#and it posts fine from desktop

[brenna]

50,000 likes!

[hinamie]

these 3 and their weird catty love triangle have bewitched me body and soul

[barisistill]

Hi! Your writing is amazing! I want to start writing fanfiction but whenever I try it seems bland? Flat? Idk it feels like there isn't enough to describe what's going on and it just feels like everything is rushed.

I get that practice makes perfect, but other than that are there any tips you might have?

I'd really be grateful if you could, and sorry if this is worded weird (I'm not good with asking for things lol) anyways have a good day and remember to drink water !!

First off, thank you SO much for reading my fics, and I definitely hope you join our little guild of writers still clinging desperately to Barisi in [current year]. You have no idea how much it means to be told my writing is tip-worthy!!

I can give a few philosophies that I use as guides, but these are just ways I've developed my own writing style over time—I'm sure plenty of people think these choices suck.

Overdo the first draft: In my first draft, I just throw in every detail that seems even potentially relevant—thoughts, feelings, details about the room, the lighting, how characters are positioned, etc. This gives me a robust starting point so, for the most part, I'm not trying to figure out what's 'missing' later. I'm just taking out the trash. It made my first drafts feel like they took forever to write in the beginning, but over time I started to be able to anticipate what would be trash and not write it down in the first place.

Trim the fat: I used to have my fics overloaded in crap that didn't matter and repetitive phrasing, etc. because I had an attitude of "Well, I spent the time writing it, so it would be a waste to not include it." This only hurt the work in the end. If something fundamentally sucks, I just accept that it sucks and pitch it.

I'm nothing if not indulgent in establishing general vibes: I generally keep sentences that ONLY give an action to a minimum. There are a million ways to enhance sentences—throw in what a character is thinking or feeling, take a spin on a metaphor, toss in an adverb or two. I find that this helps me keep the pacing from feeling rushed. For example, I would change the following, because it doesn't do anything to establish the mood or general vibe. It's just A happens, then B happens, then C happens: "It was the middle of a hot day, and Carisi was sitting on the couch in Barba's office while Barba was sitting as his desk. They were barely getting any work done." I would change it to something like: "The midday sun was cutting harsh stripes of light across Barba's desk, and the air conditioning unit was giving a half-hearted performance. They'd long since shed their jackets and vests, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up. Carisi sprawled across Barba's couch, while Barba had kicked his feet up on his desk, having lost his shoes sometime since Carisi last looked over. Carisi tried to read the same paragraph of a witness statement for the third time before tossing his folder in the general direction of the coffee table." Is this overkill? Perhaps. Not my problem.

The "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn" Principle: If I'm on the fence about keeping or tossing a detail, I ask myself why I care about that detail. If I can't come up with a decent reason, then I pitch it. To use the last example: "The midday sun was cutting harsh stripes of light across Barba's desk [time of day], and the air conditioning unit was giving a half-hearted performance [it's hot]. Barba's desk was a rich mahogany, and there were two chairs across from him. They'd long since shed their jackets and vests, ties loosened and sleeves rolled up [they're so hot that they're a little undone]. Barba was wearing a blue shirt and green tie, while Carisi was wearing a white shirt and gray tie. Carisi sprawled across Barba's couch, while Barba had kicked his feet up on his desk, having lost his shoes sometime since Carisi last looked over [it's a lazy sort of heat]. The leather couch probably cost more than Sonny's rent. Carisi tried to read the same paragraph of a witness statement for the third time before tossing his folder in the general direction of the coffee table [they aren't getting any work done and it's too hot to care]."

Similes are out, metaphors are in: A metaphor almost always gut-punches me more than a simile. I literally just say that A is B, rather than A is like B. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, so I just follow my heart. Some out-of-context examples: - Rafael Barba was nothing if not a self-serving martyr, a savior who couldn’t resist the sound of his own crucifixion.  - What a small price to pay, Sonny thought, when he was moonlight touching the ocean. - Rafael was a storm chaser, and being with Sonny was like standing in tornado country. (it's a halfsie, shhh) - Rafael cut himself off, not wanting to show his cards, but knowing it was time for him to either go all in or fold.

If someone does something bad/bizarre/out of character, ponder on why: I once heard a critic say, "Every time a character does something baffling, we can't just throw up our hands and say 'bitches be crazy.'" Sometimes the narrative takes care of it if the bad/weird decision is part of the plot itself, but sometimes it's just a single moment. One way I deal with this is by suggesting things that might drive that bad/weird decision (especially if the characters themselves aren't exactly sure why they're doing what they're doing). Some examples (with a little context explaining why they're bad/weird): - Maybe it was in his blood, this desperate faith in destiny. Or maybe it was just that he had spent so long being alone that the promise of someone made for him had become too seductive to resist. ^^^ (Barba wants to find his soulmate even though his job and parents' bad relationship makes him logically aware that it doesn't always end well) - She moved her hand to cup his face. He couldn’t help but lean into her warmth, maybe because of the bite of the autumn breeze, or maybe because it was the same warmth that once flowed through Sonny’s veins. ^^^ (Rafael leaning in to Sonny's nonna's touch at Sonny's funeral, even though he doesn't know her) - Sonny came equipped with anatomical features Rafael hadn't requested, and didn’t want to look at. Maybe it was an occupational hazard, or maybe he just wasn’t as modern as he pretended to be.  ^^^ (Um... Rafael orders a Sonny robot and he mistakenly comes with sex upgrades that make Rafael uncomfortable even though it's totally normal in this universe)

Write from the POV of one character: I believe that @margoblack taught me that this is called "third person limited POV." I do this (sometimes, not always) for a couple of reasons. First, as a reader, it can get tedious (in my OPINION) to read multiple characters' thoughts and feelings at once, especially when there are multiple characters with the same pronouns—and especially especially if it's nonstop (i.e. within the same paragraph or sentence). As a writer, omniscient POV limits my use of pronouns because I have to constantly clear up which "he" I'm talking about. That usually results in 1) overusing their names into oblivion 2) using 'the detective/the attorney," "the taller man/the shorter man," "the other man," etc. which I personally don't jive with or 3) forcing the reader out of the story to go back and sort out who the hell was doing what. Second, me trying to write a bunch of characters' thoughts and feelings at the same time makes for a disjointed and confusing narrative. I try to avoid forcing the reader to have to backtrack to be able to follow the story.

Use suggestion as a way to keep the other characters from feeling flat when writing from a single POV: Speaking of POV, not having access to the other characters' emotions/decisions can make them feel flat. I use the same suggestion method I mentioned previously to sneak-attack dimension onto the NPCs and dolphins. Examples: - Rafael sank back into his seat with drugged-up relief at hearing maternal reassurance, or maybe just that the attention was back on Sonny. - Carmen found Sonny’s eyes, flicking to Rafael and back, biting her lip like they were sharing a private joke. - Barba was still smiling at him, not quite like he was laughing at him, but something adjacent, like he was delighted by Sonny’s floundering.  - The dolphins were especially active, maybe because they weren’t fighting a strong current tonight.

Writing accents is like a comedy skit with a song—it has to be good or it's bad: IN MY OPINION, reading accents can become grating really quickly and rip me out of the story. I trust readers to know what most characters sound like (bc this is fic) or otherwise trust them to be able to map voices onto the characters' dialogue based on something I mentioned once. For example, I trust the reader to do the rest if I said a character has a lisp or a Japanese accent or a toddler can't pronounce her R's yet. THAT SAID, I am not immune to Sonny's accent. But I try to keep any accents and other verbal variations to a minimum and in contexts where it makes sense. For example, I write out Sonny's accent sometimes when he's talking to his family or when he's joking around or emotional (I'm not a linguistic expert, but those are instances when my accent thickens). Examples: - “Ma,” Sonny cut in. “I was gettin’ there. Raf has kidney stones.”  - "Jesus, keep your voice down, Carlos’s mom is in the fuckin’ office," Sonny hissed. - "I'm trying to see about farm work. Any knowin’ who might need a hand for a couple days?" - "And Nonna, god, she'd be furious right now. Yellin' at me in Italian about how I'm doing everything wrong."

Write human beings: My #1 goal in writing—if I achieve literally nothing else—is for my characters to seem like they could be real people with feelings and personalities and backstories. Especially because I write the same handful of characters over and over, it gets grating to write the same 2-D traits from the show with zero expansion. Like, we get it—Rafael is biting and performative, Sonny is brash yet sensitive. Now do something with it—they don't need to live their whole lives having sex, talking about work, and making lawyer jokes. Add little human details: - Sonny telling Rafael to close his eyes before turning on the light in the morning - Rafael being irritated with a customer service person and having to remind himself to be nice, that it's not their fault - Sonny pressing a cold water bottle against Rafael's neck as he walks by to make him jump Stuttering and hesitating dialogue, interruptions, italics for emphasis: - "Okay," he said. "Okay. We're gonna... we're gonna deal with this. Later. For now, we're gonna put a pin in it, okay? Just... put a pin in it." - "I'm alone," she said, the words emerging between ragged breaths. "I have no one left. No family, no—" / "You have me," Rita interrupted. - Liv was probably rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. "He's willing to reopen the case if you can bring sufficient evidence." Callbacks to details that describe a real past: - Rafael tried to forget all the details Sonny's family would never know he’d accumulated. The color of Bella’s high school graduation dress. The name of the boyfriend that Gina brought home for Christmas in 2011. The fact that Bella liked ‘Bells’ and Teresa liked ‘Tess’ but Gina hated ‘Gigi.’  - Rita held Camila steady, rubbing firm circles on her back the way she had when Camila was a fussy baby. - Marlene's laugh was dry. "Honey, I've lived on this coast for fifty-six years, and I even remember most of ‘em. I've seen red tides that killed everything for miles. I've seen hurricanes that rearranged the entire shoreline in a couple of hours. A few dead sturgeons? Not exactly keeping me up at night." Jokes: People tease and joke around. Not every single line has to be significant to the narrative and not every joke has to be about their stupid fucking jobs. Be normal during sex: Without the characters having conversations or joking around during sex—or at LEAST having some compelling internal dialogue—it just turns into a stale blur of forgettable "oh yeah baby harder just like that you were made for me fuck yes fuck oh my god please fuck kiss me here touch me there hanky panky." Let characters have flaws: Mary Sue's and "I don't like that the show made X Character this way, so I just ignore it" aren't my favorite. I know it stems from writer turnover, but I tend to take the characters' inconsistencies in the show at face value—cognitive dissonance rather than "they would never do that." Rafael is an impulsive martyr and can be an asshole in a way that isn't endearing, Liv is a hypocrite who puts too much pressure on everyone else and has weird opinions about disabled people, Fin used to be homophobic and transphobic and now he's the poster child for absolving the fact that the show is copaganda, Sonny was an overcompensating douche who couldn't keep a girlfriend to save his life for a while and now he's a mid lawyer. In my OPINION, it's more fun to engage with imperfect characters who are layered and inconsistent, who yell sometimes and make tongue-in-cheek jokes and have opinions that I don't agree with.

Women are not allergens: Take or leave the rest, but for this one specifically, I am speaking directly to you, dear reader: if you want to write porn, write porn. If you want to write stories, write women. They are SURROUNDED by women—Rafael's mother and grandmother, Sonny's immediate family is canonically two-thirds women (plus two canon nieces), Liv and Amanda (and Jesse and Billie), Carmen, Rita Calhoun, Melinda Warner. OCs are also permitted to be women. Any variation of "It's kinda hard to write women when we write fic centering two men in a relationship" is um... let's call it a 'you' problem and not an 'us' problem.

Other things that just make writing fic more fun (that usually come with time): - Develop some 'things.' My things are Barisi pressing their foreheads together a lot and finding literally any excuse not to use a condom. - Make some OCs who show up as minor characters. I used to use the same names consistently for minor characters, but recently I've fleshed out Belle and Yasmin, who just pop in as things like nurses and Carmen's friends, and I now I look for excuses to use them. - Related, it's fun to make inside jokes, even if they're just for yourself. Reference your own headcanons, your friends' headcanons, other fics, other writers' names. MargoBlack, @chiazu, and @malevolent-muse especially reference other writers, and it's a nice way to connect and make writing feel less like a solitary activity. - It's cliche, but don't get caught up in the numbers game. Just write what you want to write. My favorite fic of mine is "1929 post-stock market collapse, pre-dust bowl farmer!carisi x former stockbroker!barba" AU, which—believe it or not—is not something the general public is itching to consume. - Also cliche, but leave kudos and comments. Nobody is getting paid for this shit in anything but encouragement. It's like a "pay what you can" event—no, you're not obligated to give anything, but you're kind of an asshole if you don't. And finally, if you read this whole post, please get your head checked. XOXO, Regina George

[goodshipskypirate]

I just realized what the trio friendship of Zale, Valere, and Garl reminded me of:

[amouress16]

Are my posts broken? I tried to post a comic and it won't appear on my dashboard. Gonna try again to see if the post bugged 🙃

[ichijokaoru]

in light of the url change............ i also did an ~old tumblr thing~ (feels weird saying that) of setting up...... a desktop theme with a pretty blue sky..... because i used to Love doing a desktop theme and i feel i have a really nice one on my art blog (here at magentameows!) but i haven't really thought abt desktop themes in so long on this webbed site so it was fun..

[seveneyesoup]

I love working titles

[ID: A title in times new roman reading "Vampire Boydrag; or; Double Bluff; or; How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Masquerade". End ID]

[technikki]

so did we find out what the fuck was happening w tublr yesterday or was that just a completely random weird thing that happened

[cheswirls]

are you fucking kidding me lmfao

[therandomartmaker]

Reasons Discord's New Mobile Layout Update is Bad

The reply function is redundant, as most people are used to just holding down and tapping the reply option at the top. If they're going to change it, they shouldn't have gotten rid of the member list for this functionally bad option. It also doesnt line up with any other platform in terms of swipe direction.

The member list is gone from easy viewing

It doesnt auto open your last group chat/DM making multiple simultaneous conversations far more difficult and longer

It's already broken my app once (Locked all channels including other servers' to one channel. I could not access anything except that and my DMs.)

You can not see images that have been pinned in the pins tab.

The search function was fine before. Where did your before, during and after date search go??

All of Discord's individuality is disappearing.

Getting used to a mobile format actually impedes usage of the desktop format and likely discourages people from multiplatforming discord because theyre so used to the "intuitiveness" of the new "tailored for mobile" experience

There is no way to CHANGE IT BACK. This is like Tumblr rolling out Tumblr Live without any Disable button At All.

Why are they marketing midnight mode as Something fucking ENTIRELY new??? It has always been a feature on Android as the AMOLED theme???????

DARK MODE IS NO LONGER LOW CONTRAST AND DISCORD IS DEVOLVING INTO AN ACCESSIBILITY NIGHTMARE

Disable swipe-to-reply by activating full-screen Launchpad in Advanced Settings

Discord’s new layout is apparently permanent. Keep sending feedback and rating it one star on all appstores; if you get redirected to the advice article, double tap gove feedback.

If you, too, dislike the theme, head to settings (you can double tap your account picture) and go to Appearance, scroll to New Layout and Send Feedback.

Overall, what they've done is disorientate every single current user on discord, and you cannot avoid it unless you've not updated to the latest discord because this is not an update. It is a feature that has already been on the latest update and is being slowly rolled out, like Tumblr Polls.

Good Luck, and may we send as much feedback as possible and have them make it optional or at the least, revert it. I've already sent in at least seven complaints to discord, commented on their instagram post about the layout and I'm about one star review it on google play and app store.

This isnt just the appearance and vibes being off like the new (ish) app icon, this is a matter of functionality.

[varietysky]

sometimes to help myself get over certain fears i read Wikipedia articles about it, and this has worked for a couple of my fears, but i realized today that i am Not Quite Ready to work through another one... and that's okay! I was able to get through at least a couple paragraphs but it was too much for me, so i'm not quite ready to touch that piece of trauma head on like i can with some others

and it's all really annoying and dumb bc these fears are related to pieces of media that are (luckily) relatively easy for me to avoid otherwise

[iniziare]

Download: Adobe Photoshop 2025 (v26.5) / Windows

I come bearing the gift of piracy as an early Easter present! Welcome to the most recent (at the time of writing) version of Adobe Photoshop, which was released on March 27th of 2025. As per usual, have a peek at the note below, as it's there to help avoid the most common issue.

Authenticity popup? In case you get a message that says Photoshop needs to be licensed, or it will uninstall itself otherwise, please have a look at this fix! (Always uninstall previous Photoshop installations prior to installing a new one)

Step 1: Download the file from my Google Drive, or Mega.nz Step 2: When done downloading, unzip it (Windows can do it for you, but I personally use a program called 7ZIP) anywhere on your PC, even your desktop works fine, and yes, you can delete it when you're done with all of these steps. Step 3: Go into the unzipped folder, click 'Setup', and Photoshop's usual installation window will pop up. Install it as per your preferences (if you aren’t too tech-savvy, don’t worry, you can leave the default installation options as they are and all will be fine). Step 4: Hit 'Launch', and well— enjoy your copy of Photoshop! (Step 5: I would absolutely love you if you could spare a reblog of this post, which is not even for my own sake, but for anyone else who might be looking to obtain a copy of Photoshop!)

If in the unlikely event that you do run into any sort of issue of any kind, my DMs and askbox are always here for you, so don’t be shy, I promise I’ll welcome you with chocolate and fruit.

While I don’t request for anything in return outside of a like if this helped you (or ideally, a reblog so that others can find this), I was asked in the past whether I had a Ko-fi, so I set one up back in the day. It’s not required at all, but it’s always appreciated. 🤍

[withwritersblock]

Call It What You Want

~Call It What You Want by Taylor Swift~

Author's Note: Requested! I um well here's this um yeah Summary: Luke's fans find out his girlfriend is a content creator and flood her comments with hate. Luke finds a way to comfort her. Warnings: some mean language, implied smut like barely Word Count: 3,440 Luke Hughes x fm!reader

It was an accident. She was planning on keeping her relationship as secret as possible. Her social media following was incredibly nosy. They would always over analyze every detail of her posts. Especially, her TikToks and her YouTube videos. 

She vlogged her life, sometimes it would be barely anything and other times it would be every detail of her life. 

When she started dating her boyfriend, she promised that it would not be something she would make content out of. Especially since her boyfriend was Luke Hughes. They started dating after being friends for nearly a year.

 Keeping their relationship private was easy since their lives didn’t necessarily change much. Since they were friends before they got together. He was never featured in any of her content since people would instantly make assumptions. Keeping it private became extra easy after he moved to New Jersey for the NHL. Although, it became suspicious after she stopped mentioning her boyfriend. 

She had spent several hours editing her most recent YouTube video where she was talking about how she was taking a break since she would be on vacation. Vacation was actually moving to New Jersey to live with Luke. She graduated early, since she spent three years of her life completely focusing on school, her videos, and Luke.

Since her eyes were so exhausted she didn’t notice that Luke was walking in the background completely shirtless. 

He was barely in the video, hardly noticeable. But both of their fans were incredible detectives and found it out within the first ten minutes of the video being posted.

“Lukey,” she called out towards him from her bedroom. She was sitting at her desk, starting towards her desk top. She continued to scroll through the five second clip that Luke was barely in. 

“Yeah?” he called back as he walked into their newly shared bedroom. He walked towards her as he rested his hand onto the desk as he delicately pressed his lips to the side of her cheek. 

“Remember how we were going to keep this secret for as long as possible?” she explained. He hummed as he brushed her hair off of her neck as he tilted her head to the side to kiss her lips delicately. For a moment, she leaned back to deepen the kiss. “Lukey,” she mumbled against his lips. He hummed again as he slowly leaned back. “They found out,” she let out as her eyes widened slightly.

“They—what?” he asked as he shifted his gaze towards her desktop. 

“Look,” she let out as she reversed the video slightly. She played the five second sequence and he stared blankly towards the screen.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked as he stared towards the screen, “Besides my beauti—”

“Not the time, baby,” she mumbled as she raised her hand up, gliding it across his cheek. He chuckled as he leaned closer. “Look, here,” she mumbled as she pointed towards the top left of the screen. Where he walked through the hallway, his gaze was on his phone as he was on the screen for a few seconds.

“That’s it?” he let out a soft chuckle leaving his lips, “Come on, I look like every guy ever. There’s no way people know that’s me,” he explained as he watched her scroll down and show the top comment on her video. 

Nohughesyno: I know Luke Hughes when I see him!! 3:56!

“Okay that’s one comment—” she interrupted him by scrolling through the rest of the comments. Every single one was mentioning that Luke was in the video. “Okay, that’s fine, we’re fine,” he mumbled as he took a hold of her chair, spinning it so that her body was facing him. 

“This could be bad,” she muttered as she looked into his eyes, pouting slightly. He rested his hands onto the desk as he leaned towards her, deliactely taking her lips with his. She hummed against his lips as her hands glided along his neck and into his hair.

“It will be fine, I promise,” he mumbled against her lips, “Now you don’t have to care too much,” he said as he pulled back. He watched as she slowly opened her eyes.

“You’re right,’ she mumbled.

“I’m always right,” he let out teasingly. She pushed him back, chuckling. He smirked as he leaned towards her kissing her urgently.

~~~

She thought Luke was right, convinced herself that everything would be fine. Except, the comments started off sweet. Many of them were happy to find out that they were together. She noticed that comments and views on old videos were sky rocketing as they were trying to find anything that they have missed. It was cute for a few days.

She thought what’s the harm in actually posting a video with purpose of showing Luke off. By showing him off, it was a two second clip of them posing in her floor length mirror. 

She was wearing a red sweater with black leather pants. He was wearing one of his all black suits. He was standing beside her, awkwardly holding up two thumbs up as they posed for the small clip. 

It was almost instant that the comments were flooded with awful comments. Many of them were calling her a gold digger, calling her ugly, calling her all of the awful inults you could think of. Simply because she was dating Luke.

It wasn’t just his followers that were saying awful things, it was her own. They kept saying that she was shallow for being with a professional athlete. Despite the fact that her and Luke met during their college orientation. She didn’t know that he was even drafted into the NHL since she never paid attention to hockey. 

She was sitting on the aisle of the WAG section, unengaged in any conversation. The first period flew by as the score was still 0-0. Her gaze was on her Instagram comments. There was such a flood of mean comments that at this point all she wanted was to find something that was kind. But there was nothing, no matter how much she scrolled.

Being content creator for majority of her teenage years, she was used to ignoring the comments. Not letting any of the awful words get to her. But something about the words saying that she wasn’t good enough for Luke really stabbed her in her chest. He was everything to her, all she wanted was for his fans to see that. 

Luke wasn’t active on social media much during the season so he was utterly clueless. Y/N was good at pretending, convinced that Luke had no idea how she was feeling.

The boys were skating back on the ice to start the second when Reanne delicately tapped Y/N’s shoulder. She forced her gaze up to meet Reanne’s gaze. “You’re too quiet, what’s going on?”

Y/N’s eyes widened while she took a deep breath. “Been a long day,” she mumbled as she watched Luke skate in a wide circle on the ice. A soft smile formed to her lips, knowing that he was there.

“Saw that you posted Luke on your TikTok. Huge step right?” she expressed. Y/N hummed as she watched the teams line up for the face off. She watched Luke instantly get in the play, pushing any conversation aside. Reanne’s lips fell into a pout but left her alone.

The rest of the game ended in a tight overtime win with a goal by Jack. It was usually how the games have been going for the last few games.

She waited outside of the locker room, her gaze on her TikTok comments. Every word stabbing her in the chest. There was only so much she could take. Especially about how Luke deserves better. She knew that the fans have no idea who either of them truly were but for them to still say that. It sucked.

She leaned against the wall, blinking away any tears that were fighting to form in her eyes. 

Hughesy542: I can’t believe Luke would be with someone who clearly has no personality. She’s probably only with him for his money

The comment continued to cycle through her mind. Her TikTok platform was completely different that how she handled her YouTube videos. Her TikToks, sure she seemed shallow there. Most of the content, the only content that would get views, would be her get ready with me videos. Sure, it probably seemed like that all she cared about is how she looked but she was more than that.

She knew that. Luke knew that. He wouldn’t be with her if that was the case. She was gorgeous but there was so much more to her than that. She hated being called shallow.

“Y/N?” she heard Luke say, she lifted her gaze to see him directly in front of her. She jumped and slammed her hand against her chest. 

“Jesus, Luke! You scared the hell out of me,” she said while chuckling. The corner of his lips curled upwards as he looked over her features.

“I said your name like four times, beautiful. You alright?” he asked as he reached towards her. She stepped back, dropping her gaze towards the concrete below her.

“Ready to head home?” she asked softly as she glanced towards him before she started walking away from him.

Luke pursed his lips forward as he took in a long deep breath. She didn’t give him a chance to reply as she began walking towards the car. He nodded as he pressed his lips together as he followed after her. He was practically jogging towards her.

She glanced behind her to see Luke reaching towards her. He took a delicate hold of her waist; forcing her to stop. She lifted her head up meeting his gaze. He scanned her features, taking note in the tears brimming her eyes. Reaching towards her, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

At first she was hesitant has she kept her arms to her side. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his center back. Luke took a hold of the back of her head, holding her tightly to his chest. Her entire body relaxed in his arms. A sob rised in her throat but she tried to keep it inside. 

“What’s going on?” he asked softly. 

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him, looking into his gaze. “I’m just tired,” she mumbled. He nodded while looking deeply into her eyes. 

“Okay,” he let out softly as she slipped away from his grasp. He held out his hand towards her and she happily took a hold of his hand. Luke watched her lead him towards his car that was parked in the back of the parking garage.

The drive home was quiet. It was usually quiet after losses but Luke and Y/N were always in great moods after a win. But she was so silent, that he knew something was wrong. They were only a few minutes away from their shared apartment.

“Baby,” Luke mumbled as they sat at a red light. She kept her gaze towards her lap, her phone was in her bag. She couldn’t stare at the comments anymore. The words were all jumbled in her head. Every word was intersecting with one another and making it worse. “Can you look at me?” he let out softly. 

She clenched her jaw as she slowly lifted her head to look towards him. He scanned her features watching her avoid his eye. “Talk to me,” he let out. Slowly, she pulled her lips between her teeth as she tilted her head back. Luke looked back towards the street in front of him as he drove ahead. 

“I–I can’t,” she choked out while she dropped her gaze back down towards her lap. “Not now,” she muttered. Luke’s eyes widened as he shifted his gaze back towards her momentarily as he turned into the parking garage.

“Okay, what can I do?” he asked softly, he took a sudden breath as he slowed down into the parking garage. She shook her head as she continued to avoid his eyes. “Baby,” 

“Luke please,” she mumbled as a sob climbed into her throat.

“Okay,” he let out barely above a whisper. He glanced towards her again as he pulled into his parking spot. “Can you tell me when we get upstairs?” he asked softly. She shrugged her shoulders as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Luke reached towards her, resting his hand onto her thigh.

“I will,” she muttered as she met his gaze. 

“Okay, my love,” he let out as he dragged his thumb across the fabric for a few seconds. She took a deep breath before she opened the door and climbed out of the car. Luke quickly followed in pursuit.

She was already walking towards the entrance to the apartment from the parking garage. Luke practically jogged towards her to catch up to her speed. Luke reached towards her, taking a hold of her arm for her to slow down. She glanced towards him as she slowed down, letting him take a hold of her hand. 

She began to climb up the stairs guiding Luke towards their third floor apartment. His thumb glided along her skin absentmindedly. Despite the stairs being inside, it was incredibly cold and he could feel it against the skin of the top of her hand.

Luke pulled his phone from his pocket and immediately pulled up DoorDash. He decided that she needed her favorite late night dinner. They ordered from the italian restaurant so many times, their order was saved in the app. By the time he ordered it, they were already outside of their apartment door.

She pulled her hand from his as she unlocked the door and immediately stepped inside. “I’m gonna go shower,” she muttered. 

“Hey,” Luke mumbled as he took a hold of her waist, spinning her to face him. “I’ve been very patient,” he muttered teasingly. Her eyes widened slightly as she felt a small smile form on her lips. Luke took a hold of her chin as he slowly leaned towards her. He kissed her delicately for a few seconds. 

“Better?” she asked softly.

“Better,” he mumbled as he pecked her lips once more. “Do you want me to join you?” he asked sweetly. Her lips fell into a soft pout as he glided his thumb across her bottom lip. “It’s okay baby girl,” he muttered as he leaned towards her and delicately pressed his lips to her forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she let out softly.

“Don’t be, my love, I’ll be waiting,” he mumbled as she slowly slipped away from his grasp. He took a deep breath as he watched her hang her head low as she rounded the corner towards the bathroom. He kicked his shoes off and started walking deeper into the apartment. 

Subconsciously, he pulled his phone back out and pulled out TikTok.

Of course, usually how it went, one of Y/N’s vidoes popped up. It was one of the ones she had posted early today. He watched the twenty-second: spend the morning with me video. Smiling to himself, he watched as the clip of the both of them appeared. In his opinion, he looked awkward.

He sat down on the couch, clicking the comments; out of curiosity. The first comment he read was saying that Y/N was ugly. His mouth practically fell open, offended that anyone could look at her and have that thought cross his mind. She was absolutely stunning. 

He shook his head as he continued to read each comment on her post. Every time he read a comment talking about her lack of personality, his mind would instantly think about every moment she made him laugh. How cute she would be every time she would dance while cleaning because she couldn’t sit still.

His heart starting beating rapidly the longer his name was brought up. Every comment with his name in it was saying how he deserved better. He never understood that. If anything, she deserved better than him. She was out of this world stunning and he felt like she deserved better. 

He clenched his jaw the more and felt anger send a rush of heat over his body. How can anyone not like the love of his life? How can anyone not look at her and think anything other than how beautiful she is; think about how kind she is; think about how funny and smart she is?

He took a deep breath and tossed his phone beside him on the couch. Tilting his head back against the couch, he squinted his eyes shut. He shook his head side to side as he contemplated what to do. Luke knew that’s what was bothering her. Usually, she was so good at letting it roll off of her back. But it seemed like it was everywhere and all he wanted to do was make it stop for her. All he’s wanted was for her to be happy, he hated seeing how this was affecting her. 

He was so consumed with his thoughts that he did not realize how much time had passed. There was a knock on his door and his eyes shot open. He stood up from the couch and took fast steps towards his door. 

He took a hold of the door handle and pulled it open to see the person delivering his food. He smiled widely, “Thank you so much,” he expressed as he took the cardboard bag from the DoorDasher. The person quickly darted down the hallway as Luke shut the door, twisting the locks in the process. 

Y/N stepped back into the living room, her hair was dripping went as her body was covered by a tank top and a pair of sweatpants. Her lips curled upward into a wide grin, “Is that what I think it is?” she asked as she hopped slightly towards the countertop. He chuckled softly as he nodded dramatically as he instantly started pulling out their dramatically large pasta dishes. 

She instantly wrapped her arms around him from his side. He wrapped his arms around her as he turned to hold her to his chest. “You’re the best, you know that?” she mumbled against his chest. He glided his hand up and down her back.

“I love you baby,” he whispered as he delicately pressed his lips to the top of her head. Before she pulled away from him to meet his gaze. His hand slipped beneath her tanktop as he glided his hand across her skin. “I’m sorry about what’s happening on social media,” he mumbled.

Her eyes widened as she tilted her head to the side. “It’s okay, Lu–”

“It’s not,” he let out as he looked over her teary features. “Everything they’re saying isn’t true, you know that right?” he asked softly as he glided his hands over her frame. 

“I know, it’s just a lot,” she mumbled.

“And you realize–like–you are so out of my league. I don’t care what my “fans” say,” he mumbled as he slowly guided her backwards. 

She chuckled as she rolled her eyes playfully, “Oh my god,” she let out. He smirked as he reached down and took a hold of her thighs. She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands ran through his hair, tugging at the curls slightly. 

“Not only are you incredibly hot–”

“Luke–”

“Let me finish,” he said with a grin on his face. Slowly, he pushed open the door to their bedroom. “You’re literally fucking hilarious and adorable and sexy–”

“Luke, what are you doing?” she asked softly as he slowly placed her down onto their bed. He stepped back and took a hold of his red Devils hoodie and tossed it to the floor. Her eyes widened slightly as she scanned his frame. His body was covered in redden marks from hits he took during the game.

“I’m reminding of who you are,” he began as he climbed on top of her, “You are my favorite person on the planet,” he whispered as he looked deeply into her eyes. She rolled her eyes playfully as she ran her hands from his hair down his neck. “I hate to see you hurting,” 

“I’ll get over it eventually,” 

“Can I speed up the process?” he asked, a smirk toying to his lips. Her eyes widened slightly while she nodded. Slowly, he began to press delicate wet kisses down her frame.

“I think it’s working already,” she mumbled as she arched her back slightly.

“Perfect,”

[sandersstudies]

So the AI ask wasn't spam. I'd highly encourage you to do some research into how AI actually works, because it is neither particularly harmful to the environment, nor is it actually plagiarism.

Ignoring all of that however, my issue is that, fine, if you don't like AI, whatever. But people get so vitriolic about it. Regardless of your opinions on if it's valid art, your blog is usually a very positive place. It was kind of shocking to see you post something saying "fuck you if you disagree with me, your're a disgrace to the community." Just felt uncharacteristicly mean.

Even if you insist AI isn’t actively harmful to the environment or other writers (and the research I have done suggests it is, feel free to send me additional reading) and you simply MUST use prompts to generate personal content, nobody has any business posting it in a creative space for authors, which was the specific complaint addressed in that original post. While I’ll never say “fuck you for who you are as a person” on this blog, I might very well say “fuck you for harmful or rude actions you’ve taken willingly,” which is what that post was about.

Ao3 and similar platforms are designed as an archive for fan content and not a personal storage place for AI prompt results. It is simply not an appropriate place. If you look in the notes of the previous ask you will see other people have brought up additional reasons they have concerns about this practice.

A note on environmental effects for those who might not know: Generative AI requires MASSIVE amounts of data computers operating. As anyone who has held a laptop in their lap or run Civ VII on an aging desktop computer, computer équipement generates a lot of heat. Even some home and small-industrial computers have water-cooling systems. The amount of water demanded by AI computers is massive, even as parts of the world (even in America) experience water shortages. Besides this, it consumes a lot of power. The rising demand for AI and the improvements demanded to keep it viable mean this problem will continue to scale up rather than improve. Of course, those who benefit from the use of AI continue to downplay these concerns, and money is being funneled into convincing the public that these are not real concerns.

I have been openly against the use of generative AI, especially for art and writing, since its popularity rose in the last couple years. I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer about this stance sooner. I have asked my followers to alert me if I proliferate or share AI content, and continue to do so.

[foreveia]

the leaders’ pact ⤨ sakusa kiyoomi

⨭ genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers

⨭ pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 12.7k

⨭ description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well… you two find a way to blow off steam.

⨭ warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language

⨭ a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson

one.

Furudate University is, in one word, loud.

It’s one of its biggest charms, really—there’s something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshots—it’s chaotic, it’s exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.

That being said, at 1:47 AM, when you’re still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybe—just maybe—you should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.

Because you’re the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, you’re stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.

It’s a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala that’s all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers don’t ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. It’s supposed to be the ASU’s shining achievement—proof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.

But right now? Right now, it’s a logistical nightmare.

And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASU’s executive vice president.

Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.

Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.

You have personally descended into full goblin mode. You’re hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.

You hate him a little bit for that.

“This is a disaster,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.

“It is,” Sakusa agrees. “But that’s not new information.”

You glare at him. “Okay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.”

“They want a rooftop?” he asks, flipping to another page. “In April? In a city where it rained last year?”

“Apparently, ‘the ambiance would be breathtaking.’”

Sakusa stares at you. “The litigation would be breathtaking.”

“Right?” You throw up your hands. “I give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.”

“Or before you push them.”

“...I’m not saying I would, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t.”

He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. “Facility contracts,” he says. “Pick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. “I can’t make any more decisions tonight.”

“Tough.”

“I physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.”

“Then drink some water.”

You lift your head just enough to frown at him. “Did you just tell me to hydrate? That’s your solution?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Fuck that. I need wine or something,” you huff, annoyed. 

Sakusa doesn’t even blink. “Then go get some.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.”

“I’m not your parent.” He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. “You’re an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, that’s on you.”

That’s all the encouragement you need.

Five minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmen’s illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.

Fine by you.

You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then again—if anyone needs to drink, it’s him.

The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.

For a while, there’s just silence.

Comfortable, in a way.

And maybe that’s why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. “This job is killing me,” you mutter. 

Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. “Join the club.”

“You’re the only other person who gets it,” you murmur, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone else just sees the power trip. They don’t see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me ‘sweetie’—”

“They don’t respect us,” Sakusa says simply. “They never will.”

The words sit heavy between you. It’s the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, you’re just placeholders—students playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.

And it’s exhausting.

Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. He’s exhausted too.

You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesn’t move away.

The warmth of the wine lingers, but it’s not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself it’s just the exhaustion—just the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yours…

Something flips in your stomach.

A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You don’t even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickers—down, then up—his throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.

Then he moves.

His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.

You don’t think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.

He’s warm. Solid. His hands don’t just grip your waist—they press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. There’s something controlled about the way he moves, like he’s holding back, like he’s measuring every touch, every breath.

It makes your skin burn.

You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stutters—a sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.

Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expression—something unspoken, something dangerous.

“We shouldn’t—” he starts, voice hoarse.

You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tightening—not just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like he’s trying to ground himself.

Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like one.

Right now, you just need this.

And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.

two.

You wake up to warmth.

The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isn’t yours, and the mattress is firmer than what you’re used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.

Then you shift.

And your leg brushes against something—someone.

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.

Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink—like maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and you’ll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.

You rub your eyes. Nope. No, you’re still here. In Sakusa’s bed.

Last night comes rushing back in fragments.

The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed you—deliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.

And, apparently, didn’t.

Your face burns.

You can’t do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.

Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happened—

“You’re awake,” Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You freeze.

His eyes are barely open, but there’s enough clarity in them to tell you that he’s fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, there’s silence.

You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomi—the only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand man—woke up in the same bed.

Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:

“This is bad.”

Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. “I was hoping it was a dream.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

Another silence. Neither of you move.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.

You and Sakusa don’t even like each other. Okay, that’s not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.

This wasn’t… feelings.

It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.

You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. “Look, let’s just… not freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life.”

“I always look like that.”

Okay, fair point. Still, you don’t miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.

You take a deep breath. “Last night was a mistake.”

Sakusa’s gaze flickers to you. “Obviously.”

Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. “Wow, again with the rudeness.”

“I just mean it was inevitable,” he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.

You blink. “Wait, you think this was inevitable too?”

He gives you a flat look. “We spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.”

You stare at him. “That is the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m not trying to be romantic.”

You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.

He’s right. This isn’t romantic. It’s not complicated. It’s not some star-crossed bullshit. 

It’s just stress.

And you can work with that.

A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.

“We could do it again.”

Sakusa’s entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.

“Not right now. I just mean…” You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. “I mean, think about it. We’re both overworked. We don’t have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. “You’re saying—”

“No feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.”

His brows furrow slightly.

You lift your hands, palms up. “I’m just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was… effective.” You tilt your head, smirking slightly. “Unless you regret it?”

Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. “No.”

There’s something in his voice—something almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.

Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. “So? Agreed?”

Sakusa’s jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.

Then, finally, he exhales. “…Agreed.”

You clap your hands together. “Great. Now, where the hell are my clothes?”

As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.

But inside, something is twisting in his chest.

This is good. Logical. You’re too busy for anything more. He doesn’t do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.

So why does he already feel like he’s in trouble?

three.

For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.

It’s surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa don’t act any differently—at least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.

But there are differences. Subtle ones.

The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.

Still, you’re both careful. No one knows. And it stays that way—until a week later.

It’s late.

Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she won’t get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, who’s usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.

The exhaustion in the room is palpable.

But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. “I swear, if I get one more email about the catering, I’m deleting my inbox.”

“You can’t do that,” Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.

“I can and I will.”

Ushijima nods thoughtfully. “That is not an efficient way to handle the problem.”

“Whatever, man.” Futakuchi waves him off. “I’m going home before I start throwing chairs.”

The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is empty—except for you and Sakusa.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. He’s tired, too.

And yet, he lingers.

Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what you’re about to do.

You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.

“Sakusa,” you murmur.

He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. “What?”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.

He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesn’t hesitate—not for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he’s pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.

You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.

After that, it becomes a thing.

Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.

Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending it’s just a fluke, stop pretending it’s just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if he’ll do the same.

The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, you’re not the only one who notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. “What’s up with you?”

You blink at him over your laptop. “What?”

“You.” He gestures vaguely at you. “You’re… less miserable.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“I’m serious.” He narrows his eyes, studying you. “A week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now you’re—” He squints. “Weirdly calm.”

You scoff, looking back at your screen. “Maybe I just got better at coping.”

Futakuchi snorts. “Sure. And Aone’s secretly a stand-up comedian.”

Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing. 

Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. “It is true that you seem less fatigued.”

“Maybe she’s just sleeping more,” Kiyoko suggests.

Futakuchi smirks. “Or maybe she’s not sleeping.”

You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. “Kenji, please.”

“I’m just saying,” Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. “She’s been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.”

You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. “We’re working.”

“Sure you are.” Futakuchi hums. “Just seems interesting, is all.”

Ushijima nods, ever serious. “You and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.”

You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. “Noted.”

Futakuchi snickers. “That wasn’t a no.”

You pretend not to hear him.

Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

A silent acknowledgement.

A secret you both share, that’s meant for you two alone.

four.

At first, nothing really changes.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenience—like it’s just stress relief, like it doesn’t bleed into the rest of your lives.

Except it does.

It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusa’s been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.

You tell yourself you’re imagining it.

But then, the conversations change.

It happens one night in the office.

You’re both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. It’s late—past midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusa’s coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.

The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks, “Do you ever wonder what you’d be doing if you weren’t here?��

You blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t ASU president,” he clarifies. “If you had never run for office.”

You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I’d have more time to actually enjoy college.”

Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. “So you don’t enjoy it now?”

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just… exhausting. I feel like I’m constantly putting out fires. Like I’m carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.”

For a moment, Sakusa doesn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, he says, “I get that.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“Volleyball is kind of the same,” he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. “I love it. But sometimes, it’s a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if I’d still play if I didn’t have to.”

You study him for a moment—the tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. It’s rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.

Impulsively, you say, “I could come to one of your games.”

His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. “Why?”

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “Because. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.

“If you want,” he mutters.

But you see the way his ears turn pink.

After that, the changes keep coming.

One night, you fall asleep in Sakusa’s dorm.

It’s not on purpose.

You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pause—a moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dorm—turned into you lying there, too tired to move.

You’d meant to get up. You really had.

But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like he’d done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.

You don’t remember falling asleep—only that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like him—clean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you can’t quite shake.

You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.

But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.

“Go back to sleep.”

And, for some reason, you do.

The lingering turns into something more.

You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.

The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesn’t pull away as fast as he used to.

It’s not just the physicality that changes.

He starts noticing things about you—things no one else does.

Like how he always makes sure there’s an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when you’re stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.

And then there’s the morning after another late night in his bed.

You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isn’t next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.

You blink at him sleepily, confused. “Did you make extra on purpose?”

He doesn’t look at you as he plates the food, but you don’t miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“You’re already here,” he says simply.

That’s all he says.

But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.

The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.

You hadn’t planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. You’ve never really watched him play before—not like this.

He’s already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like he’s looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.

For just a second, he falters.

It’s quick—so quick that if you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might’ve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.

Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.

You’ve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.

His team wins, of course.

Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you play that well just because I was watching?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

But his lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

You grin. “You totally did.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.

You pretend not to notice.

That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when it’s over.

You’re lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.

You could get up. You should get up.

But instead, you speak.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” you murmur.

Sakusa doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”

“This,” you say, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to do this.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

You swallow. “So why do we?”

Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something there—something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.

You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you.

And you realize, in that moment, that you don’t really want to hear his answer.

You just want him to keep looking at you like that.

five.

A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and faculty—mingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors d’oeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughter—all of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.

And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.

You’ve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. It’s tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you weren’t, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.

Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and you’re not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because you’re here. Maybe because it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t. Either way, he’s kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.

You’re halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologne—something expensive, overly strong—settles in the air between you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. “You look good tonight.”

You barely remember his name—Terushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like he’s the most interesting person in the room. He’s charming, in that forced, calculated way, and it’s clear he expects the same back.

You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. “Thanks,” you say evenly. “Are you enjoying the event?”

He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. It’s not overtly inappropriate, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—”

Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waist—not hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.

The guy’s smirk falters.

“Oh,” he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. “Didn’t realize you were… with someone.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.

The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.

Sakusa’s hand doesn’t move.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, tilting your head up at him.

He exhales sharply, finally letting go. “He was annoying.”

You bite back a smile. “You’re grumpy.”

He gives you a look—flat, unimpressed—but there’s something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.

You don’t think much of it. Not until later.

That night, everything feels different.

Sakusa’s touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruel—just… more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like he’s trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove something—not to you, but to himself.

You notice immediately.

The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency you’re not used to—it’s different. There’s a tension in him that wasn’t there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. It’s not impatience, not exactly. It’s more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.

When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.

“Someone’s in a mood,” you murmur, voice teasing, but there’s an underlying curiosity there too. A question you don’t quite ask.

He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laugh—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.

You don’t tease him after that.

Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place he’s been.

You expect him to roll away like he usually does—to shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isn’t distant, not in the way that people assume, but he’s careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.

But tonight is different.

Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexes—just barely, just enough to keep you there.

You blink, caught off guard.

Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesn’t do things without reason, doesn’t let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, he’s letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.

You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleep—that makes something tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.

Sakusa’s eyes flutter open.

You freeze. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.

You take that as permission.

Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You don’t think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.

A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.

The urge to be closer to him—to feel more of him—creeps in before you can think better of it. And so you don’t think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.

Sakusa’s eyes snap open again.

He stares at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“What?” you ask, amused. “I can’t kiss you?”

His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, “You never have before.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You blink, lips parting slightly. You don’t know why his voice sounds like that—soft, careful, like he’s treading over unfamiliar ground. You don’t know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

You swallow. “Did you… not like it?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: “No.”

Your breath catches.

He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.

So you take a chance, leaning in again—this time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.

He lets you.

And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.

Neither of you say anything.

You don’t need to.

six.

Sakusa isn’t paying attention at first.

He’s in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversation—background noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.

That’s what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesn’t lift, his posture doesn’t change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.

“Are you guys dating?”

Kiyoko’s voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.

There’s a pause—just long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.

Then you laugh.

“Oh, no,” you say, amused. “It’s not like that.”

His stomach drops.

The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. It’s not like you’ve ever talked about this. It’s not like there’s anything to talk about. You both agreed—no feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.

Still, the way you say it—so easily, so effortlessly—it makes his throat tighten.

Not like that.

Not even close.

Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesn’t have time to dwell on things that shouldn’t even be a problem in the first place.

But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.

The conversation continues around him, but it’s as if everything has dulled—like the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way you’d dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasn’t even worth considering.

Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.

He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.

It doesn’t.

It lingers.

All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changed—like he’s still the same Sakusa you’ve always known, the one you don’t have to think twice about, the one who isn’t even worth a second glance.

By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.

Then, later, you invite him to a party.

It’s casual—one of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you don’t usually ask him to go to.

“Come with me,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. “You never go out.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t have time.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.”

But he shakes his head. “I’ll pass.”

You stop walking. Turn to face him.

“Why?”

The question is simple. Easy. You’re not even upset—not really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.

He hesitates.

He could lie. Say he’s busy, that he has too much work to do, that he’s too tired.

But that’s not the real reason.

The real reason is this: if he goes, he can’t pretend it’s not real anymore.

He can’t keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t want more than what you’re willing to give.

Because if he goes, he’ll see you in a setting where you’re not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.

You’ll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.

And he’ll look at you, and he’ll want. And he can’t afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.

So instead, he meets your gaze and says, “I just don’t feel like it.”

Something flickers across your expression. It’s quick—so quick that if he wasn’t looking at you so closely, he might’ve missed it.

But he doesn’t.

He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You don’t push. You don’t ask again.

You just nod once, tight and short, and say, “Okay. Whatever.”

And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.

The moment you’re gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself it’s fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.

But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he can’t breathe.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.

seven.

Sakusa starts pulling away first.

It’s subtle in the beginning. Little things.

You don’t notice it immediately—not with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. You’re too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.

But then it starts becoming undeniable.

He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.

That’s when it really sinks in.

Because you had started to grow used to it—the warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way he’d reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.

You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didn’t think you had to.

But now? Now it’s like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, don’t understand why.

At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself it’s just stress, that he’s just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.

But then another day passes.

And another.

And another.

And suddenly, you can’t ignore it anymore.

The shift between you is undeniable. It’s in the way he moves around you now—distant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.

You wait for him to snap out of it.

He doesn’t.

And when another day ends with nothing—no lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmth—you start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.

So the night before the festival, you finally snap.

The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.

Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.

You don’t know how to bring it up. You don’t know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusion—the gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.

So you wait. You tell yourself you’ll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands up—just like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasn’t been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.

And that’s what finally breaks you.

“That’s it?” you blurt out.

Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. “What?”

“That’s it?” You stand, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave?”

He exhales, clearly exhausted. “It’s late.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

Silence.

He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that he’s acting like he doesn’t know exactly what you’re talking about.

Your stomach twists. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t… like I don’t exist.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” You take a step forward, your pulse racing. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me anymore.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. “What the hell, Sakusa?”

He stays silent, staring at you.

You shake your head, frustration mounting. “You know what? Fine. If something’s wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But don’t—” Your throat tightens. “Don’t just shut me out.”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before you can place it.

Then, he says, “You’re overthinking it.”

You blink.

And then, you laugh—sharp, bitter. “Oh, I’m overthinking it?”

“Yes.” His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. “It was never meant to mean anything, remember?”

The words hit harder than they should.

Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.

He doesn’t even flinch as he says it, doesn’t even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.

Like you don’t matter.

You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Right,” you say quietly. “I forgot. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Pretending things don’t matter.”

Sakusa’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you can’t take back. But you can’t—not yet.

So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. “Did any of it mean anything to you?”

Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesn’t answer.

And that tells you everything you need to know.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. “Okay, then. If it doesn’t mean anything, then let’s just stop.”

Something shifts in his expression—something small, something almost imperceptible. But you don’t wait to figure out what it is.

You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something you’ll regret.

You’re the one who walks away.

This time, you don’t look back.

eight.

You pretend everything is normal.

Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.

Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, “Here.” His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, you’re careful—so careful—not to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.

Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.

Now, there’s nothing.

Now, there’s only distance.

It kills him.

At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldn’t have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.

But this—this is so much worse.

Because you’re still here, but you’re not his anymore.

And it’s all his fault.

You distract yourself with the festival. There’s no time to dwell on things that don’t matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.

You throw yourself into the work like it’s a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t feel the weight of what’s missing.

And yet, the stress is worse now.

Because Sakusa used to help carry it.

He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.

Now, the weight is suffocating.

You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.

But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.

He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.

It infuriates you.

Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you weren’t tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasn’t tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasn’t the one who pulled away first?

How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?

You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away. 

But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you don’t hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.

Sakusa is miserable.

Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.

But now, even that feels wrong.

Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasn’t even conscious—just instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.

He knew you didn’t come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes he’d glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he’d meet your eyes, and you’d smirk, and he’d know—know that later, when the dust settled, you’d have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.

But now, he looks, and you’re never there.

It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.

It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesn’t quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesn’t feel like home anymore.

And his teammates notice.

“You good, man?” Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.

Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though,” Hinata says, watching him carefully. “You’ve been playing like shit.”

Sakusa glares. “I’m not—”

“Ya are,” Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. “And it’s not just yer game. You’ve been miserable for weeks. If somethin’s wrong, deal with it.”

Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.

Because what is there to say? That he’s miserable because of you? That he’s the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesn’t even know if you’d forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who won’t even look at him anymore?

No.

He can’t say any of that.

So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, “Let’s run it again,” and pretends like everything isn’t falling apart.

nine.

The festival, despite everything, begins.

It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.

Instead, it feels like hell.

Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singer’s voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversight—some failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.

You are drowning.

By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patience—already stretched thin—is now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.

And Sakusa?

He is just as miserable.

You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiency—quiet, methodical, unreadable—but you know him. You know him better than anyone.

And you know he is barely holding it together.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this week—this godforsaken week—has been unbearable without the other.

Unfortunately, your executive board notices.

“Okay,” Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. “Something is wrong.”

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.

“I’m not,” he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. “You guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.”

“We’re fine,” you snap.

Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. “You haven’t smiled in days. You’re constantly on edge. And Sakusa—” she tilts her head towards him, “—hasn’t insulted Futakuchi even once today.”

“That’s actually a huge red flag,” Futakuchi adds helpfully.

Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. “The dynamic of the team has shifted.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Can you all not? We have actual work to do.”

Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. “Tension,” he murmurs.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

Futakuchi’s smirk is infuriating. “See? Even Aone notices.”

You don’t bother responding. You don’t even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you’d see Sakusa watching you leave.

You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.

It happens during the alumni networking fair—the crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.

Instead, it crumbles.

A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speaker’s flight is delayed, the catering company—despite weeks of prior confirmation—chooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about “expectations for student leadership” and how “this level of disorganization reflects poorly.”

You can’t do this.

You feel it building—the pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:

You cannot do this alone.

Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.

One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.

He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speaker’s team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always has—calm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.

And it hits you all at once: you miss him.

Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.

Him.

The way he always knew—knew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood you—truly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.

And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. It’s needing him.

Sakusa realizes it too.

Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of this—none of the work, none of the stress—was ever what exhausted him.

It was pretending. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didn’t—

Well.

Pretending he didn’t love you.

And now, watching you—watching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at him—he knows it is too late.

He’s in too deep. He’s always been in too deep.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even care anymore. He misses you too much to care. 

ten.

It’s as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.

For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.

Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleep—five full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest you’ve been surviving on.

And now, the final night is here.

The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festival—a beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than you’d care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.

The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities don’t exist beyond these gilded walls.

Everything is perfect.

And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.

Him.

Sakusa looks good. Too good.

The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wears—one that betrays nothing, yet you’ve always found yourself trying to decipher. And it’s infuriating, because you’ve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.

But right now? Right now, he’s making it impossible.

Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.

It’s just a flicker—a second’s pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you don’t quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

Sakusa’s brow lifts—just barely, the movement almost imperceptible—but you catch it. “I planned half of this.”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. “Yeah, but you hate these things.”

He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate display—the glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. “Figured it would be suspicious if the EVP didn’t make an appearance.”

“Mhm.” You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. “So… where’s your date?”

His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Your date,” you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. “Someone as charming as you must have one, right?”

Sakusa’s expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you don’t have the words for. “No.”

The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answer—assumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.

You don’t know why that realization makes your heart stutter.

“Well,” Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. “Neither did you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

His gaze remains steady. “You didn’t bring a date either.”

“Yeah, because I was working.” You scoff, deflecting without hesitation. 

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing more than you intend to show. “Still.”

It’s just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.

Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.

“Dance with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what he’s about to say. “Dance with me,” he repeats, softer this time. “Since neither of us brought dates.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—who loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the room—is standing here, asking you to dance.

And for some reason, against all logic, you say, “Okay.”

The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesn’t demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.

You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.

You, however, are acutely aware of everything.

The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologne—crisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.

And then there’s his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

It’s too much.

And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “For what?”

You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. “For how things have been. For the way I acted. For… shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: “I missed you too.”

Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.

“I just… couldn’t pretend anymore.”

You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. “Pretend what?”

Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like he’s forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.

“That I didn’t care about you.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightier—“That I didn’t… want more.”

The world tilts.

Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat. 

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate. It’s like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just move—heedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.

Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at first—a question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.

For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like he’s just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.

His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kiss—no longer a question, but an answer.

The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of him—his detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.

Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than days—like he’s tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. There’s something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—for far longer than he’s willing to admit.

And the thing is, you don’t want to let go.

Not now.

Not ever again.

eleven.

The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.

You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuff—thank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.

And through it all, he's there.

You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. It’s enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.

The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, you’re aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but it’s there.

Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchi’s soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.

Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.

When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusa’s hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.

“Finally,” Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. “Do you have any idea how painful it’s been watching you two not be together?”

You blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. “He’s right.”

Ushijima offers a solemn nod. “It was inevitable.”

“You guys knew?” Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.

Futakuchi scoffs. “Obviously. Everyone knew.” He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “You two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.”

Aone gives a single, affirming nod.

Kiyoko just shrugs. “You just took your time getting there.”

You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He’s not irritated—just thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. “Yeah. We did.”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.

The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around you—the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.

Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours—a small, silent reassurance.

The conversations around you—Futakuchi’s exasperated muttering, Kiyoko’s quiet amusement, Aone’s rare nods of agreement—become distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesn’t matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.

You don’t have to hide. There’s no more second-guessing, no more wondering.

No more pretending.

You are here, beside him. And he’s here, beside you.

Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once more—nothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

The night goes on—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.

But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.

You don’t have to walk alone anymore.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

⨭ closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Masterpost and Prologue

dead on main fic, intro + four chapters.

Summary: The Red Hood starts off his righteous campaign with a lot of nerve but no legal identification that will let him behind the wheel of a car. Public transportation really doesn't have the panache he needs to start off as a fearsome crime lord, so he needs a driver. He finds Danny Fenton, a grungly college student trying not to be noticed by any government agencies or vigilantes.

to subscribe to this post, on mobile open the notes and click the bell on the upper right hand corner of the post. on desktop, open the notes at the bottom and press the bell on the right edge of the notes.

Links will be added to chapter list as the story posts. Chapter one will go up on July 14th. Updates are approximately every other day.

LINKS/ chapter count

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

prologue

“No, Habibi,” Talia said calmly into the phone. “I will not falsify you an American non-commercial driver's license for motor vehicles. If you cannot prove yourself to Gotham without American motor vehicle operating permissions, you will never prove yourself. Rise above this challenge.” Talia covered the phone for a second but he could hear her talking to someone else about tile options.

“It's an unnecessary challenge,” Jason argued, doing his level best not to let his tone go up. It was undignified to whine. He was a man now. “The important parts of the challenge are the tactical planning and the skills.”

Talia sounded like she was filing her nails. “Tactically plan to take the bus. Or walk. Walking is free and healthy.” 

Jason made an indignant sound but she mercilessly hung up. The worst! She made the top three of his worst mother figures, easily.

“She's just doing this so I can't go drinking.” He scowled into the air. “I don't even want to!” His voice broke mid whine, which was an insult to add to all the injuries visited upon him by the cruel whims of women who weren't even his legal guardian. He was an adult in most countries!

The worst part was that Talia didn't care about underage drinking. She just didn't want to hear shit about enabling him from Bruce when he eventually figured out that Jason was alive, 19, and in Gotham. His passport claimed he was 21 because it had to for him to travel alone, but she knew damn well no one used their passport as ID in bars. 

He couldn't just go get a license. Jason sulked viciously and threw himself into fixing his plans to accommodate for this. 

He was legally dead and living under a fake name. If he tried to sign up for the driving exam, it'd be too much scrutiny on his paperwork. But he was not taking the bus around as a crime lord. It lacked panache. More importantly, it didn't go where he wanted it to go.

Fine. He didn't need her help. He didn't need anyone's help. He just needed to download Uber. 

That was how Jason wound up wiping a mob lieutenant’s blood off of his hand onto his pants so that he could use the guy's touch screen phone. Victor Woodward's account put in a request for a ride to the Gotham police headquarters. He killed time kicking ass in all the Words with Friends games that Victor had ongoing, which was really gonna surprise anyone who normally played with that boob. Victor’s last ever play was ‘cat,’ for fuck’s sake.

A few minutes later, a skinny teenager pulled up in his clanker and opened the door. Jason put on a smile and hefted his duffle bag a little higher on his shoulder. 

“Hi! Victor?” The guy, Danny, waved his phone at Jason.

“That's me!” Jason lied breezily. “Can I put this in the trunk?” 

“Go for it.” Danny popped the trunk open from inside the car. He watched Jason with his big blue doe eyes.

For an instant, Jason thought that Danny might have seen something. Paranoia reared up. Was there blood visible? Was it easy to tell that the shapes in the bag were heads?”

The moment passed. Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Jason got in the car and let satisfaction wash over his body as the weirdly timid kid pulled them out into traffic at a snail’s pace. Whatever. They wouldn’t get stopped for a traffic violation when the driver was cautious.

He’d done it. His debut as the terrifying Red Hood, hunter of the wicked and bane of the Batman, was launched. And he didn’t need a license to do it.