.

You spent most of the afternoon trying not to overthink everything, but as evening approached, the anxiety crept in anyway. When the maids finally arrived to help you get ready, they moved around your room with careful, slightly confused energy — still adjusting to this gentler version of their mistress.

You chose a deep crimson gown made of rich, heavy silk that flowed elegantly to the floor. It had long, fitted sleeves and a modestly elegant neckline that showed just enough collarbone to feel refined rather than daring. The maids helped you into it, lacing the back with steady fingers while you stood in front of the large mirror. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your skin, the color bringing out a quiet intensity you hadn’t expected.

They brushed your hair until it gleamed, working through every tangle with patient strokes. Most of it was pinned up into an elegant style with delicate silver pins, but they left a few soft strands loose to frame your face. One of the maids added a simple but beautiful necklace with a single dark gem that rested just below your collarbone, along with matching earrings. A touch of rose-tinted balm was applied to your lips, and a light dusting of powder to even your complexion.

You stared at your reflection the entire time, heart beating faster. This version of you looked every bit the refined duchess — poised, beautiful, and completely unlike the cold, silent woman the public had come to expect at Sukuna’s side.

“You look beautiful, My Lady,” the older maid said softly as she stepped back, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.

“Thank you,” you replied quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of the gown. Inside, your stomach was in knots. This would be your first real public appearance with Sukuna. Everyone would be watching. Waiting for the usual tension or outright disdain they’d grown used to seeing between the Duke and his wife.

A firm knock sounded at the door.

“He’s ready for you, My Lady,” a servant called from the hallway.

You took one last steadying breath, thanked the maids again, and stepped out.

Sukuna was waiting in the main hall, dressed in formal black with subtle gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His pink hair was neatly tied back, and the sight of him in full formal attire made your chest tighten. He looked every bit the powerful duke — tall, imposing, and dangerously handsome.

His crimson eyes swept over you slowly, from head to toe. For a moment his expression was unreadable.

“You’re actually coming,” he said, voice low. It wasn’t quite a question.

“I said I would,” you replied simply.

He gave a short nod, then offered his arm. The gesture felt stiff, like he was still testing whether you’d take it or pull away at the last second.

You slipped your hand through his arm without hesitation. His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.

As you walked together toward the waiting carriage, he spoke again, keeping his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“People talk. A lot. If we’re going to do this, at least try to look like you don’t hate being next to me.”

You glanced up at him. “I don’t hate it.”

Sukuna didn’t respond, but his grip on your arm tightened just slightly — not painful, just… firmer. Like he was anchoring himself.

The carriage ride to the capital was quiet, the only sounds being the wheels on the road and the occasional shift of fabric. Sukuna sat across from you, watching the passing scenery with a distant expression. Every so often his gaze would drift back to you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were really there.

When the carriage finally slowed to a stop outside the grand hall, music and warm light spilled out into the night. You could already hear the murmur of voices and feel the weight of the eyes that would soon be on both of you.

Sukuna stepped out first, then offered his hand to help you down. His palm was warm and steady against yours.

“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.

You nodded, slipping your hand back into the crook of his arm.

“Then let’s go act like a fucking couple.”

The grand hall glowed under hundreds of crystal chandeliers, casting warm golden light across marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Music from a full orchestra swelled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk and satin gowns. The scent of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and roasted meats from the banquet tables hung heavy in the room.

The moment you and Sukuna stepped through the tall arched entrance together, the entire atmosphere shifted.

Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the crowd like a wave.

You felt every eye on you. Some were curious, some shocked, many openly calculating. The Duke and Duchess of the North rarely appeared together in public — and when they had in the past, it had always been marked by cold distance and icy silence.

Tonight was different.

Sukuna’s arm was solid beneath your fingers as he guided you forward. His posture was straight and commanding, every inch the powerful Duke Sukuna the empire feared and respected. You stayed close, your hand resting lightly but deliberately on his arm, chin lifted with quiet confidence.

A portly lord with a heavy gold chain and an embroidered waistcoat approached first, bowing deeply.

“Your Grace, Duke Sukuna,” he said smoothly, then turned to you with a slightly wider smile. “And Duchess… what an unexpected pleasure to see you both together this evening.”

Sukuna gave a curt nod. “My wife wished to attend. I saw no reason to refuse her.”

The lord’s eyebrows rose, but he recovered quickly. “How wonderful. The two of you make quite the striking pair tonight. The Duke and Duchess of the North, united at last.”

You offered a polite, gentle smile. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Sukuna’s arm tensed slightly under your hand, but he didn’t pull away. As the lord moved on, more nobles drifted closer, drawn by the unusual sight. You heard the whispers clearly now.

“...the Duke and Duchess actually look civil…”

“I thought she hated him…”

“Look at them. She’s practically standing with him…”

Sukuna kept you close the entire time, one large hand occasionally resting at the small of your back as you moved through the hall. The touch was possessive, almost protective, even if his face remained cool and composed.

Later, when the orchestra struck up a slower, more intimate melody, Sukuna leaned down, his voice low against your ear.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded. He led you onto the polished floor, one broad hand settling firmly on your waist while the other held yours. He moved with surprising grace for someone of his size and power — confident, controlled, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. You followed his lead, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm burning through the silk of your gown, the solid wall of his chest so close to yours, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.

For a few moments the rest of the room seemed to fade.

“You’re doing better than I expected,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the music. His crimson eyes flicked down to meet yours. “People are staring less like they’re waiting for us to start arguing in the middle of the floor.”

You looked up at him, a small genuine smile tugging at your lips. “I told you I wanted to try.”

His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your gown, almost absentmindedly.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, though there was less bite in his tone than usual. “This doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”

“I know,” you replied softly. “But thank you for giving me the chance anyway.”

Sukuna didn’t answer. But he also didn’t let go of you when the song ended. Instead, he kept his hand on your lower back as he guided you off the floor, staying closer than strictly necessary.

A short while later, a group of older lords approached Sukuna. One of them — a tall man with silver hair and sharp features — gave a respectful bow.

“Your Grace, if we could steal a moment of your time? There are some matters regarding the northern border that require your input.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened for a brief second. He glanced down at you, then back at the lords.

“Fine,” he said curtly. “I won’t be long.”

Before he stepped away, he leaned in close to your ear, voice low. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”

You nodded. His hand lingered on your waist for one extra second before he pulled away and followed the group toward a quieter side balcony for their discussion.

Suddenly, you were alone.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, trying to look more relaxed than you felt. The weight of curious stares hadn’t faded. A few noblewomen still whispered behind their fans, and every so often someone would glance your way with open speculation.

A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.

“Duchess, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a proper introduction tonight.”

You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and sharp green eyes watching you with a lazy, confident smile. He was dressed in deep emerald and black, a marquess’s insignia pinned neatly to his lapel.

“Marquess Toji Fushiguro,” he introduced himself with a respectful bow of his head. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the years. Though I must say, seeing you here with the Duke tonight is… refreshing.”

His tone was warm and easy, without any obvious scheming edge. You felt yourself relax just a little.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marquess,” you replied with a small smile. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before. You handle the eastern trade routes, don’t you?”

Toji’s smile widened, looking genuinely pleased that you knew. “I do. Though I’m surprised you’re familiar with such dull matters. Most duchesses prefer to stay far away from trade talk.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly well. He was charming in a straightforward, slightly roguish way — asking light questions about the northern estates, commenting on the music, and even making a dry joke about how stiff most balls tended to be. You found yourself smiling more naturally, the tension in your shoulders easing as you chatted. For the first time that evening, talking to someone felt… comfortable.

Toji tilted his head slightly, green eyes glinting with curiosity. “If I may be bold, Duchess — you seem different tonight than what the rumors suggested. Happier, perhaps?”

You were about to respond when a large, familiar hand suddenly slid around your waist from behind, fingers gripping your hip with clear possessiveness. A warm, solid body pressed against your back, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Sukuna.

His grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. The heat of his body seeped through the silk of your gown, and his thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone — a blatant, territorial claim.

Toji’s easy smile faltered for half a second before he recovered, inclining his head respectfully.

“Duke Sukuna,” he greeted calmly. “I was just keeping your wife company while you were occupied.”

Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous, rumbling against your back. “I can see that.” His hand stayed firmly on your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make a point. “Though I don’t recall asking anyone to entertain my duchess.”

You felt the tension rolling off him in waves. His other arm came around your other side, almost caging you against him in front of the entire hall.

Toji raised an eyebrow, still perfectly civil. “No offense meant, Your Grace. It was an honor speaking with the Duchess.”

Sukuna didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke loud enough for Toji to hear.

“We’re leaving this conversation,” he said flatly. Then, louder, “Come, wife.”

Sukuna didn’t stop walking until he had guided you into a quieter corner of the grand hall, partially shielded by a tall marble pillar and heavy crimson velvet drapes. The music and chatter of the ball felt distant now, muffled. His hand never left your hip. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers digging possessively into the silk of your gown as though he needed the contact to ground himself.

He turned you to face him with surprising care, then backed you gently but firmly against the cool marble pillar. One large hand stayed locked on your waist while the other came up to brace beside your head, effectively caging you in. His body heat enveloped you instantly — warm, solid, and overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and something darker clung to him, making your pulse stutter.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. His crimson eyes burned down into yours with unmistakable intensity. “Laughing with him like the two of you were old friends. Did you forget you’re here with me tonight?”

The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable — sharp, dark, and barely leashed.

You kept your voice calm, though your heart was racing. “We were only talking. He was civil. Nothing more.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched visibly. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the curve of your hip through the thin silk, a possessive caress that sent heat rushing across your skin.

“Civil,” he repeated, the word laced with pure disdain. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way he smiled at you.”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. “And here I thought you were trying to mend our relationship. Yet the second I turn my back, you’re chatting and smiling with another man like it means nothing.”

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained frustration rolling off him in waves. One of his fingers slipped just beneath the edge of your gown, brushing bare skin at your hip — a deliberate, claiming touch.

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he growled softly, lips brushing your ear. “Especially not with bastards like Toji Fushiguro.”

You swallowed hard, breath shallow. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just being polite while you were busy.”

Sukuna let out a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat — half a scoff, half a laugh. His free hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his burning crimson gaze.

“Polite,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly along your jawline. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you out of here the moment I saw his hand move toward you.”

His eyes dropped to your lips for a long, heavy second. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the tension might snap at any moment. For a heartbeat you thought he might kiss you right there — hard, claiming, in full view of everyone still watching from across the hall.

Instead, he leaned in until his lips ghosted against your ear again.

“Next time someone approaches you while I’m gone,” he said, voice dark and velvet-rough, “you tell them you belong to me. Clearly. Because if I have to remind them myself… I won’t be nearly as polite.”

His fingers flexed on your hip in one final, possessive squeeze — a silent promise — before he slowly stepped back. His hand remained at the small of your back, heavy and unrelenting.

The music swelled again around you.

Sukuna’s expression smoothed into something cooler and more composed for the public eye, but the heat in his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Come,” he said, voice still low. “We’re dancing again. And this time, you’re not leaving my side for the rest of the night.”

Sukuna led you back onto the dance floor without another word, his hand firm on your waist, pulling you closer than strictly proper for a public setting. The orchestra had shifted into a slower, more intimate melody — strings and soft piano weaving through the air. Couples swirled around you, but you barely noticed them. All you could focus on was the heat of Sukuna’s body pressed against yours, the way his fingers splayed possessively across your lower back, and the unmistakable tension radiating from him.

He moved with controlled grace, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Your bodies were flush together, chest to chest, his thigh occasionally brushing yours as you turned. Every point of contact felt electric.

“You’re quiet now,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “What happened to all that polite conversation you were having with the marquess?”

You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “You told me not to leave your side. I’m listening.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a laugh. His hand slid lower on your back, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Good girl,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the heat in his eyes was anything but. “Keep listening. I don’t want to see you smiling at anyone else like that tonight.”

The jealousy was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in the way he held you — tighter than necessary, almost like he was daring anyone to try approaching you again.

As you turned under his arm and came back into his embrace, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“He thought he had a chance,” he continued, voice rough. “Like he didn’t know exactly who you belong to.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “Maybe I need to make it clearer.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Being this close to him — surrounded by the swirl of music and watching eyes — made everything feel heightened. The scent of him, the solid strength of his body, the barely restrained possessiveness in every touch.

“Sukuna…” you started softly.

He cut you off by pulling you even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His breath was warm against your temple.

“You wanted to mend things,” he reminded you, tone dark. “Then stop giving other men reasons to think they can talk to my wife like that. Smile at me. Stay close to me.”

The song began to slow, but Sukuna didn’t release you. He kept you locked in his arms even as other couples started drifting apart. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the silk, a silent claim in front of the entire hall.

When the music finally faded, he didn’t let go right away. He stared down at you, crimson eyes heavy with something dangerous and hungry.

“We’re leaving,” he said abruptly, voice low. “I’ve had enough of these people watching us.”

He didn’t wait for your agreement. His hand stayed firmly at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Nobles parted for him instinctively, eyes wide at the sight of the Duke and Duchess leaving together so early — and so obviously entangled.

The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside. Sukuna kept you close as you waited for the carriage, his arm wrapped around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to stop touching you.

Once inside the carriage, he sat beside you instead of across from you. The door had barely closed before his hand was back on your thigh, gripping possessively through the fabric of your gown.

The carriage started moving, carrying you both back toward the estate through the dark roads. Sukuna’s hand remained on your thigh the entire ride, heavy and warm — a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

By the time it finally rolled to a stop in front of the castle, the moon hung high in the sky. The journey had been quiet, thick with lingering tension. Sukuna hadn’t spoken a word, but his grip on your thigh never loosened.

When the footman opened the door, Sukuna stepped out first and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him help you down onto the stone steps. The cool night air felt refreshing after the stuffy ballroom, but it did little to calm the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

He walked you inside, his hand resting possessively at the small of your back the whole way through the dimly lit halls. Servants bowed and quickly disappeared when they saw you both. The castle felt unusually still.

When you reached the point where the corridors split — one leading to his private wing, the other to yours — Sukuna stopped. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.

“You did well tonight,” he admitted grudgingly, staring at you for a long moment before glancing away. “But if I see him — or anyone else — near you again like that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

Sukuna gave a short nod, almost like he was dismissing you. “Goodnight.”

He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.

You stood there for a second, heart pounding, before the words slipped out — soft, shy, and a little nervous.

“Wait…”

Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.

You swallowed, cheeks warming as you forced yourself to speak. “You know… we can’t really fix things as a couple if we keep sleeping separately"

The words hung in the air between you. They sounded bolder than you felt.

Sukuna went completely still. For several long seconds he simply stared at you, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something darker, more dangerous.

“Is that so?” he said, voice low and rough. He took one step back toward you, then another, until he was standing close again. “You’re asking to sleep in my bed now?”

He tilted his head, studying your face like he was trying to find the trick in your words. His hand came up, fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he looked down at you.

“Careful, wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. “You keep pushing like this… I might start thinking you actually mean it.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second before returning to your eyes. The tension between you crackled again, even stronger than it had been at the ball.

Sukuna didn’t move away. He waited, watching you closely, as if daring you to take it back… or push further.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged. His thumb was still resting against your lower lip, warm and rough, while his crimson eyes searched your face for any sign of deception. You could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him in waves.

Finally, he let out a slow breath, almost a scoff.

“…Fine,” he said, voice low and guarded. “If that’s what you want.”

He stepped back slightly, but his hand stayed on your waist, fingers still gripping you with quiet possessiveness. His expression remained cold, cautious, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Don’t expect this to mean anything,” he added, tone flat. “I’m still not convinced you’ve changed. But if you’re so determined to play the part of a real wife… then come.”

He turned and started walking down the corridor toward his private wing, keeping his hand on the small of your back to guide you along with him. The touch was firm — not gentle, but not forceful either. It felt like both an invitation and a test.

The halls were quiet at this hour, lit only by flickering torches. Every step echoed softly. Sukuna didn’t speak again until you reached the heavy wooden doors to his chambers. He pushed them open without hesitation and stepped inside, holding the door for you.

His rooms were large and unmistakably his — dark wood furniture, a massive bed with black silk sheets, a low fire burning in the hearth, weapons and scrolls neatly arranged on shelves. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.

Sukuna closed the door behind you with a heavy click. He leaned against it for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that same calculating stare.

“You wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like he was reminding both of you. “So here we are.”

He pushed off the door and walked further into the room, loosening the ties on his formal tunic as he went. The movement was casual, but you could feel the tension still radiating from him.

“Get comfortable,” he told you, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, almost seductive, but the suspicion never fully left his eyes.

He didn’t say anything else. He simply waited, watching to see what you would do now that you were truly alone with him in his space.

You stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how large his chambers felt and how small you felt inside them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the dark wood and black silk sheets. The air smelled like him — smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic.

You swallowed and moved toward the side of the room where a large wardrobe stood. One of the maids had already brought a few of your things here earlier, as if the servants had anticipated this. You picked out a simple black silk nightgown and hesitated.

Sukuna had turned away slightly, pulling off his formal tunic and tossing it over the back of a chair. The movement revealed the strong lines of his back and the black tattoos swirling across his skin. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he was still aware of every move you made.

You changed quickly behind the privacy screen in the corner, the silk cool against your skin. When you stepped out, Sukuna was already sitting on the edge of the massive bed, wearing only loose black pants. His pink hair was untied now, falling messily around his face. He looked up when you approached.

For a long second he just stared.

Then he let out a slow breath and patted the space beside him.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

You walked over and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. Sukuna watched you the entire time, suspicion still clear in his crimson eyes even as he pulled the covers back for you.

You slipped under the sheets, lying on your back. The silk felt cool and smooth. Sukuna stayed sitting for another moment, then finally lay down beside you. The bed was large, but he took up so much space that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He turned onto his side, facing you. One arm rested above his head while the other lay between you, close enough that his fingers almost brushed your arm.

The silence was heavy.

“You’re really here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze traced your face, still guarded. “In my bed.”

He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly. “If this is another game… I won’t be kind about it.”

Then he shifted closer. Not enough to touch fully, but close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. He didn’t pull you into his arms. He simply laid there, watching you like he was waiting for you to prove something — or reveal your true intentions.

The fire crackled softly in the background. The weight of his presence beside you made it hard to relax, but you stayed there, heart beating steadily.

Sukuna’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.

“Sleep, wife. We’ll see how long this little performance of yours lasts.”

He didn’t close his eyes right away. He kept watching you in the dim firelight, guarded, suspicious… and just a little intrigued.

Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, pale and hazy, casting long golden stripes across the dark wooden floor. You woke slowly, cocooned in warmth that felt both foreign and strangely comforting. Sukuna’s arm was draped heavily over your waist, his broad chest pressed against your back, one leg loosely tangled with yours beneath the black silk sheets. His breathing was deep and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you with every inhale.

For a long moment you didn’t move. This was the first time you’d ever woken up beside him — sharing the same bed, the same space, the same air. Your heart beat a little too fast as the reality settled in. The Duke of the North was holding you in his sleep, even if it was only out of habit or unconscious possession.

Sukuna stirred a few minutes later. His arm tightened around your waist for a brief second, pulling you closer on instinct, before his body went still. You felt the exact moment consciousness returned to him — the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed ever so slightly against your back.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with sleep. There was a hint of genuine surprise beneath the words. “Figured you’d sneak back to your own room before I woke up.”

You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at him. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, messy pink hair falling across his forehead. Up close like this, without the usual cold mask, he looked almost human — though the sharp suspicion in his gaze reminded you he was anything but.

“I told you I wanted this,” you replied softly.

Sukuna let out a slow breath, almost a huff. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you properly. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles over the silk of your nightgown. The touch was light, but you could feel the weight of his attention — guarded, calculating, searching for any crack in your resolve.

He watched you for a long, heavy moment, suspicion still clear in his expression. The silence between you felt intimate and fragile at the same time. His fingers flexed once against your waist before relaxing again.

“Don’t get too used to this,” he said eventually, tone flat but not cruel. “One night doesn’t fix anything. One night doesn’t make me trust you.”

Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he added more quietly, “But… you can stay for breakfast if you want.”

Sukuna rolled away and got out of bed, stretching his powerful arms above his head. The morning light traced every line of muscle and the intricate black tattoos that covered his shoulders, chest, and back. He moved with the casual confidence of someone completely at ease in his own space, yet you could still feel the tension humming beneath his skin.

God, he’s even hotter in person… no wonder I was obsessed.

He grabbed a fresh tunic but didn’t put it on. Instead, he leaned against the wardrobe, watching you in his sheets with that dark, cautious gaze. The fire had burned low, leaving the room quiet and heavy with unspoken tension.

Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you going to lie there all morning?”

You didn’t make him wait long.

You slipped out of bed, the black silk nightgown clinging lightly to your skin as you moved. The morning air in the chamber felt cooler than the warmth of the sheets you’d just left. Sukuna watched you the entire time from where he leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable but intense.

“Breakfast will be brought here,” he said simply, voice still rough from sleep. “No need to go to the main hall today.”

A short while later, servants arrived with silver trays. They moved quickly and quietly, setting the table near the tall windows with practiced care — a pot of strong black tea, warm crusty bread, thick slices of roasted meat, fresh berries, and a small dish of honey. The scent of the food filled the room, warm and savory. They kept their eyes lowered, clearly unsettled by the sight of you in the Duke’s private chambers wearing only a nightgown and robe, but they left without a single word.

Sukuna sat down first. You took the seat across from him.

The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a soft golden glow across the table and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. It traced the black tattoos visible at the open collar of his tunic and the faint scars on his hands as he picked up his knife. For several long minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of silverware and the distant crackle from the hearth.

Finally, Sukuna set his knife down with a quiet click and leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locking onto you with that familiar guarded intensity.

“So,” he said, voice low and guarded, “what made you change?”

You looked up from your plate, heart skipping a beat. Just died and woke up in the body of the woman you’re supposed to kill. No big deal.

There was no point in holding back anymore. 

“I like you,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Bullshit.”

The word landed blunt and cold. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching you with sharp suspicion.

“You expect me to believe that? After months of silence, after treating me like I was beneath you, after making sure everyone knew how much you despised this marriage… you suddenly like me?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “Try again.”

You didn’t look away. Your voice stayed quiet but steady.

“No, really,” you said. “I do. I like you. That’s why I’m trying so hard.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He studied your face like he was searching for the lie, the manipulation, the trick. The silence stretched between you, thick and tense. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the table before he leaned back again, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Okay, little liar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Then prove it to me.”

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Prove it to you…?” you repeated softly, the words coming out a little breathless.

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closing some of the distance between you.

“Yes,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost velvet-smooth. “Prove it. You say you like me. You say you want to fix this marriage. So show me.”

His gaze drifted slowly down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. The air between you felt heavier now, warmer. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of your hand, the touch deceptively gentle.

“You’re in my chambers. In my bed,” he continued, thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles. “If you’re actually serious… then stop hiding behind pretty words and prove it.”

His touch lingered, possessive but controlled, sending a slow shiver up your arm. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched your reaction closely, crimson eyes dark with suspicion and something much hotter underneath.

“Prove it, wife,” he said again, voice low and seductive. “I’m right here. Show me how much you like me.”

The breakfast table suddenly felt far too small. The tension had shifted — still laced with his suspicion, but now crackling with slow, deliberate heat as he waited for you to make the next move.

Your pulse thundered under his thumb. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, but it still felt like he had you pinned.

You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks and down your neck.

“…How?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended. “How do you want me to prove it?”

Sukuna’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned in a little closer across the table, his thumb still stroking lazy circles over your knuckles.

“That’s the fun part,” he murmured. “You figure it out. You’re the one claiming you like me. So show me what that looks like.”

His free hand moved, reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost gentle, but his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, tracing lightly down the column of your throat before pulling away.

“You can start by coming here,” he said, voice low and commanding. He pushed his chair back slightly and patted his thigh once. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Your breath caught. Heart racing, you stood up slowly and rounded the table. The moment you were close enough, Sukuna’s hand caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap. He settled you sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other rested on your leg, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh.

Up close like this, you could feel the heat of his body, the solid strength of his chest against your side, the way his breath brushed your temple.

“Better,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid slowly up your thigh, stopping just below the hem of your nightgown. “Now… show me.”

He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.

“Kiss me,” he ordered softly. “Like you mean it. Like you actually want your husband.”

His crimson eyes were locked on yours, still guarded, still waiting for the lie to slip through. But beneath the suspicion, there was clear hunger — dark and patient, daring you to close the distance.

Sukuna’s fingers flexed on your thigh, a silent reminder of his patience running thin.

“Well, wife?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough against your skin. “I’m waiting.”

You didn’t hesitate any longer.

Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss started soft — tentative on your end, testing. Sukuna stayed still for half a second, as if surprised you’d actually done it.

Then he took control.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you harder against his mouth. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry and demanding. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrated against you. He tasted like black tea and heat, and the way he kissed you was nothing short of possessive — like he was trying to erase every other man who had ever looked at you.

You gasped into his mouth. Sukuna used the opening to tilt your head and kiss you deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent. His other hand gripped your thigh tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you more firmly onto his lap until you were straddling him.

“Better,” he rasped against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe. His crimson eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “But not enough.”

He kissed you again, harder this time. One hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, palm sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the silk higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. He didn’t go further yet — just teased, stroking the sensitive skin there while his mouth moved to your jaw, then down to your neck.

“You say you like me,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Then prove how much.”

He sucked on your skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped you. Sukuna’s grip on your thigh tightened in response, and you felt him growing hard beneath you, the thick length pressing against your core through his pants.

Your hands moved on instinct, sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He made a low, approving sound and rocked his hips up once, grinding against you deliberately.

“Touch me,” he ordered, voice rough. “If you’re serious, then fucking touch me.”

You obeyed, sliding your hands under his tunic, palms running over the hard planes of his stomach and the tattoos that covered his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch. Sukuna rewarded you by biting down on your neck again, then soothing the spot with his tongue.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing heavy, eyes burning.

“Keep going,” he said, voice dark and commanding. His hands gripping your ass firmly as he pulled you down harder against his growing erection. “Show me exactly how much you want your husband.”

His hips rolled up deliberately, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your clit in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening, heat building fast between you.

You moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to snap something in him.

He growled low in his throat and rocked you harder against him. “Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, breath hot. “You’re already so wet for me.”

One large hand slipped further under your nightgown, calloused palm dragging up your bare thigh until his fingers found the soaked fabric of your panties. He groaned at the feeling, pressing two thick fingers against your clothed slit and rubbing firmly, spreading your wetness.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered, voice dark and rough. “All this from just sitting on my lap?”

He pushed your panties aside with impatient fingers and dragged two thick digits slowly through your slick folds. The first direct touch made your hips jerk sharply. Pleasure shot through you like lightning — hot, electric, and overwhelming. You were already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and Sukuna could feel it.

He chuckled darkly against your throat, the low vibration sending shivers racing down your spine as he kissed and bit along your neck, marking you with teeth and tongue.

“You’re dripping down my fingers, wife,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “This greedy little cunt is making such a mess already.”

He pushed one thick finger inside you slowly, stretching your tight walls. Your inner muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, hot and silky. The feeling of being filled by him — even just one finger — made your breath hitch. He added a second finger almost immediately, scissoring them lazily while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, relentless circles.

The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the quiet morning room — lewd squelching noises that would have made you blush if you weren’t already trembling with pleasure. Your arousal coated his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his lap as he worked you open with practiced, unhurried strokes.

You whimpered, hands fisting tightly in the front of his tunic. Sukuna’s free hand yanked the neckline of your nightgown down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He leaned in and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly over the peak before his teeth grazed it. The sharp sting mixed with pleasure made your back arch, pushing your chest closer to his hungry mouth.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder. “Look at you. Falling apart just from my fingers like a desperate little whore.”

He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy while his thumb pressed firmer circles on your clit. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke. The wet sounds grew louder, filthier, echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to watch your face, his crimson eyes dark with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Let me feel how much this supposed ‘liking me’ makes this tight little pussy squeeze around my fingers.”

His fingers curled harder, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his thumb worked your clit faster. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every thrust, every filthy word.

It snapped.

You came hard with a broken moan, walls clenching violently around his thick fingers. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as slick gushed over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, leaving you gasping and trembling.

Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, still pumping his fingers slowly through your spasms, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, whimpering softly.

He finally pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging slowly and deliberately over his skin, savoring your taste.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice husky and dark. His eyes never left yours.

He lifted you effortlessly and stood, carrying you toward the massive bed. He laid you down on the black silk sheets, hovering over you with that same dark, hungry look.

“Take the nightgown off,” he commanded, already pulling his own tunic over his head, revealing the full expanse of his tattooed, muscled torso. “I want to see all of you.”

His hands moved to his pants, loosening them as he watched you, eyes burning with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.

“Prove how much you actually want me, wife.”

You sat up on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Under his burning gaze, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it up and over your head, letting the silk fall to the floor. The cool air of the chamber brushed over your bare skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.

Sukuna’s eyes raked slowly over your naked body — from your flushed face, down the curve of your breasts, your stomach, and the glistening wetness already coating your inner thighs. He let out a low, rough sound deep in his chest, almost a growl.

“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “So small. So fucking pretty.”

He shoved his pants the rest of the way down his hips and kicked them aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the veined shaft curving slightly upward. It was meaty — obscenely so — the girth making your mouth go dry. The flushed head was already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Even fully hard, it looked almost too big, too heavy, the weight of it making it hang thick and full between his powerful thighs.

You couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that escaped you.

Sukuna noticed. His smirk was dark and satisfied as he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply under his much larger frame. He settled between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider apart. The size difference hit you all over again — he was so much bigger than you, his body completely eclipsing yours as he hovered above you.

He gripped his thick cock in one large hand and dragged the heavy head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. The blunt, meaty tip nudged against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch.

“You’re tiny compared to me,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel every inch when I split you open.”

He pushed forward slowly.

The thick head of his cock breached you, stretching your entrance with a slow, burning pressure. You gasped sharply at the sheer girth — he was so thick that your walls had to part around him, fluttering and clenching as he sank deeper. The heavy, meaty weight of his cock filled you inch by inch, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you until you were full, so full, your back arching off the bed with a broken moan.

Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. His balls rested heavy and warm against you.

“Shit,” he breathed against your neck, voice strained. “So fucking tight… this little pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”

He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, the way his thick cock throbbed inside you, hot and heavy. Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his meaty length along your walls with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, slick and filthy.

You whimpered, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Sukuna… you’re so big—”

He growled at your words, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock deeper. The drag was exquisite, every vein and ridge rubbing against your most sensitive spots. His size made you feel impossibly full, stretched wide around his girth, the pressure bordering on too much but so, so good.

“Take it,” he rasped, voice dark and possessive. “Take every fucking inch like the good little wife you’re trying to be.”

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his deep thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against you with every powerful stroke, the wet sounds growing louder as your arousal dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath you.

You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back. The size difference made everything more intense — his broad chest crushing your breasts, his muscular thighs spreading you wide, his massive frame completely dominating yours as he fucked you into the mattress.

Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with lust and that lingering edge of suspicion.

“Tell me again,” he growled, hips grinding deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me how much you like your husband’s cock while I’m ruining this tight little pussy.”

You could barely think through the overwhelming fullness. His cock was so thick it felt like he was splitting you open with every slow, deliberate thrust. The heavy drag of his veined shaft against your walls made your toes curl, pleasure bordering on too much.

“I like it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips again, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. “I like your cock so much— fuck, Sukuna, you’re so deep…”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider, and drove into you harder. The new angle made his thick cock hit even deeper, the heavy weight of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every powerful thrust. Your juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you, the lewd squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. “This greedy little cunt is sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, dominating kiss. His tongue fucked into your mouth in time with his cock, deep and filthy, while his hips snapped forward harder. The sheer size difference made everything more intense — his broad, muscled body completely covering yours, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he fucked you with long, punishing strokes.

You whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, leaving red lines across his tattooed skin. Sukuna hissed at the sting and rewarded you by pounding into you even harder, the thick head of his cock bullying that sensitive spot inside you over and over.

“Again,” he demanded against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you moaned, legs shaking as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. “It belongs to you— only you—”

“Good girl.”

He sat back on his heels, pulling your hips up with him so your lower back was off the bed. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his thick cock stretching you wide with every brutal thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles while he fucked you senseless.

The wet slap of skin against skin mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. Your breasts bounced with every powerful snap of his hips, nipples tight and aching. Sukuna’s gaze was locked between your legs, watching hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked pussy again and again, stretching you obscenely around his girth.

“Look at that,” he growled, voice dark. “Taking every inch like you were made for me. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full of my cock.”

The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every deep thrust, every swipe of his thumb on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently in his grip.

“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”

“Cum,” he ordered, hips slamming into you harder. “Cum on your husband’s cock like the desperate little wife you are.”

It hit you like a wave. You came hard with a broken cry, walls clenching violently around his thick length, pulsing and fluttering as slick gushed around him. Your whole body shook, back arching sharply as pleasure tore through you.

Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, hips stuttering. “Fuck— that’s it. Milk my cock.”

He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding deep inside you. He kept grinding his hips in slow circles, pushing his release even deeper as he emptied himself completely.

“We’re not done,” he said quietly, a dangerous promise in his tone. “Not even close.”

Sukuna pulled out of you with a wet, filthy sound, your combined release dripping down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back and manhandled you like you weighed nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled you into his lap facing away from him, and hooked his powerful arms under your knees, folding you in a full nelson.

Your back pressed flush against his broad, tattooed chest. Your legs were spread obscenely wide, knees pushed up toward your shoulders by his strong arms. The position left you completely helpless — folded in half, pussy exposed and dripping, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your slick folds.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled right against your ear, voice feral. “So small and folded up for me. Perfect little fucktoy.”

He thrust up hard, burying his massive cock back inside you in one brutal stroke. The new angle made him feel even thicker, even deeper. You cried out, the sound raw and broken as his meaty length stretched you wide open again, the fat head bullying against your cervix with every thrust.

Sukuna went feral.

He fucked you like an animal — hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped up with powerful force, slamming his thick cock into your soaked pussy over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixed with the lewd squelching of your dripping cunt taking every inch. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, the impact jolting through your body.

You were cockdrunk almost immediately.

Your mind went hazy, eyes rolling back as pleasure overloaded your senses. All you could do was moan helplessly, body limp in his hold as he used you. His thick cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the sheer girth stretching you so wide it bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t think straight.

“S-Sukuna— ahh— too deep—” you slurred, voice broken and whiny.

He only fucked you harder, arms locked tight under your knees, keeping you folded and helpless as he pounded into you. His chest was slick with sweat against your back, his hot breath panting against your ear.

“Take it,” he snarled, voice feral and animalistic. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My cock ruining this tight little pussy.”

You could only moan incoherently, head lolling back against his shoulder. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth as he fucked you senseless, his thick cock bullying your insides with every savage thrust. The wet sounds were filthy — your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up so your ass was high in the air. He slammed back into you in one brutal thrust, fucking you in deep, punishing doggy style.

“Fuck— yes,” he groaned, voice wrecked. One large hand came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, the sharp crack echoing as he pounded into you from behind.

Your face was pressed into the sheets, ass up, completely at his mercy as he railed you. His thick cock drove so deep you felt it in your stomach, the heavy drag of his veined shaft making your eyes roll back. He smacked your ass again, gripping the soft flesh hard as he used you.

“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”

You could barely speak, mind blank and cockdrunk, but you whimpered obediently between moans, “Yours… it’s yours—”

Sukuna snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the bed creaking violently under the force of his thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against your clit with every brutal stroke, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again.

He was relentless now — grunting low and animalistic, cursing under his breath as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He claimed you with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving his thick cock so deep you felt it in your stomach.

“Fuck— this pussy is sucking me in so greedily,” he growled, voice wrecked and animalistic. One hand left your hip and came down hard on your ass again with a loud smack, the sharp sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, gripping the soft, reddened flesh and spreading you wider as he railed you.

Your mind was completely melted. All you could do was moan and whimper into the sheets, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as he pounded into you. His thick, meaty cock stretched you so wide it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside. Every deep, punishing thrust made the fat head kiss your cervix, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through your body.

“S-Sukuna— too much— ahh—!” you slurred, voice broken and whiny, barely coherent anymore.

He laughed darkly, low and breathless, and smacked your ass once more before gripping both cheeks and spreading you obscenely. He watched hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked, fluttering pussy again and again, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his heavy balls.

“Look at this greedy little hole,” he rasped, hips snapping forward brutally. “Taking my fat cock so well. You’re dripping everywhere, wife. Making such a fucking mess on my sheets.”

He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his heavy cock bullying that perfect spot inside you with every savage thrust. The wet, filthy plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his guttural grunts.

You were shaking, thighs trembling violently, another orgasm building fast. Your mind was blank — nothing but the overwhelming stretch, the heat, the relentless drag of his thick veined cock inside you.

Sukuna’s breath was hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it while you cum on my cock again.”

You could barely form words, but you whimpered obediently between moans, voice slurred and cockdrunk. “Yours— it’s yours— Sukuna— please—!”

He fucked you harder, hips pistoning relentlessly, the heavy slap of his balls against your clit pushing you over the edge. You came with a shattered cry, walls clamping down around his thick length like a vice, pulsing and fluttering as another intense orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna groaned loudly, the sound raw and feral. “Good fucking girl—”

He didn’t stop. He fucked you through your orgasm with deep, stuttering thrusts, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you, pulse after heavy pulse filling you until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading through your core. He kept grinding slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles to push every drop deeper, making sure you took all of him.

You could feel it leaking out around his thick cock — warm, sticky, and messy — dripping down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you.

Sukuna stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, his massive body pressing you firmly into the mattress. His chest heaved against your back, hot, ragged breaths fanning across the side of your neck. The scent of sweat, sex, and his skin filled the air with every shaky inhale. One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, almost possessively, while the other stayed gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he still wasn’t ready to let go.

“…Not bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low against your ear. “For a little liar.”

He finally pulled out slowly, inch by thick inch. A heavy trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your abused, fluttering pussy, warm and obscene as it ran down your inner thighs. Sukuna let out a low, satisfied hum at the sight before he rolled you onto your back and collapsed beside you.

Without a word, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around you possessively. His skin was hot and slightly damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing steadily under your cheek as he held you close.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin as he caught his breath.

But he didn’t let go.

a\n: honestly didn't know how to end this but hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs appreciated!!

ryomen sukuna is a man of many interests. music, gym, delicious food, good alcohol, athletics... and pussy.

but studying? that shit is out of his fucking dictionary.

when 'shithead elliot' as he liked to disrespectfully call the head of the life sciences department told him about the tutoring that was absolutely necessary for him to at least get more than the failing mark, he knew he couldn't avoid you.

sukuna's not stupid. if you've been recommended to him as a tutor by that jackass, it means you're smart— smart enough to get him to pass that stupid cross-faculty course that isn't even fun to him.

so, on monday, he shows up.

juuuust after five PM.

you've been waiting for an hour. one whole hour of sitting on your couch, shifting to your kitchen for a quick snack, going through the course objectives and material that you saved on your laptop, so you can start as soon as he comes. but this guy is a whole hour late, and he thinks that stupid smirk of his will make everything better?

you huff, standing there in a warm sweater and jeans, because you'd also just returned from college (early because of him), but that wasn't of any use now, was it. "ryomen sukuna?"

crimson eyes land on you with default disinterest, and sukuna pauses. based on your boring ass text replies, he'd expected you to be.. different. like some sort of campus background character he wouldn't even spare a glance at.

anything but a sweet looking pair of glasses, arched brows and those lips tugged into a gorgeous frown. your eyes are narrowed, delicate eyelashes framing them behind thick lenses. his thoughts are interrupted when you speak again, tilting your head slightly as you lean against your door.

"you are sukuna, are you not?"

"in the flesh." he recovers from his little moment, and you swear that you almost see his irises flare up with something. pride at being acknowledged? excitement for studying the course he has fucked up this semester? you don't know.

and frankly, you don't care, because his texts were enough for you to ask around about him and realise that this man is one mean guy. this is probably the one time you let yourself judge a book by its cover, because people have told you.. things.

he steps inside after you gesture for him to come in. all tall and muscular, holding a book and pen, taking up space and seeing your apartment from a height that you've never had a chance to observe from. his bold, dark ring-tattoos around his arms are visible as he stretches nonchalantly, humming in a way that vibrates through his chest. he follows you with the grace of a big panther, footsteps heavy even without his boots.

"already takin' me to your room after denying my idea to come to your house? bold choice, doll."

and of course he had a mouth on him.

"my name is y/n," you correct him quietly as you move to, and god, you've told him your name four fucking times. how much more agonizing can this get? "sit here, sukuna. i'll go get my laptop."

"i'm on your bed, y/n. think you can call me 'ryo' now," he smirks, purposely emphasizing your name and knowing you won't do what he mentioned. not when you don't know each other at all. his eyes follow your frame as you walk out of the bedroom to fetch your device. damn, you've got pretty lookin' legs.

he knows he can't think like that, but he can't help it! it's just that his brain instantly links the feeling of soft sheets and a warm, clean detergent scent— right to his dick.

it's just how things are after being invited over to so many dorms and off campus apartments, and most of them end up looking almost the same with fake vines on walls, aesthetic mirrors, cute figurines on shelves sometimes, smelling like victoria's secret or dior perfume.

your room is oddly different from any of the ones he's seen so far. your walls are a nice color. he sees a whiteboard on the wall to his left, a busy-looking desk with scattered papers, a bookmarked sci-fi book, and those whiteboard markers kept in a cylindrical pencil holder that looks like it was made by a 10 year old.

on his right, there's a few comic books. some manga? were those physical kpop albums? crochet supplies? the fuck was he doing? he couldn't care less, he was here for some shitty ass tutoring for a shitty ass course.

but then you walk back in, laptop in one hand and a cool water bottle in the other.

your face says it all— you mean business.

the first two days were hell.

after he showed up with literally just one notebook and a half used pen, probably borrowed from some guy next to his seat, you knew— this guy wasn't even putting in effort for this, there's no way he actually put in effort to understand the course in the first place.

you had to start from the very basics.

diagrams, flowcharts, classifications, multiple choice questions, teaching him the rules about how to underline organism names or italicize them in print. he was actually surprised that you had so much faith in him, that you actually believed he could learn all of that if you explained it slower with that quiet, calm voice of yours.

still, all you got from him was—

"the fuck is this?"

"why is it spelled like that?"

"oi, why're you still calling me sukuna? didn't i fuckin' say you could call me by my first name?"

"pfft, that's an easy diagram."

and he'd proceeded to make an impossibly bad drawing of cells clumped together. just.. circles. he'd looked at you like you were the one for not seeing the vision— he didn't even know what differently shaped cells were!

however, there was one more thing you observed.

those crimson eyes always wandered.

you almost thought you were being self centred at one point, for thinking that one of the most well known frat guys was checking you out.

so, in today's session, you decided to test that theory.

subtly, of course.

the sun sets outside your bedroom window, faint orange light falling over half of your room while the other is dim. you're seated on your bedroom floor, because apparently sukuna says he can't sit on any of your 'cutesy chairs' without breaking them. it's sort of true— those were old plastic chairs from your early high school days that had become quite weak through out the years. he's simply too big for them.

you religiously try not to dwell on that.

sukuna's got his— no, your pencil between his teeth like it's a cigarette, dangerous looking white canines flashing unnecessarily while he twists the pencil left and right with the support of his tongue. he silently reads through some stapled pdf printouts in his lap, dark eyes travelling over the typed out words in quick side-to-side movements. it's disgusting. you don't want to stare at his mouth or the movements of his tongue any longer.

you still do, for the next few seconds.

however, you don't let it distract you from your main objective today.

he did notice your clothes when he walked in an hour ago, just like you expected him to, but it seems that even sukuna was in denial of his sudden, unconventional weakness.

you're pretty. however, he never goes for the strict ones, or the quiet ones, or the ones who look so boring on the surface. just not his thing, y'know? and you're kind of all three of those categories to him, even if he doesn't know you well enough personally.

maybe you think the same way about him and his personality.

that's probably good, right?

you're leaning over to mark a paragraph on the sheet that's laid over one muscle thigh of his, lightly running your red pen at the start and end of the words with parentheses, all while wearing a tight little silk blouse. the two buttons at the top are undone and your cleavage spills against the soft fabric, not vulgar but not modest either, and that is not boring.

no pair of tits could ever bore sukuna, but you have some extraordinarily nice ones—

"ryomen." you huff, glaring at him through your glasses as you catch him exactly where you wanted to, keeping your expression stoic even when the thought of his gaze on your body makes you feel warmer than usual. "the sheet is down here. you're looking elsewhere."

the gentle taps of your pen against the paper save him from going further down the gutter. he grunts, mad at himself for even thinking about you like that. this wasn't how he was supposed to feel, damn it. you were the last person he wanted to fuck. you were boring! all you did was study and do your little hobbies and look so sweet, like you'd frown at him in that adorable way even if he was bending you over and—

"damn, chill out, miss tutor." he grunts out, feeling oddly flustered. the fuck was his problem? he never got flustered. it was always the other way around. "i was listening. continue."

sukuna manages to survive this session without you noticing his awkward shifting on the carpet.

he's gonna have to rub one out when he gets home later.

and he still mentally swears that it's not because of you.

after sukuna leaves, you're left with a sense of perverse satisfaction and mild embarrassment.

never in your life have you tried to seduce a guy. seeing it happen in real life, even for a minor moment, still has you a little shaken up. maybe it also makes you a little more confident in yourself.

it's questionable, you know that. it shouldn't matter whether a stupidly sexy frat boy looks at you or not. your worth is never dependent on how many pairs of eyes are staring— and yet, sukuna's eyes make you feel all too tingly, because it's like he's trying to resist you but it's futile.

does that make you powerful or does that make him weak?

whatever it is, you've confirmed it; ryomen sukuna's performance is not promising even after three days of tutoring sessions, and if you have to get him to actually improve his grade, you're going to have to resort to more creative measures.

on the 4th day, sukuna wakes up in his bed with a fucked up muscle in his neck and the light weight of a girl he doesn't know, snuggled into his side. the first three seconds feel perfectly familiar, in the sense that he's back to being the asshole who doesn't ask names and just fucks women until they forget about his lack of manners. he feels relieved.

then he remembers exactly how he ended up here.

after returning home from your third session, he'd lost his goddamn mind.

he had been so used to his usual rotation of people.

this pretty faced tutor just had to come and wreck it all into a mess, and he hated it.

he didn't know who it was that he was trying to prove wrong— just himself, because no one else knew that his mind was being fucked with by some student he'd never even heard of until three weeks ago. full of spite and disbelief, he convinced himself to call one of his usual girls.

his jaw clenches when he remembers how she whispered in his ear a few hours ago, giggling when he ended up coming all over his abs just three minutes after her touch.

it wasn't her.

he was that pent up from the mere sight of your cleavage. fucking pathetic.

he shifts out of his bed in an instant— bare ass naked, already half hard from the thought of you. the sight pisses him off further. he grunts, tapping the sleeping brunette's bare thigh a few times, urgent and firm. "oi. rise and shine, woman. don't you know the drill? get your pretty ass out 'fore i come back from my shower."

she whines sleepily in protest, piercing sukuna's ears with the shrill sound, but her own muscle memory makes her reach out for her bra on the floor anyway, and she's in the process of putting it on when he disappears into his bathroom.

a few hours pass by after that, and now he's here.

he stands outside your apartment with an actual backpack slung over a strong shoulder this time. his crimson irises meet yours with his usual cocky glint in them as he walks in without needing an invitation, clicking his tongue. "i smell pasta."

"i only made a portion for myself," you speak with a blank expression, lying through your teeth. you made a lot, knowing that a guy as buff as him definitely eats like crazy. sukuna just smirks, one hand in his pocket and the other holding the strap of that backpack. it was probably empty as fuck, aside from the condoms he usually kept stacked in there. not that he plans to use them with you. never.

your words bring rare amusement, and he responds with a faint pout on that sinful mouth. "you're a mean, mean girl, miss tutor."

...and i want to do things to you.

that goes unsaid. brushed under a rug somewhere in his mind.

you sigh, rolling your pretty eyes and walking ahead of him in the hallway of your bedroom. he takes in your outfit. pretty simple. leggings and a hoodie. why were you wearing socks? were you cold? sick, perhaps?

why the fuck was he worried? pathetic.

"sukuna—"

"ryomen."

"...right. ryomen, i'll be honest with you, even though our sessions have been short so far, i'm assuming you must have learned enough to go through a tiny little test."

your room invites him again as he enters, tossing his bag on the floor and sighing as he flops down to his usual spot, resting that muscular back against the side of your bed. "a test? hah. i'm gonna fail it."

there he goes again, with that shitty mindset. what a dumbass. you kiss your teeth in mild frustration (or maybe just nerves, for what you're about to suggest). "will you fail it if i tell you what you get for every correct answer?"

there's a long pause. just silence, as his eyes narrow and he stares up at you through dark eyelashes, resting his head back against the edge of your bed and stretching out one strong leg with a quiet grunt from the relief in his muscle. "like what? a boring lil' toffee?"

he's not prepared for your next words. you swallow hard, and your heart is pounding against your ribs as you finally take a seat in front of him, hugging your legs to your chest as you rest your chin on your knees. you maintain the eye contact. you look stunning, he thinks.

he watches the way your lips part, his adam's apple bobbing once, waiting patiently— very uncharacteristic of him.

"i'll ask you a total of 10 questions. you have to answer me. for every correct answer," you pause again, struggling to say what you've never really said to anyone before.

sukuna catches up fast. his eyes widen slightly as he tilts his head slowly to one side, like he knows what's coming— and can't (won't) do anything to stop it.

"for every correct answer, i'll take off one article of clothing."

you must be insane. maybe you are.

but he's worse. he's not sure he even deserves this, but he'll take it. he'll take anything you give him, damn it. pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

"...fuck yeah." his voice is low, almost angry at himself for being so eager. for already getting hard at the possibility of being smart enough to get this bullshit right and have you all to himself—

no, you never said you'd let him have you. he can't assume that you're his to have. you don't need to be treated like that. oh, if only he knew how you spent hours shopping for the thong you're wearing under those leggings.

with a deep breath, you slide your laptop in his direction.

"you have 15 minutes to go through the material once— upto page 47. i think that's where we stopped yesterday."

"got it."

the way he physically locks in after speaking almost makes you smile. his strong hands grip your laptop, balancing it on one thigh and bending the screen back a little so he can read through. his eyes move rapidly. hungrily. like he's digesting all that information to spew it out in the next hour.

he'll get this bullshit right. if he doesn't, he'll never look at you again. this is his one chance to get more than a glimpse and less than a touch—

"i didn't think you'd agree," you whisper quietly against your will. it just slipped out, and there's no going back now. his eyes slowly drift up to your face, staring through your glasses for a short moment.

"why?"

"dunno. just thought— maybe you'd think i'm being silly, trying to make things interesting. i know i bore you."

sukuna is suddenly hit with a pang of guilt. 'silly' for wanting to motivate him and use his shameless weakness for a better purpose. that's what you thought?

sukuna can't believe his ears or his eyes. you look awkward, like the whole idea of this is bizarre and new to you, and you don't know what you just started.

"y'know i'll try hard to pass even if you don't set stupid ass conditions like this."

you look up, blinking slowly in quiet awe as he continues speaking.

"i don't wanna see you losin' clothes unless you want to show me. not for me to try and focus for once. is that what this is?"

"no," you answer truthfully, biting the inside inside of your cheek to control your mouth from speaking more of your real thoughts further. "i'm ok with it— with you seeing me."

"good." he replies instantly, even if his jaw is working twice as hard as he looks back at the laptop screen. his breathing is heavier now. "'cause i'm gonna fuckin' ace this shit, then ace the actual exam, and take you out. you good with that, miss tutor?"

your stomach feels funny with butterflies erupting from his words because you didn't expect that. you expected a cocky remark, some kind of dirty joke about being able to seeing you naked if he succeeds— but it seems like ryomen sukuna is just as full of surprises as you are. nodding slowly with a slow blink of your eyes, you bite your bottom lip.

the rest of the ten minutes go by in pure silence. your room feels smaller with him in it. the carpet feels irritating on your skin already, and you shift in an effort to be still and comfortable. sukuna huffs, but he's really focused on revising.

eventually, it's time for the test.

you quietly begin with the first question— reading from your phone's notes app, because you prepared them already. you play with the fabric of your leggings nervously with your other hand.

he takes a minute to think.

and then he's answering with confidence, even if he can't pronounce certain organism names correctly. "i don't know how to fuckin' say it— i know how to spell it, though. don't worry, won't forget to underline it when i write it in the exam."

for the first time, your gaze softens in amusement and nervousness both— and with a gentle nod of your head, you murmur quietly. "you made mostly correct points. i'm not worried about the nomenclature. i trust you."

his mouth quirks up in a small smirk. his shoulders relax and he leans back again, expectant and waiting, and you almost hear him curse under his breath when you slowly peel off and toss away your socks.

the second question is where he gets frustrated. "fuck. i just read that shit— can't remember a thing."

"s'okay," you speak quietly, staring deep into his eyes with an obvious hint of attraction that wasn't shown until today. "take your time. think, ryo."

how the fuck is he going to be able to form a proper thought when you're calling him that?

he grunts, running both of his rough palms down his face as he closes his eyes. "nah. next question, angel. i'll get it for sure."

sukuna misses the next, too. and the one after that.

3 wrong, 1 correct. 6 remaining.

that meant if he wanted you out of your stupid leggings, your hoodie, whatever t shirt you were wearing underneath, and your underwear? he has to get five more answers correct. even better if he gets all of them.

shit, he feels pathetically horny and pressured at the same time.

when he gets the fifth one right, even if it took him a long moment of tugging at his soft looking hair and glaring at the floor like it had all the answers— he almost groans with relief and need.

he's hard for the nth time around you. still not used to it, though. not when you notice it easily, from the way he shifts on the floor. the way your skin looks slightly sweaty tells him everything— you're flustered.

"well?" his deep voice comes out in a soft breath, an eyebrow raised in a silent question as his tongue runs over his bottom lip slowly.

you're beyond nervousness now. all that's left is an ache between your legs and sparks under your skin as you slowly pull your dark hoodie over your head and tug it off slowly— the action making your hair messy and leaving you in a white cami top.

"fuck," he curses, greedy eyes taking you in. "next question. hurry, woman. i'm not gonna last here."

your voice wavers when you ask the next question.

he answers again. the sentences flow out of him as he moves now to be closer to you— crawling over to your form with a gaze that makes your body feel hot all over, settling in front of you but not touching you yet. "c'mon. i know it's correct."

you nod stiffly, swallowing with a bone-dry throat. sukuna watches the cami top fall aside from your hands. your tits sit prettily in a comfortable bra. they heave with each little hitch in your breath from his close proximity.

he's going to lose himself in you one way or another.

might as well surrender now.

you're already turning to find your phone again so you can get to the next question, but a strong hand captures your chin between the thumb and index, and before you know it, ryomen sukuna is kissing you like he's going to devour you.

a tattooed hand wraps around your jaw, holding you in place as his tongue messily intrudes your mouth. you moan instantly, trying your best to keep up with the sloppy exchange of spit, even if the sound is quiet and barely there, and he growls against your lips with barely held restraint, tugging at your plush bottom lip to satisfy himself temporarily. "fuck, y'taste so sweet. never been kissed before, huh? yeah, fuckin' knew i was the first. good shit. next question."

his lips follow an invisible path down your neck. open mouthed kisses, wet and sloppy against your skin as he crawls over your body— trapping you against the floor as he lays you down on the carpet. your body is arching already, hands hovering over his shoulders like you don't know where to put them. "'kuna.. hah.."

his hips slot in right between your legs, and god, he's never felt anything this close to heaven until now. you're so fucking warm between those soft thighs, that he's already close to spilling into his jeans.

"i said, next question. let's get these fuckin' pants off, miss tutor."

"e-explain the— ah.. the—"

"the what?" he grunts, shifting further between your legs to grind his clothed cock against your thigh. oh, he's so heavy and hot against you.

you repeat— no, you whine out the question, and he's never heard a sound so sweet.

he pauses his kisses down your neck for a second, trying to focus through the scent of your skin as you shudder— his nose runs along the line of your neck as he lets out hot puffs of air against you. waiting to charge. waiting to devour. waiting. wanting.

he answers.

simultaneously, his big hands tug your leggings down your legs in two long pulls— the material catches slightly at the curve of your ass. his touch is greedy, but not rough yet. calloused fingers run along your hip bone in a hungry dance of their own.

the pad of his thumb runs over the edge of your thong— and the sound of his heavy breaths against your collarbone make you whimper out in pure need. his eyes flutter shut at the sound. no amount of self loathing or silent scolding will help him retreat from this. "wore this for me, hm? should've known miss tutor had tricks up her sleeve..."

"mmh," your voice comes out breathless, already overwhelmed by the sheer strength of his muscular frame pressing you into the carpet— and he looks straight out of a dream, hovering above you with a thin little chain dangling right over your face. "you look so good, 'kuna."

your words are like fire to his already flaring confidence, and soon enough, sukuna tugs his own dark tshirt off, and your jaw practically drops open in amazement.

he's bigger like this.

it's not a new fact, but seeing the proof is still different. his chest is puffed out, even more so when he breathes like he's trying to get a hold on himself. the bold onyx rings around his bulging biceps and veiny wrists make saliva pool under your tongue.

"just good? tch," he rolls his shoulders back like he's preparing for a damn fight, pressing one palm beside your hand as he glides above you again, keeping himself just a few inches away. the space between you two practically buzzes with warmth and need.

against all logic, you reach out hesitantly, only to rest your warm palm over his abdomen. you watch him inhale sharply. his nostrils flare as his head tips back just so— baring that strong neck and throat to you with a deep grunt. you can't help it, a quiet, needy sound leaves from your glossy lips right after him.

his hand wraps around yours, pulling your touch away from his abs, and his grip is so, so gentle it surprises you. "c'mon," he urges, "i'm still playin' fair, miss tutor. next question."

you almost want to say, fuck the test. fuck me instead.

but you grab your phone with trembling fingers and breath out the question with a shaky voice, setting the device aside.

sukuna can't think anymore. he blinks slowly, once, twice— it's useless. he's picking up your scent through your leggings. you're wet. he wishes he could just feel how wet— wishes he could touch your pussy and find out how pretty it is. wishes he could make you cum around his fingers and see that usually stoic face go all shy with pleasure. he bets you've never even touched yourself, being so damn busy with your fuckin' academics— just how neglected is that pussy? how greedy would she be if he just brushed a hand over her?

"can't," he grumbles against your skin, holding the back of your knees and pushing your legs back, earning a squeak of surprise from you.

the way your thong slips between your puffy lips in the most teasing manner makes him malfunction. "can't think. fuck, fuck— never seen a pussy this enticing—"

"ryo, please," you whine now, brave from your own arousal. you run your hands up his front, over those big pectorals and up to cradle his face between both palms, redirecting his almost-drunken gaze to your eyes. "forget about it. i want you, please."

"want me where?" he's quick to ask, already leaning back down to kiss over your collarbone and finally down to your chest.

your skin is coated with his saliva because of his messy kisses, his warm tongue glides over the top of your breasts until he noses over the curve of your bra and groans into the softness of your tits. "real fuckin' soft. i'm gonna take my sweet damn time with these."

meanwhile, sukuna's hands wrap around your waist in a tight grip, holding you down because he knows you'll squirm when he bites at the underside of your chest. he plays with your nipple tthrough the fabric, spit soaking the material and adding more to the friction as his tongue flicks back and forth over the bud, and giving the same treatment to the other. "sensitive lil' thing. you like this shit, huh? tell me where you want me. say it, miss tutor, or i'll fuckin' stop."

"want.. want you— hnngh, down there," you manage to speak between soft gasps from his bites, running your fingers through his pink hair and holding his head closer to your chest.

he lifts his head from your chest, eyes half lidded but alert as ever, and for the first time, you see sukuna staring at you with undisguised want. "heh, think that pussy can take me?"

you nod eagerly, biting your bottom lip, only for his thumb to tug it free from your teeth as he presses the pad of it against your tongue. a dark laugh escapes through his glistening mouth when he watches your innocent lips close around his thumb, your glasses fogging up from his hot breath as he rests his forehead against yours. his tone is almost a little amused. "goooood girl. such a needy tutor i've got. want my cock right away, hah? well, it's not that fuckin' easy, baby."

he nudges your legs apart with one knee, easily maneuvering you to stay flat against the carpet as his mouth travels down your bare stomach, leaving a hickey at the nearest rib and finally (impatiently) reaching down to the source of your sweet, heady scent.

"before you can even think of takin' me," he shakes his head, retracting his thumb from your mouth and pressing it directly over your clothed clit— the outline of it under the damp fabric is so cute he almost wants to take a photo and keep it to himself. "you gotta come around my fingers first. then my mouth. that's law."

you stay still, even when your eyes close and roll back into your head from the constant pressure of his thumb, your second heartbeat throbbing against the calloused fingertip until he starts to slowly rub in tight circles.

"cute," he laughs lowly as he watches your hips twitch in response, as if he finally found the right word to describe you. "you're so cute, princess. you ready?"

he doesn't wait for your answer. he knows you now.

one hand tugs the thong off you in two seconds— the fabric tears easily from his grip, while two thick fingers slide up your entrance, collecting the slick there and coating your clit with it, like he's preparing his favourite fucking meal.

sukuna dives in. no doubt, messily. your pussy is so soft, so sweet, he can barely hold back when he kisses it, moaning into your hot core with rough fingers spreading you open, watching your sweet cunt flutter under his gaze as he blows a teasing puff of air right over you. "cute. so cute. gotta make you moan louder, miss tutor. don't be shy."

"ryomen!" you moan right after that command, not because he told you, but because it feels so good. your brain is already foggy as it is— but when he fucks those fingers into your warm, tight pussy, you jolt with each curl of his digits.

"hah, ryo, ahhhnn.."

he grins, wide and dangerous, licking a long stripe from where his fingers plunge in and out of you with each little squelch, flicking the tip of his tongue just riiiiight over your clit until you're squirming again.

he clamps a beefy arm over your tummy, holding you down— no, pressing you down, because he just realised that he fucking loves your soft stomach. "so fuckin' tight. poor lil' cunt, probably wondering how this happened? her owner's a naughty tutor, that's what happened."

the amusement in his voice is downright cocky now, familiar to the sukuna you've heard things about— except... you understand exactly why he's got such a 'bad' rep. he's so fucking good at sex, no wonder people whisper things just to bring his name into the mud. one more thrust of his fingers makes your opinion flip like a switch. he's perfect, and people just talk shit because they haven't experienced him.

and now? you were the one experiencing the best of the best, that was ryomen sukuna.

squealing loudly, you arch your back off the floor— a mix of your arousal and his spit sliding down between your ass and down to the carpet. no, that carpet was new! as if sensing your thoughts from your flushed face, sukuna's smirk widens and he only goes faster, making your insides clench around his fingers with already trembling thighs. "ah— hah, 'k-kuna! can't— m'feelin' like.."

"mmh?" he nips at your shaking inner thigh, sucking a dark hickey into it because he's a possessive bastard who wants to see the mark bloom when he takes you out tomorrow. "gonna cum on my hand? gonna let me taste ya?"

nodding frantically, your hand tugs at his pink hair with a loud moan, a sound so filthy you can't believe it's coming from you. "yes! i- yes, please! please, ryo? please, i'm gonna—"

he's heard the sound of pathetic, slutty begging multiple times in his life.

but from your lips?

devastating.

"i fuckin' got you, sweet thing," he growls against your sopping wet cunt, and you swear his fingers only grow faster, pressing against your gummy walls until you're screaming and muffling your sound with a hand on your mouth, tears pricking at the corners of your sweet eyes. "oh my— oh, ryomen!"

your first ever orgasm hits you harder than he expected— you're crying already, pretty feet kicking back and forth in the bliss of it all, tits rising and falling in your half-worn bra, and you haven't even seen him fully naked. he's definitely leaking into his boxers at this point, but nothing can distract him from the beautiful sight of your pretty face being all messy with salty tears and that cute, scrunched up expression. "god, y're just so pretty. already cryin' over me, heh— that won't do, doll. you still have ta take my cock."

"hey, you with me, miss tutor?" sukuna lifts his head from the middle of your thighs, slowly coming back up. your tears are wiped away gently, and then his warm tongue tastes the salt on your skin, lips leaving surprisingly gentle kisses all over your warm cheeks, his nose accidentally brushes against the lens of your glasses, blurring one half of it. you finally give him a lazy smile, still recovering from the pulsing between your legs that remains even after your high. "mhm... yeah. want your cock, now. please?"

"don't need to tell me twice," he huffs in that same annoyingly confident manner, one hand gently patting the side of your thigh as he squeezes the flesh, tugging your legs apart once more.

"aight. open up, nice and wide— yeah, that's my girl."

are you his girl? are you really?

fuck yeah, you are, he decides right away.

something in your stomach lurches at the statement. at the possessiveness in it. the version of you that existed before sukuna walked in your apartment a few days ago, would have denied. the safety of your comfort zone would have devoured you whole, keeping you from anything like this.

"yes, i'm your girl, ryomen." you whisper suddenly while he's unzipping his jeans, and for a second, sukuna feels that odd, heavy pang of what he recognizes as affection now, that he's never felt for any other women before. your words are so genuine, he can't just brush them off. he's not that mean, even if his flushed cock is aching for your pussy and all he wants to do is sink into you.

sukuna leans over your face, breathing heavily into your space and brushing his lips against yours once again. just gentle nips at your mouth, your tongue. the soft sounds of the kiss filling your room, and you bring a hand up to caress his cheek.

he pulls away, still holding himself in one hand as he pumps his fist once, twice, thrice— grunting out with great difficulty because speech is intensely complicated when he's already on the brink of bliss. after showing you, he rolls the condom on (that backpack was finally useful). "look at what you do to me. not just today. you've been doing it since i first came over."

"so," he continues and his mouth twitches in pride, letting the head of his cock dip between the slick, puffy lips of your cunt as he sighs shakily in unison with your soft whine. "no goin' back, miss tutor. this pussy's mine, you got it?"

"yes," you respond breathlessly.

sukuna pushes in slow— a strangled, almost pained grunt vibrating through his chest as he feels the tight walls of your cunt stretch around himself.

"fuck. breathe, pretty," he encourages you while you wince at the stretch, and he loves the way you flutter around him when he calls you that sweet name. what a cute little observation.

and as the minutes pass? he uses that to his advantage every single chance he gets.

right there on the soft carpet of your bedroom, sukuna ryomen fucks into you like he's made for it, like this was the purpose of his goddamn life— big hands holding your thighs open, folding you in half as he ruts into your dripping cunt until you're screaming in pleasure once more.

even you cry out, "mmngh, hah, s-s'kuna! t-too much!" he doesn't stop. he can't stop. not when your pussy takes him so fucking well that he physically can't do anything but keep pounding into you, hips flush to yours and strong arms holding you down, thumbs pressing into your hard nipples as he flicks the peaks to make you squirm further. "nah— nah, don't fuckin' complain now. y're my girl. my sweet girl, so you'll— fuck, take it. hah.. i know you can."

your body is at it's limit, all from one orgasm from his fingers and now his fat cock is splitting you in half— there's not much you can do to stop yourself from gushing all around him without warning. "oh, fuck, p-please, 'kuna! i-i can't—"

"yes, you can," he grins widely. feral. "i feel ya, miss tutor— this greedy cunt's practically eatin' me up— heh, fuckin' made for my cock."

wild, crimson eyes look down at you with so much admiration that it makes your breath catch mid orgasm— struggling to maintain the eye contact when he squeezes one breast and presses his forehead to yours. "don't look away. fuck, f-fuck, y're milking me, shhhiiiitt."

the dazed, fucked out look in your teary eyes, combined with your silly little glasses going askew from his sloppy, hard thrusts makes him reach his own high— and he spills into the condom with a loud, feral growl that not only makes you clamp down on his length, but also contributes to your third, oversensitive orgasm instantly.

"oh, fuckin' hell, you comin' again, miss tutor?!"

he barks out a choked laugh right after, and he keeps going, riding out your intense aftershocks with slower, more directed thrusts as he kisses that spot deep, deeep inside you— making you heave for air and grab at his strong biceps. your nails scratch down on tattooed skin due to the pure bliss. "'kunaaaaa! i— hnnngh, ah! ah— hah... ha.."

you're so tired, you can barely even keep your eyes open by the time he pulls out of you and holds himself above you with a strong palm as support— his voice coming out soothingly deep before your vision blurs. "relax, pretty. came so hard, all for me— you're so mine already."

"mine, mine, mine," he chuckles against your skin, leaving a soft kiss over your cheek and slowly wraps an arm around you to support your back. "oi, don't pass out on me, i haven't shown you my special tricks yet!"

you sigh shakily, eyes fluttering open again, cock-drunk and flushed. it seems the warmth between your legs still hasn't fully died yet. or maybe you're just shocked. "t-tricks...?"

sukuna barks out another laugh— loud and hearty this time, carrying you up with ease as he slowly stands while finding the strength in his long legs after being on the floor for so long. "fuck, i was kidding. well, not really, but— rest for now, cutie. i'll clean ya up."

"mmh..." you chuckle quietly in response to his laugh. it sounds so genuine all of a sudden. feels too real. his words curl into your fuzzy mind like a lullaby, and you nuzzle his shoulder. "m'kay."

fuck, he might just be in love.

sukuna spends the next twenty minutes cleaning between your thighs— after finding a clean cloth in your bathroom and being so gentle, he even shocks himself. since when was he fond of aftercare going further than a 'goodnight'?

"pretty girl," he whispers against your skin, bringing the soft covers over your body, pressing a quiet peck to your forehead and gently taking your glasses away from your face. he folds them with the utmost care, setting them aside on the table before shifting into bed with you. "the prettiest i've ever seen. and all mine now. that shithead elliot did me good."

the bet ⋮ @kthologue

╰› it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)

fixing his motorbike ⋮ @strawberry-nugget

╰› what’s a girl supposed to do when her jacked boyfriend is covered in grease because he’s fixing his bike with his bare. fucking. hands?

crushin' ⋮ @sanguineterrain

╰› Barbara invites you to dinner with the Bats. She's done so before, and you've always declined, but this time, you agree because the Bat you've had a crush on for ages will be there. Little do you know, the only reason he's staying for dinner is because of you.

no thing defines a man like love that makes him soft ⋮ @kitkatscabinet

╰› Jason's always been undeniably soft for you, his friends and family take every opportunity to tease him for it.

handle it ⋮ @libbleysayss

╰› Jason thinks that he can handle the full weight of his girlfriend on top of him during sex- but the poor fool doesn't know what he's just signed himself up for...

cover blown ⋮ @jellyfishsthings

╰› you and jason cannot stand each other. what happens when you both have to pretend to be a married couple for a mission?

found on aisle 7 ⋮ @iydiamartinx

╰› Jason Todd didn’t expect anything good to come from an early morning grocery run. He definitely didn’t expect to find his past—and his future—following him with a nerf blaster between the aisles.

𖥻 DRABBLES/HCs

yapper!bf!jason ⋮ @honeysucklewatr

he’s the kind of guy who… ⋮ @/honeysucklewatr

his sweet girlfriend ⋮ @sugugori

breaking no contact ⋮ @soulsforsales

bulking season ⋮ @andromedasgallery

his brothers crash at yours ⋮ @sacrificiallane

dating jason hcs ⋮ @kaiyatoast

leaning down to hear you ⋮ @wingfleur

jason can't stand you being unprepared for the cold ⋮ @enviedear

jason w/ chubby!reader ⋮ @abeautifullittlefoooool

being jason's first ⋮ @lush-escape

his moans ⋮ @hoodzgyal

sex & jason todd ⋮ @/lush-escape

this entire masterlist ⋮ @edawgz

meeting his family ⋮ @ghxstrobins

jason todd comes crawling back ⋮ @kill3ill

teaching wheels ⋮ @dhazefawn

boyfriend headcanons ⋮ @batshadows

jason todd loves you endlessly ⋮ @amaqtive

there are no words left to speak ⋮ @squipa

period sex ⋮ @lucidcrashing

he quits smoking for you ⋮ @mrsjasontodd

jason loves his yapper!gf ⋮ @tiramissuiu