nishayuro

[nishayuro]

to you

ft. love and deepspace men x fem!non!mc! reader

tags. modern au, angst, rebounds

summary. they listen to you singing at your concert after leaving you in the dust a few years back— noticing how the lyrics were about the two of you.

— playlist. [click here]

xavier

he should’ve known.

he really should’ve known the second the lights dimmed and the first note left your lips. but he didn’t. not when you stepped onto the stage in that spotlight glow. not when the crowd erupted in cheers, or when she was beside him and leaned in with a grin and whispered, “she’s even better live, isn’t she?

he just nodded. said, “yeah.”

but then came the second verse.

soft. haunting. familiar in a way that made his stomach knot.

“fun at first, i won't deny

but i want more than just what meets the eye”

he blinked.

his throat went dry.

because you had said that to him once. not word for word, but close. curled up in his arms one night when you thought he was asleep. whispering it into the quiet like it’d slip away otherwise.

she didn’t notice the way his hands clenched.

“'cause i don't want it if it's fake

i don't want it if it's just for show

i just want it if it's real and i'm thinking i should let you know”

he didn’t hear the next few lines. not over the rush of blood in his ears.

not over the memory of your smile every time when you with him. not over how you’d kissed his knuckles when he was bleary with sleep, how you always texted to ask if he’d eaten— even though you knew he probably already had , how you learned how he liked his coffee without ever needing to ask.

he swallowed hard. the crowd was cheering. she was clapping beside him.

but all he could see was you. standing there, poised and radiant, singing your heart out like it didn’t still belong to him.

his jaw tightened.

he’d told himself it was harmless. temporary. a distraction until he figured things out. until his heart stopped aching for someone else.

he hadn’t planned on it hurting like this.

he hadn’t planned on falling for you too.

not this late.

and now you were up there, singing like the memory of him still lived in your lungs. like you hadn’t burned him out after all.

you wrote this about me.

the words stayed trapped in his throat.

and suddenly, MC’s voice beside him felt too loud. too bright. too far away.

because for the first time in almost two years—

he didn’t want to be sitting next to the girl he once loved.

he wanted to be with the one he lost.

zayne

he didn’t really want to come.

it was her idea— MC’s, bright-eyed and nostalgic as she handed him the second ticket. “she’s gotten big now, huh? figured we could check it out. for old times’ sake.”

he’d just nodded. said sure. told himself it didn’t matter. that it was just a concert. just music.

but then the lights dropped.

and you walked onto the stage.

god. he forgot what you looked like under the lights. like you belonged there. like the world had always meant for you to be something bigger than him.

the opening chords hit. slow. aching.

he didn’t breathe. he couldn’t breathe.

“ooh, still you take up all my mind

i don't even think that you care like i do

i should stop, heaven knows i've tried”

his fingers twitched around the drink in his hand.

no. no— this wasn’t about him. couldn’t be.

“one day, i will stop falling in love with you

some day, someone will like me like i like you”

his heart gave a hard, bitter twist.

don’t do this, he thought. don’t make this real.

“she’s so good,” MC whispered, leaning in, smiling like it was nothing more than a simple romantic song.

but it wasn’t just a song.

it was a confession.

and he was the one you were confessing about.

because he remembered— every line, every word you were wrapping in melody. he remembered the nights you waited up for him, the way you’d look up with that stupid soft smile, like he was worth something. he remembered your laugh against his shoulder, your fingers running through his hair, how easily you believed he could be better than he was.

he remembered the exact look in your eyes the night he broke it off. confused. gutted.

“was any of it real?”

he didn’t answer you then.

he didn’t have the guts.

but hearing you now— raw, unflinching, shining on a stage he had no place in— it tore something straight down the middle of him.

because the truth was, he never planned to stay. you were just a placeholder. just something warm to curl into while he tried to claw back a love already lost.

but then you held him like it mattered.

and he let you.

he let you love him, soft and stupid and whole, and when it got too real— too deep— he ran. away from you, and to someone else’s arms. and now you were singing like your heart was still cracked in the same place he left it.

and all he could think was—

you were never the rebound.

you were the one.

rafayel

rafayel had always been good at pretending.

tonight is no different— legs crossed, eyes steady and locked into the stage, lips curved upwards like he’s amused by something no one else sees. MC beside him doesn’t notice the way his fingers tap once against the bottle of his water he’s holding. the only crack in the façade.

then you walk onto the stage.

his gaze catches, holds.

he doesn’t blink.

you look good. confident, radiant under stage lights, wearing the passing heartbreak only you could make look effortless. he lets himself drink you in— like art, like sin. but not like you were ever his.

the music starts.

and it’s soft at first. then sharp.

ever lyric you sing, the deeper he sinks.

“that i'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale

i'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet

lead her up the stairwell”

his hand stills.

he feels the sting before he understands it. a line too real. a lyric too close. he knows exactly what night you wrote that from. the studio, dim with lamplight. your legs over his lap. laughter from your throat, hands tangled in his hair.

his sketchbook open on the floor.

he told you that night you were beautiful when you didn’t try. you’d smiled.

and he hadn’t meant it to last.

“she’s so talented her voice is luring all us in, right?” MC says beside him, eyes glittering at your vocals.

he nods once, wordless.

“maybe i was naive, got lost in your eyes

and never really had a chance

my mistake, i didn't know to be in love”

his throat feels tight. his charm— that silk-smooth confidence— it can’t shield him here. not from this. not from the memory of your hand against his chest, the way you asked if he’d ever paint you for real.

he joked. he deflected.

you had a look of disappointment, but you didn’t press.

you never did.

and that’s what cuts deepest.

suddenly, all he can think about is the way you used to look at him like he mattered. how you laughed at his stupid jokes, brought him tea when he stayed up too late painting, how you fell asleep on his couch more times than he could count.

you weren’t her.

and you didn’t know. you had no idea you were the in-between. the stepping stone. the placeholder while he fumbled with his past and convinced himself you weren’t it.

but now he’s here. with her.

and you’re the one he can’t stop looking at.

you’re the voice in his ears, the sand that’s slipping out in his hands, the guilt gnawing at him with every lyric that hits a little too precisely.

he just watches. listens. breathes like it hurts.

because in all his paintings, all his masterpieces—

you were the only one he never signed.

and maybe he didn’t want to admit why.

sylus

sylus doesn’t blink.

the concert hall is dim and you stand in the center like you own it. like you belong there, with thousands watching, hearts bleeding to the sound of your voice.

but it’s only his heart that seizes.

MC beside him leans in, murmurs something about your voice, about how lovely the lyrics are. he doesn’t answer. doesn’t move.

because he knows this song. not by name, not by title.

he knows it because he lived it.

because you wrote it with pieces of yourself he thought you’d never show. and now you’re singing it to a room full of strangers— and somehow, it still feels like it’s meant for him.

“'cause he's moved on while i'm still grievin'

and when a heart breaks, no, it don't break even, even,”

his jaw tightens.

he remembers that night— your fingers on the buttons of his coat, the way you looked up at him like he was worth trusting. like he wouldn’t break it.

he remembers leaving and breaking it anyway.

he told himself it was mercy. that using you was clean, calculated. a transaction. a means to MC. a way to purge the ache in his chest that wasn’t supposed to have your name on it.

“now i’m tryna make sense of what little remains, oh

'cause you left me with no love and no love to my name”

the lyric lands like a knife.

MC doesn’t notice. she’s smiling. content. but it’s not her touch that he remembers. it’s yours.

delicate. reverent. warm.

everything he wanted from her was from you.

and now?

now you’re up there, back straight, voice like velvet. you look untouchable. divine.

but the pain behind your voice— he knows it’s for him.

and it tears through him more than any blade ever could.

his fingers twitch on his knee.

if he closes his eyes, he’ll see you again. not like this. but as you were: bare feet in his chambers, humming off-key, wrapped in his robe, teasing him until he smirked and tugged you closer.

he never meant to keep you.

but he never meant to miss you either.

and yet here he is, staring up at you, hearing the cracks in your voice that no one else hears. the parts where your breath catches. the way you don’t look at the crowd— just above them.

just like how you used to look at him when you couldn’t bear the truth.

he swallows. hard.

he’s never regretted anything.

until now.

caleb

at first, he was fine.

he sat with his arms crossed, half-listening as the venue lights dimmed and the crowd began to hush. MC beside him buzzed with excitement, the kind of giddy warmth that made him smile politely, nod along.

it was just a concert.
just a favor.

he told himself he could sit through it. easy.

then the music started. and you stepped out onto the stage.

he tensed, barely. just a flicker of recognition low in his ribs. he hadn’t seen you in months— hadn’t heard your voice in longer. not since…

well. not since he walked away.

but you looked different now. steadier. colder, maybe. not broken— but rebuilt.
and he should’ve felt relieved.

he didn’t.

“a friend to all is a friend to none

chase two girls, lose the one”

his brows twitched. the line hit a little too clean.

he brushed it off. coincidence. lyrics were like that. both metaphorical and vague.

but then came the second verse.

“but i knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss

i knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs”

his spine straightened in the chair.

a flicker of heat— shame? discomfort?— settled beneath his ribs, slow and subtle.

MC leaned over, whispering, “wow, this one’s heavy, huh?”

he hummed low in his throat, careful.

but his eyes didn’t leave the stage. because your voice wasn’t just sad— it was honest.

he started watching your hands.

the way your fingers trembled on the mic stand. the way you swallowed hard before the third verse.

you were still angry. still hurt. and he hadn’t even realized how deep the damage ran until he was hearing it in stereo.

“i knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired

and you'd be standin' in my front porch light”

his jaw flexed. he blinked once. twice.

his arms dropped from their folded hold.

god. was this how it felt?

not just guilt— but the realization that you’d suffered in silence. while he convinced himself distance was mercy. that leaving was the right thing. he thought he’d let go of you gracefully.


but now, watching you up there— raw and stripped down— he saw how ugly his exit had truly been.

MC was still cheering beside him, clapping softly to the beat. she didn’t know. of course she didn’t.

but he knew. now he knew.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even look for him in the crowd.

not once.

as if he didn’t matter anymore. as if whatever pieces of him you still carried had finally been set down for good. he stared up at the stage, heart thudding loud in his ears.

and for the first time since he left—

he wished he hadn’t.

all rights reserved to ©calebsluvr. do not copy, repost, translate, plagiarise or modify my work in any way on any platform! thank you!

*runs away*

[nishayuro]

Weirdly Healing Things to Do When You’re Feeling Creatively Burned Out...

Write a fake 5-star Goodreads review of your WIP—as if you didn’t write it. Go ahead. Pretend you're a giddy reader who just discovered this masterpiece. Bonus: add emojis, chaotic metaphors, and all-caps screaming. It’s self-indulgent. It’s delusional. It’s delicious.

Give your main character a Pinterest board titled “Mentally Unstable but Aesthetic.” Include outfits, quotes, memes, cursed objects, and that one painting that haunts their dreams. This is not about logic. This is about ✨vibes.✨

Make a “deleted scenes” folder and write something that would never make it into the book. A crackfic. A “what if they were roommates” AU. The group chat from hell. This is your WIP’s blooper reel. Let it be silly, chaotic, or wildly off-brand.

Interview your villain like you’re Oprah. Ask the hard-hitting questions. “When did you know you were the drama?” “Do you regret the murder, or just the way you did it?” Bonus points if they lie to your face.

Host a fake awards show for your characters. Categories like “Most Likely to Die for Vibes,” “Worst Emotional Regulation,” “Himbo Energy Supreme,” or “Best Use of a Dramatic Exit.” Write their acceptance speeches. Yes, this counts as writing.

Write a breakup letter… to your inner critic. Be petty. Be dramatic. “Dear Self-Doubt, this isn’t working for me anymore. You bring nothing to the table but anxiety and bad vibes.” Rip it up. Burn it. Tape it to your mirror. Your call.

Create a “writing comfort kit” like you’re a cozy witch. A candle that smells like your WIP. A tea that your characters would drink. A playlist labeled “for writing when I’m one rejection email away from giving up.” This is a ritual now.

Design a fake movie poster or book cover like your story is already famous. Add star ratings, critic quotes, and some pretentious tagline like “One soul. One destiny. No chill.”

Write a scene you’re not ready to write—but just a rough, messy outline version. Not the polished thing. Just the raw emotion. The shape of it. Like sketching the bones of a future punch to the gut. You don’t have to make it perfect. Just open the door.

Let your story be bad on purpose for a day. Like, aggressively bad. Give everyone ridiculous names. Add an evil talking cat. Write a fight scene with laser swords and emotional damage. Just remind yourself that stories are meant to be played with, not feared.

[nishayuro]

I've been addicted to Nijisanji KRISIS recently (specifically Vezalius) and I can't get soft dom (non sexual) Zali with lowkey feral reader. I MIGHT WRITE THIS.

[nishayuro]

𝐬𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐬𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐲𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 '𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'

pairing: gn!reader x sakusa kiyoomi

“How come you’ve never told me you love me?” you ask him as you busy yourself with making a cup of tea so you can avoid looking him in the eye.

“What?” Kiyoomi mumbles, eyes fixed on the paper in his hands. You know you don’t have his full attention but keep talking anyway.

“Well… you’ve never said ‘I love you.’ I tell you everyday.”

Sakusa’s gaze flits to you as he gives you a befuddled look. You’ve finally caught his attention.

“I do tell you,” he replies in a low voice, although sounding resolute. He looks so sure of it that you almost believe him.��Almost.

“I think I’d remember if you had told me, because, well… you never do.” You turn to face him, crossing your arms over your chest as you wait for an answer.

His brow furrows in confusion, and you almost roll your eyes at him.

“Hmm. You just haven’t noticed, then.”

You blink at him, absolutely sure that he hasn’t ever said it because it’s so unlike him that it would’ve been etched into your memory. Seems like he’s just going to lie blatantly to your face, then. You just hope that it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t love you, but rather that he simply isn’t ready to say it just yet.

But he isn’t lying — not really.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ though he keeps a picture of you in his wallet so he can look at it whenever he misses you, even if it’s just a little. You don’t know he has it because he took it when you weren’t looking. He likes keeping it with him at all times, for it’s a reminder of home — like having a small piece of you wherever he goes.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ but he makes sure to wake up before you every single day so he can make your favorite breakfast before you’re up — that way you won’t have to wait too long before filling up your stomach. He only ever starts eating after you’ve taken the first bite, making sure that everything’s to your liking.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ yet at least one part of his body has to be touching you whenever you’re together; whether it’s his knee brushing your leg when you’re watching a movie, his hand resting on your thigh when he’s driving, or cuddling with you when you sleep at night.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ but he has a playlist with all of you favorite songs on it —and all means all, even those he finds extremely annoying that he usually can’t tolerate unless you’re singing along to them—, watches all those stupid rom-coms you seem to adore because he adores the look on your face when you watch them. He’ll never admit it, but those movie marathon nights with you are secretly his favorite ones, even when all the movies you pick are always “trash”.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ but he always folds your clothes with extreme carefulness and separates them in color coded groups because he knows how much you like it when things are a certain order. He also knows exactly how you like your fruit cut —in small, small cubes because they’re "cute, and cute things make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside"—. He doesn’t mind going through the trouble since he sort of gets it. You’re cute, and your presence has a calming effect on him — makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you,’ but he always waits for you to come back home to have dinner together, no matter how late you are. He waits patiently, making sure dinner’s hot and ready when you’re back so you never go to sleep with an empty stomach. He also never falls asleep before you do; no matter how tired he is. He likes watching you dozing off, those cute, little, rapid blinks you give when you fight sleep off to keep talking to him, and the way your voice becomes all groggy and low, to the point it’s almost a grumble. Once you’re deep into your slumber, he kisses you exactly three times —one time on your forehead, one on your nose, and one on your lips, which is usually the most gentle of them all—, and pulls you closer to him, because he can’t really sleep unless he can feel your heartbeat against his.

Sakusa Kiyoomi never says ‘I love you’, because despite there being over a million words, none could ever even begin to grasp his deep, infinite appreciation for you, so he chooses to show you just how much he does every single day instead.

[nishayuro]

wc: 500

cw: celebrity!caleb x gn!reader, just very silly fluffy headcanons! Reader is set to have an interviewing series similar to Chicken Shop Date called Tea-Time Talk!! (lowercase intended)

a/n: recently been geeking out over Love and Deepspace (might have a gambling addiction because of the gacha system) so i decided to write for Caleb :33 but i also have a longer fic for Sylus in the works.. wink wink

celebrity!caleb who gets restless at the thought of finally being able to join you on an episode for Tea-Time Talk, after months of pestering his manager and stalking all your posts and videos for the third time. (He's a d1 fan..)

celebrity!caleb whose eyes shine so bright when he's meeting you for the first time, resisting the urge to celebrate when you pull him in for a hug to greet him.

celebrity!caleb who brings out a gift as he sits down, smiling proudly as he watches you gasp in awe at the set of exotic and rare teas he got you!

celebrity!caleb who laughs just a little too hard at your jokes, full on slapping his knee, almost falling out of his seat. All while you blink in mild amusement and surprise. Surely you couldn't have been that funny..

celebrity!caleb who watches you skillfully pour him a cup of tea with his elbow resting against the table, holding up his arm which serves as a pillowy surface for him to lay his pretty little head on, giving you that signature puppy-dog-yearning look he's known for.

celebrity!caleb who takes a second too long to respond, a dumb smile on his lips as he watches you talk. His brain catches up a little late when he sees your gorgeous eyes narrow at him instead of sparkling and speaking all your sentences for you..

celebrity!caleb who answers all your questions earnestly, but is eager to learn more about you! So what if he starred in a new film or had a new feature or project out? He wants to know where you got that scar on your index finger from.

celebrity!caleb who compliments you on your tea pouring skills, playfully commenting about how you're a professional. (Which you are, considering this is your job..)

celebrity!caleb who runs through so many cups of tea from how much he simply sat and listened to you talk, preferring very much to listen to your voice. (Oh, and also– he just happens to take pretty large sips..)

celebrity!caleb who hums ruefully when you lament about how less you learned about him during your date– (even though you call every episode a “date” it doesn't make him any less giddy) only to then enthusiastically suggest a second date, all while his bright doe eyes stared you down.

celebrity!caleb who grins charmingly when you tell him you'll think about it, already thinking about how he'll get all his friends to comment on the video when it's up, imploring that you bring him on a second date.

celebrity!caleb who hugs you goodbye in his large and muscular arms, whispering in that quiet and husky voice about how nice it was to be on the show with you, passing you a small wink as he walks off set.

celebrity!caleb whose phone blows up once the video goes up on your channel, with everyone commenting about how there was so much chemistry between you two!

celebrity!caleb who can't help but preen and gloat when he sees comments talking about how you seemed to be extra flustered and break character around him, more than you'd done with anyone else.

celebrity!caleb who takes one good look at the views amassed on his video with you, and starts planning out his next date with you because duh!

celebrity!caleb who doesn't hesitate to @ you when he tweets “so when's the next date? ;)” thinking he definitely swooned you.

celebrity!caleb who definitely had you swooned, but he doesn't need to know that..

[nishayuro]

So I was thinking. A stanley snyder x reader where Stanley and reader have a one-night stand (no detail if you obviously don't feel comfortable) but its not necessarily supposed to be like that- reader basically disappears in the morning and stan didn't get her number...

Maybe Stanley kind of wants to find her but he can't and reader actually ends up getting pregnant (from one-night stand with Stanley).

And then like she actually ends up being on the same team as Senku with his daughter/son post petrification??

Ignore this if you want. I was just rambling!! Have a lovely day!! And take some rest and breaks please!!

I may have strayed away a bit, but I hope this satisfies you. I also hope you don't mind that I named our son lol.

-------------------

Mini-Me

Stanley Snyder x Fem!Reader

Description: Meeting back up with some previous allies who were also on the ocean leads to the past finally catching up with Stanley with a sweet surprise(s)

Warnings: One curse, manhandling a child lol, light angst, named child of yours and Stanley's making, chaotic uncle Xeno ofc, big brother Senku in the background.

A/N: probably one of my favorite asks ngl.

Words: 863

-------------------

"Hey, kid, where's your mom at?"

"She's taking roll call and checking supplies."

"Alright, you got the coordinates for your position?" The little boy told Senku their location and that their ships would meet soon. Senku hung up, and the crew looked at him expectantly. Most of the original members knew who they were meeting up with, but a few of the others didn't. He just shrugged and told them they'd see some allies soon. Senku went up to the deck, and a few others followed him.

"Hey! There's a ship approaching us!" Kohaku announced from the lookout, and everyone rushed to the ship's front end to spot the other vessel.

"Is that a fucking pirate ship?"

"Technically, yes." Stanley gave the junior scientist an unimpressed look. The vessel docked close by, threw out a boarding bridge, and joined the group on the Perseus. A line was shot out, and a boy with blonde hair zip-lined across and landed on the deck next to what they could tell was the ship captain. You scruffed up your son's blonde hair, let him run off to cause trouble, and went to go and greet Senku.

"Your crew got bigger," You offer him while shaking his hand. He huffs at you in return.

"Want an introduction?"

"I would have dinner first, young man." He rolls his eyes and leads the way to the dining area, announcing an early dinner, much to everyone's happiness. Ryusui announces a party at a reunion of allies, and everyone cheers. Carrying his crossbow on his back and holding his skateboard in his arms while trying to find clear ground to ride it on the crowded deck, he almost crashes when a strong pair of gloved hands saves him and lifts him in the air.

"Are you alright?" Stanley asks while placing the kid back on his feet. When the boy turns and faces him, he feels a strong feeling of whiplash while looking at him. He's the spitting image of himself from when he was a kid; it was a jarring sight. The child was watching him with just as curious eyes. Stanley drops down into a crouch to meet the boy in an eye-level gaze.

"What's your name?"

"Sonata…Sonata Snyder." Stanley felt his heart tighten in his chest, which meant after that night, This was his son, his and your son.

"Sonata!" You jogged down the hallways to see where he had run off so quickly. The second you saw who he was with, though, made you stop dead in your tracks; god, he was just as stunning as those nights in the club. You held your hand to your mouth, all the emotions welling up in your throat simultaneously. Stanley stood up, hoisted his son into the air on his hip, and strode over to you; you took a step back in surprise, but that didn't stop him. He grabbed your hand and made you look at him; the tears started to fall freely now.

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." You let out a sob at his words and felt a little hand rubbing the tears from your eyes; you looked at both of them, Your boys.

"It wasn't for me either." You kissed him with all the passion you had in your body. You heard a little gross beside you, and both of you laughed at your son; you showered him in kisses, and Stanley also decided to join in.

"That's your daddy, baby." You told him while messing with his little tufts of gold on his head. The three of you talked a bit more in the hallway before Stanley made a face and shared a thought with you both.

"Let's go meet your uncle Xeno." You chuckled to yourself about the torture the doctor was about to go through. Sonata ran off ahead, and you picked up his skateboard as you walked beside Stanley. He grabbed your hand again and pulled you close.

"Will you start again with me?" he asked as you walked. You looked up at him.

"Yes."

"An Elegant looking child. And the spitting image of you nonetheless, Stan." Xeno told both of you while looking at Sonata. The boy couldn't stop laughing at all the attention his new uncle was giving him. The doctor sat back down and let the child climb over him while the boy explained his crossbow when asked about it. The three of you couldn't help but smile.

"I suppose I have another little soldier now." You couldn't help but burst out laughing while Stanley smiled proudly.

"I'll have to construct you a unique firearm like I do for your Father now," Xeno spoke while holding your son's crossbow.

"Yes, please encourage his shooting habits." You tease while looking at Stanley, who looks ecstatic to have a new shooting partner.

"Yo, it's dinner time." Senku poked his head in, looked at the scene before him, and let out a small 'huh' like he finally concluded a discovery."

"That's who he looks like." He shrugged and closed the door behind him; you smiled again and looked between them, 'Yeah, that's who he looks like, alright.'

[nishayuro]

hey guys, does anyone know any fanfic of Sylus where he's like the dragon and reader gets kidnapped or smth by him and a prince comes to save reader but reader already loves Sylus.

The basic damsel in distress but reader ain't in distress

Pls!! I need smth like this 😭😭 If not, I might just actually write it myself

[nishayuro]

always dress your best because you never know when you’ll get hit by a bus and be isekai’d into the loving, strong, big, sexy arms of wriothesley and mydei. both, at the same time, god r u listening im telling you i can take them both i promise

[nishayuro]

S in Sylus stands for Simp

[nishayuro]

Monsters are not safe anymore

Repost if he is not safe in your account askjdhajksdha

[nishayuro]

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

[nishayuro]

you had a creep-sized problem, and you spot your solution sitting on a bench next to a pretzel cart. he doesn't have time to brush you off before you're hurriedly making your case.

"hi there," you begin with a shaking voice. "i'm so sorry, but would you mind walking me just a little bit that way?" you point past the arena's third-floor gift shop toward a hidden walkway designated for volunteers and staff only. his surgical mask covers half his face, but his abrasive nature is clear in his body language.

"ask someone else," he replies dryly and shifts away from you, but your sound of panic makes him pause, slightly irritated why you continued to bother him. "what?"

"i just need to get over there, past that," you elaborate, pointing in the same direction but lingering your hand over a figure stalking you in the distance. he clocks the guy pacing a few yards away to block your path, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. the guy is holding his phone in a way that allows him to quickly point it and take a photo before the victim is none the wiser, and you'd caught him following you through the glass reflection of a soda fridge. with only a few minutes left until you had to start your shift, you needed a way to bypass him without drawing too much attention to yourself, so you roped in the nearest strong-looking guy to hopefully escort you to check-in. "please. i work the merch stands, i can get you a free shirt or something."

for a moment, you think he's going to refuse again and you're on the verge of apologizing before he mutters a barely perceptible "fine." he stands to his full height, and it makes your mouth go dry. he could be one of the olympians, all broad-shouldered and strong-calved. his figure was relatively lean, but you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles rippled under the tight fabric of his track jacket. without another word, he positions himself on your left side between you and the creep and begins walking.

"i like your jacket," you offer. if he was going out of his way to help you, the least you could do was make polite conversation. you hurry behind him and miss the way the crowd of game spectators stop in their tracks to look at your escort. "first time at the olympics?"

"been here before," he answers and you're surprised by the way annoyance has disappeared from his voice.

"oh, really? do you have a favorite event?"

"volleyball," the stranger replies without hesitation.

"that's mine too. all the teams are really talented this year, but i think japan is in it to win," you agree and he hums in what you can only consider as amusement. you don't notice the way the crowd pulls out their phones and whispers among each other, pointing at his mask-clad face and the two moles above his eyebrow barely covered by a perfect black curl.

"you think they'll get gold?"

"i'd be shocked if they didn't, what with the new guys they just signed and all. that striker from the private school in tokyo is supposed to be super good." you accidentally bump his shoulder as a marker and poster are shoved in his direction, but think nothing more of it.

"mmm, the germaphobe with the mask," he deadpans. "people think he's a freak."

"i think the mask makes him cooler, the mystery of it all," you argue obliviously, and he glances at you and your endearingly clueless nature. your eyes sparkle. his cheeks feel warm under the fabric of his mask.

a few minutes later, he deposits you at the volunteer check-in and nods a curt goodbye.

"i'll be coming to collect that free shirt," he concludes with the barest hint of humor in his voice. at ease, you finally crack a smile and thank him profusely before he turns to leave. you've just finished signing your initials when you finally notice your supervisor staring at you. her eyes dart between you and the receding silhouette of your bodyguard down the hall; specifically, the words printed on the back of his jacket you were so busy admiring earlier.

men's volleyball team - sakusa kiyoomi.

bear with me i haven't written in a long time but i miss my silly little volleyball player grump of a bf so badly

[nishayuro]

UYYY PHILIPPINES!!! 🔥🇵🇭🔥🇵🇭🔥🇵🇭 PHILIPPINES!! 🇵🇭🔥🇵🇭🔥🇵🇭

Anyway, I wanted to ask if your up for making hcs for all the boys? Or atleast for Caleb, Zayne, and Sylus hehe

Prompt: Introducing your boyfriend to your family at a cliche filipino party hehe so you got the nosy titas, energetic younger pinsans, and the titos hogging the karaoke machine and drinking before lunch barely starts.

Feel free to ignore this or do whatever you want with the idea. I'm just really excited to find another filo lads fan 🥹💖

Ingat and stay hydrated!! (JUSKO PO NAPAKA INIT PARANG AKONG BARBEQUE INIIHAW SA LABAS)

🍓 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ introducing him to your filipino family ── ★ !!

featuring: sylus, caleb, xavier, rafayel, zayne

note/s: ayy thank u so much for reaching out and super sorry this has been sitting in my inbox for a month 😭 it's been staring at me like a neglected tupperware in the fridge but anyway here i am finally replying LMAO bro ur family is never gonna let u break up with any of them LMAO good luck 😭😭😭

── 𐔌 SYLUS ؛ ଓ

si sylus yung mukhang bad boy na lowkey intimidating pero mabait sa bata kaya biglang magiging fan favorite

si tita baby: "alam mo nung high school ako nakipag date rin ako sa isang bad boy eh... kaso iniwan ako..." (habang may hawak na red horse)

sylus, deadpan: "… sorry to hear that po."

brings imported chocolate or some fancy snack from abroad tas ubos in 0.2 seconds kasi dinumog ng mga bata

sumubok mag-karaoke kahit alam niyang sintunado 😭 "tito ano next song?"

mga pinsan mo: "UY BAD TRIP KA SYLUS HINDI YAN YUNG TUNOG NG 'BAKIT PA BA' NI JAY R!!"

after the party habang nag-aayos ng gamit biglang lalapit si tita baby: "wag mong saktan yung pamangkin ko ha? kasi pag sinaktan mo…" (may hawak na tsinelas)

sylus, with a small smile: "opo, tita."

── 𐔌 CALEB ؛ ଓ

bro’s already part of the fam at this point. like as soon as he steps in, he's giving out mano to the titos and titas. your lola LOVES him.

every time he visits, someone asks him to fix their electric fan or their car. like hindi pa siya nakaka-upo, may tatlong pinsan na nakaabang with “kuya kuya tulong naman sa...”.

tito na lasing at 3 PM: "kaya mo bang lumipad ng lasing ha?"

caleb: "uh... hindi po advisable yun tito." (deadpan face pero polite pa rin 😭)

all the younger pinsans follow him around kasi "kuya caleb!! kuya caleb!! can you make a paper airplane?? kuyaaa!!!" 😭

the titas are already planning the wedding kahit kaka-meet pa lang niya sa family 😭💀 "sayang naman kung hindi mo papakasalan yan, ha!"

kuya caleb helping out sa handaan kahit hindi siya pinapagalaw, like girl he’s at the grill, checking the isaw like a pro

── 𐔌 XAVIER ؛ ଓ

literally nasa sulok buong party, nakasalampak sa isang plastic na monobloc chair

mukha na siyang inaantok kahit kakadating niyo pa lang 😭

"xavier gusto mo ba ng coke?"

xavier, barely awake: "sige po." (pero hindi naman niya iniinom kasi nakatulog na siya 😭)

may batang tatabi sa kanya tas makikitulog na rin siya doon 😭

titas are like "ay ang cute naman ng boyfriend mo pero... okay lang ba siya??"

"ganito lang po talaga siya." 😭

pagkatapos ng party ikaw yung nag-aalalay sa kanya habang half-asleep siya, tas mga tita mo: "pakasalan mo na yan para maalagaan mo siya forever!"

xavier, still half-asleep: "okay lang naman." (???)

── 𐔌 RAFAYEL ؛ ଓ

"painter ka???" – "oo po." – "nako, may pera ba dyan?"

then they find out na HE'S RICH AS HELL and they’re like "ahhhhhh ibang usapan na to!!" 😭

rafayel looking all pretty and composed in some crisp linen shirt tas yung mga titos like "anong medium mo? oil? acrylic?" (as if they know art)

then the titas see his hands, all stained with faint traces of paint, tas biglang "naku, artist talaga, alam mong hardworking!!"

rafayel looking slightly uncomfortable habang pinapalibutan siya ng curious titas but he’s smiling politely (pogi pa rin kahit awkward 😭)

one of the titas asks if he can paint her portrait, and he’s like "sure po" tapos yung buong barangay magpapalista na rin 😭

he brings some fancy dessert like "oh, i picked this up from paris last week." 😭 tas ur tita’s like "naku anak, ang swerte mo naman!!"

ur lola IMMEDIATELY asks "mayaman ba pamilya niya?" tas u gotta be like "lola…" 😭

one of the younger cousins asks him to draw something and he just… whips out a full art piece in like 10 mins?? tas the kids are losing their minds 😭

ur titas are hovering over his shoulder like "ang galing!! dapat ikaw na mag-design ng mga debut invitation!!"

he just quietly sits in a corner and sketches the chaos of the party. later u see the drawing and he’s drawn u laughing w ur family… AND UR HOLDING HIS HAND IN THE DRAWING??

── 𐔌 ZAYNE ؛ ଓ

the moment mo i-introduce as a doctor?? instant favoritism

"anong specialization mo?"

"ah cardiology po."

"NAKU YUNG TATAY KO MAY HYPERTENSION!! ZAYNE ANAK MAY CHECK UP KA BA BUKAS??"

titas already setting up an appointment na parang wala siyang sariling ospital 😭

tita baby: "alam mo pag doktor talaga, jackpot ka na dyan iha!!"

every convo with a tita goes like:

"Dok, anong mabisang gamot sa ano..."

"Dok, yung asawa ko may maintenance, ano pong maganda..."

kahit gusto niyang umupo in peace, ang ending may mini-consultation booth na siya sa tabi ng pancit bihon.

ended up giving free medical advice halfway through lunch 😭😭 "Uminom po kayo ng tubig, wag masyado sa chicharon ha… Ah, may maintenance meds po ba kayo?"

hindi na siya makalabas ng sala kasi may pila ng tito at tita na nagpapacheckup na parang clinic 💀

"Dok, may kilala ka bang pwedeng magpa-check ng blood pressure ng mura?"

super chill lang si zayne habang may batang humihila ng manggas niya asking him if he's a superhero 😭

nagbibigay ng medical advice sa tabi ng karaoke machine habang si tito jojo kinakanta yung "MY WAY" sa top volume tas walang pumipigil kasi baka magalit si tito 😭

after party: bigla mong maririnig sa isang tita "yung zayne na yun... dapat pakasalan mo na yun ha?"

[nishayuro]

So uhhhhh I spent a week and a half on this

It was supposed to be a quick sketch but I got carried away a little bit

[nishayuro]

Fun Facts 1001-1010

• Diavolo once lent Solomon some of his magic so that he could break into Babel

• Raphael becomes sad when Solomon freezes his demonus in a demonstration. Solomon had to immediately get him more demonus to apologize.

• After mistaking Belphegor for the imposter among them, the brother do their best to cheer him up. Leviathans idea was a lord Diavolo impression in which he just laughs as loudly as he could.

• Leviathan sometime practices dodging projectiles launched st him from behind just in case.

• MC once stoped a bullet midair with their magic to protect Belphegor (who according to him wouldn’t have been hurt by it)

• Mammon once broke into the bathroom to hug Lucifer who was actively taking a shower.

• After getting worried about how little they see him smile, the brothers pinned Belphegor to the floor to tickle him

• Beelzebub will sometimes take home living creatures he thinks will make good food. He once brought a giant slug and Asmodeus made him move it out of fear and disgust.

• Lucifer once held Satan underwater until he passed out to stop him from rampaging.

• Diavolo enjoys yodeling.

991-1000 •

[nishayuro]

Can o request college au with caleb and or sylus where they’ve been dating since high school and reader doesn’t go to college since she’s a freelance artist but sometimes go to her man’s courses to just be near them while she works. I like to imagine the teacher asking for a volunteer to answer a multiple choice question, and reader who picked up some information, raises her hand and answers it, and get is right

friendly competition . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: finance! sylus, engineering! caleb x artist! fem!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: sylus – 1.1k | caleb – 1k

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: acting my age – the academic

✧ a/n: thank you so much for the request love! sorry this took a whole week TT... i really love writing college aus because the idea of the boys (alongside reader ofc) figuring out what they want in life and chasing their dreams is so heartwarming to me <3

You haven’t seen Sylus in, what, two weeks? The both of you have been so busy lately—him with his presentations on hedge funds and you with the flurry of commissions you’d just received—being in a relationship is beginning to feel like a part-time job.

I should probably go visit him… But when? He’s always in school… An idea strikes you then: crash one of his lectures and impress him with some economic knowledge of your own. I mean, hey, you’re well read and up to date on current affairs. You refuse to believe it would be impossible to outsmart a few students in that class—at least in a few select topics.

Besides, your main objective is to spend some quality time with him, anyway. You’ve been missing him so much lately it hurts, and nighttime video calls are only a temporary consolation. You’ll surprise him with your knowledge in class, take his breath away all over again, and remind him who’s really boss.

Game on.

…

The lecture hall is grander than you expected, with elaborate framework and likely the most sophisticated soundproofing you’ve ever seen. It’s an artistic marvel in itself, and your heart leaps at the sight of it. Anticipation pumps through your veins as you search the crowd of students for your boyfriend. Tall, white hair, red eyes… You simply can’t miss him.

There. He’s sitting next to a friend somewhere in the middle of the theater, sharp concentration written on his face. The class hasn’t even started and he’s already scribbling away on his textbook with a very familiar ballpoint pen. Aww, the one I gave him for his birthday…?

You have to remind yourself to breathe just looking at him in that black button-down, the hard edges of his jaw and cheekbones squeezing your heart like the first inversion of a rollercoaster ride. God, he’s gorgeous.

You find a seat a few rows up, closer to the right, giving you an unobstructed view of him from behind. Good, he hasn’t noticed me yet.

The professor walks in then, a lean, elegant lady wearing a gray suit and stilettos. She looks intimidating. Imposing. Ready to humble every single person sitting in this class. “Good morning, students. Today we’re starting on derivatives.” You can tell by the way the entire class falls silent that she’s someone who knows her stuff. The way she commands attention seems effortless. “Can anyone tell me what a derivative is?”

A hand goes up almost instantly, and you don’t have to look to know whose it is. A deep, rich voice echoes through the lecture hall, equally as commanding as the professor’s. “A derivative is an instrument of sorts, derived from the value of a stock, interest rate, bond…” He trails off, waving a hand as if to say the list goes on. “They’re like contracts. They protect you from risks, market fluctuations… Derivatives help you speculate on how something else moves.”

The professor’s satisfaction is obvious. She smiles and resumes her pacing. “Thank you, Sylus. An excellent answer.” You can tell he’s the star student here. “Now, would anyone like to share with the class an example of a derivative?”

Sylus answers again when no one else makes a move to, and once again his answer brings a grin to her face. You listen to his responses with rapt attention, trying to absorb as much as possible. You understand what’s being discussed. It’s…interesting.

“Another question. Give me an example of a real company using derivatives to hedge currency risk.”

This question, you just might be able to answer. You’d heard of an animation company based in Linkon using currency forwards to secure exchange rates. Here goes nothing.

You raise your hand at the same time Sylus does. Surprise flickers across the professor’s face, but she looks equally delighted to see a fresh face shoot their shot at contributing to the class. She gestures at you and beckons for you to answer.

“I have an example that hits close to home.” You go on about currency forwards and investor confidence and budgeting, using simpler phrases in place of technical terms where the gaps in your understanding lie. The professor nods at you in understanding, and you feel Sylus’ eyes under your skin as they slowly find their way to yours, equally shocked and impressed to see you in his lecture hall, challenging him to a death battle.

What are you doing here? he asks with his gaze. You raise a cheeky brow and give him a smirk to match his, shrugging your shoulders.

The professor doesn’t notice your blush as she commends your valiant effort, and the sudden academic validation makes you blush even harder.

You take turns answering the next few questions, correcting each other and adding on when the opportunity presents itself. Your heart and mind race in tandem as you let your competitive streak intertwine with his, and the feeling is indescribable.

In this theater, it’s just you, him, and the explosive crackle of flirtatious banter.

“O-Okay, you two! That’s enough!” The professor ends the pop quiz then, and you turn around to see the entire lecture hall staring at the two of you like you’ve both grown second heads.

The debate may have ended for now, but the devilish look on his face tells you you’re in for a whole lot more.

…

Everyone gets up to leave the moment class ends, but Sylus makes his way up the stairs to you. He’s grinning that devastating smile again, and you know you’re in trouble. “Missed me?”

You roll your eyes and struggle to fight a smile of your own. “You wish. I only came here to learn more about financial instruments.” You toss your hair proudly, looking down your nose at him despite his obvious height. “Which, it appears, I do not require much tutelage on.”

He squints at you, a cocky grin twisting his mouth. “Are there…other subjects in which you’re an expert?” He takes a step closer to you, the subtle scent of his cologne filling your nostrils. “I found that speech of yours on currency swaps very…intriguing.”

“Take a day off with me and find out. Consider it a business deal.”

“Done. You have my word that I’ll be investing a hundred percent into our mutual pleasure.”

“It can’t be that hard…” you tease, earning you an agitated grunt in response. You can’t help it—rage baiting Caleb is just too easy.

“Do you know how tough of a course mechanical engineering is? It’s rigorous, it’s complex, it’s—it’s…” he trails off then. “You’re joking, aren’t you,” he says flatly, realization taking its sweet time to kick in.

You giggle, holding the phone closer to your ear. You haven’t seen him in two weeks, and you miss him like crazy. Who else is going to remind you to take your meals, to drink enough water? Who else is going to hold you in the middle of the night when you have a bad dream? God, you hate this whole “college” arrangement. But you couldn’t be prouder of him for working towards his dreams.

“It’s late. Goodnight, Caleb.” A wave of sadness crashes into you, sobering you.

“Goodnight, Pips. See you in a week.”

He hangs up just as a crazy idea pops into your head. What if you didn’t have to wait a whole week to see him in the flesh? His college is a two-hour drive away from you. It isn’t impossible. It would be one hell of a date.

Gear up, engineer. I’m going to show you just how much I know.

…

The campus is vast and beautiful, autumn-colored trees sandwiched between every historical building and tower. You shouldn’t be this surprised, given its status as one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Is this where he goes to school everyday? Damn…

With great difficulty, you finally find the lecture hall he should be sitting in right now. You’re a good fifteen minutes late, but if you’re going to crash a college class, you might as well do it with a bang.

You push the large wooden doors open as discreetly as possible and try your best not to wince as you feel every single pair of eyes in the room fall on you. Sitting somewhere in the front is Caleb, whose blue and orange jacket you recognise instantly. He startles slightly at the sight of you, but his shock is quickly replaced with a smug curiosity. Come to lose? he taunts with a smirk, slender fingers tapping his pen on the table to a steady rhythm.

A casual, relaxed expression settles over your features. You wish, you smirk back, taking a seat across the row from him. Thankfully, the professor doesn’t seem to notice your presence as he scribbles annoyingly complex equations and formulas on the chalkboard.

He pivots suddenly, a fresh brightness lighting up his wrinkled face. It’s easy to understand why these students are so passionate about the subject. The old man is thrice their age, yet thrice as lively.

“Class,” he begins, his voice wobbly and unyielding at the same time, “we’re going to touch on stress-strain curves today, and I want everyone’s full and undivided attention. Now, can anyone tell me what a stress-strain curve is?”

Caleb’s hand shoots up like a laser. “It shows you how a material behaves under a load, and allows engineers to gauge how much that material can hold before it snaps.” He adds on, infuriatingly, “In layman’s terms.”

“Good,” the professor remarks. “Would anyone like to add on to that?”

Hell yeah, this is your chance to strike. You might not know much about the math behind it, but having lived in Linkon your whole life, heavy buildings are like trees to you.

You raise your hand. “Sir, many of the skyscrapers in Linkon’s financial district had been meticulously designed and constructed over the course of a decade. It wasn’t just the steel and concrete that required extensive stress-strain calculations, but the aesthetic elements as well. Not to mention the added element of inertia during periods of high winds.” You pause to glance over at Caleb, who looks like he wants to eat you. “That’s architecture and engineering in bed together, doing unspeakable things.”

That strange glint in his eye intensifies.

Fortunately, the lewd joke goes over the professor’s head. “What an interesting perspective. I don’t believe I’ve seen you in class before. Are you a transfer student, perhaps?”

You lean back in your seat and reply, “No, sir, I usually sit in the back of the hall.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

You turn to meet Caleb’s eye once more, and your skin flushes embarrassingly pink. “Let’s just say I’ve acquired a special interest in nuts and bolts recently.”

Now it’s Caleb’s turn to blush. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention in class.” You stick your tongue out at him, making him laugh.

For the remainder of the lesson, you both take turns answering the professor’s carefully crafted questions, with him tackling the technical aspects and you pointing out the practical. It’s a mentally stimulating back and forth that makes you wonder why you’ve never crashed one of his classes before. It’s so…fun.

…

By the time everyone is dismissed, you’ve gained a renewed thirst for knowledge that can only be quenched by one thing: going out for a meal with your boyfriend. That is—if he’d even look at you. His face is flushed and his throat has seemingly gone dry.

“Hope I didn’t make it too hard for you,” you muse as the last group of students leaves the hall.

He glares at you while taking a desperate sip of water from his bottle, his perfect lashes making your heart race all over again. “You wish. I went easy on you.”

“Oh, admit it. I bested you. No shame in that, you know.”

“Just you wait, Pips. You’ll be eating your words by the time I’m done with you tonight.”

Your mouth goes dry then and there, and you understand now why he had to take so many sips of water, “Am I being punished for crashing your class?”

“Let’s just say you’ll know what a real stress-strain curve looks like by tomorrow morning.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[nishayuro]

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