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NRC: The Magicam Trend Outbreak!

housewardens

You were mindlessly scrolling through Magicam when one particular trend popped up — couples pulling off random, sweet gestures that left everyone else in their feels.

You watched a few clips, laughing at how adorable they were, and then an idea hit you. What if you tried it with your boyfriend? You had no idea how he’d react, but the thought of catching him completely off guard was too tempting to resist.

You could already imagine the possibilities — would he be flustered? Confused? Maybe he'd just stare at you like you were an alien for a second before realizing what was happening.

Either way, it was going to be hilarious. You figured a little spontaneous affection would keep things interesting. So, with a devilish grin, you prepared yourself for the most random (but utterly charming) moment of your day.

Who knew what could happen when you threw a little Magicam chaos into your relationship?

. . you randomly hug him from behind while he’s busy and see how he reacts!

Riddle sits at his desk, papers scattered across it, his bright eyes narrowed in concentration as he studies the latest report about Heartslabyul’s dorm activities. The dim glow of the desk lamp illuminates his perfect features as he pushes his glasses up, and his usual regal aura seems to wrap around him like a cloak.

His mind is entirely preoccupied with rules, regulations, and his duties. The hum of the room and the distant chatter from outside barely register in his mind — until the sudden warmth of your embrace catches him completely off guard.

You step softly behind him, and before he can react, you wrap your arms around his waist in a sudden back hug. For a split second, everything in the room freezes. His spine stiffens, and his shoulders are immediately rigid under your touch, as if his body can’t quite process the intrusion of your warmth into his meticulously organized space.

His breath catches, and he stares at his desk as if looking for an escape.

His voice cracks slightly, betraying him, as he chokes out, “W-What are you doing?!” His voice is still tinged with that air of authority, but there’s an underlying layer of something else — something softer.

For a moment, you simply rest your head against his back, feeling the tension in his body. Riddle hesitates, then shifts in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at you. His cheeks are tinted with the faintest flush.

“T–Tell me this isn’t part of some joke,” he stammers, unsure of how to handle the situation, his thoughts a swirl of conflicting emotions.

You tease him gently, your voice light. “I just thought you looked a little stressed, so I wanted to give you a break.”

Riddle’s mouth opens and closes, as though he’s trying to formulate an appropriate response. His pride and sense of duty demand that he push you away, that he maintain his distance. Yet, he can’t help but melt into the warmth of your embrace, his shoulders slowly relaxing.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, though his voice isn’t harsh, and he doesn’t pull away. In fact, the longer you hold him, the more he allows himself to let go of the rigid mask he wears. His hands are still gripping the edge of his desk, but his fingers soften, no longer clenched in anxiety.

When you pull away, his eyes flicker to yours, and for just a moment, his strict demeanor falters.

“I suppose you can stay like that… for a bit,” he admits reluctantly, his lips curling into a small, barely visible smile, one that’s reserved just for you. And though he tries to hide it, there’s a soft fondness in his gaze that speaks volumes.

. . you pretend to doze off on his shoulder and wait for his reaction.

Leona is sprawled across the couch, his muscular arms crossed behind his head, his eyes half-lidded in utter contentment. The warm sunlight filters in through the windows, casting a lazy golden hue across the room. He’s doing his best to enjoy a rare moment of peace, his body relaxed, his posture completely casual. The tension he usually carries has melted away, leaving only the lion in its place — at ease, and just a little bored.

Sensing the perfect moment, you decide to press your luck. Slowly, you lean your head against his broad shoulder, feigning sleep. The weight of your head against him is light at first, and you keep your breathing slow and even, making it seem like you're peacefully dozing off.

You can feel the heat of his body through the fabric of his clothes, and the steady rhythm of his breathing calms you as well.

For a few moments, there’s no response from him. His golden eyes flicker slightly, but he doesn’t move. It’s only when you adjust yourself, just a little bit too close, that his body shifts. You feel his tense muscles under your cheek, his stiffened posture giving away that he’s aware of your proximity now.

“Tch. You’re really pushin’ it, herbivore,” he mutters under his breath, his voice rough, the edges of his words still thick with the lazy drawl of someone who doesn’t want to be bothered.

He doesn’t move to push you away, though. Instead, his hand shifts from where it was resting on the back of the couch, landing gently on your shoulder, as if claiming the space between you.

The subtle warmth of his palm against your skin contrasts with the usual indifference he projects, and you can feel his fingers curling ever so slightly, pulling you in just a little more. His tail twitches, and the tip of it brushes against your leg in a reflexive motion.

For a moment, you pretend to stir, feigning sleep again, but you catch the briefest, almost unnoticeable softening of his expression. His face is still slightly tense, but there’s something almost protective in his posture. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you closer without even thinking about it.

“Don’t get used to this,” he grumbles, though his voice is quieter now, and the warmth of his body against yours feels far less forced than before. “Next time, I’m not letting you off this easy.”

But even as he says that, you notice his hand doesn’t leave your shoulder. And his tail, despite his attempts to act casual — seems to linger, just a little longer than before.

. . you hold up your phone like you’re recording a kiss cam and point it at him ?!

Azul is lost in the intricacies of his latest business venture, eyes glued to his parchment, his fingers flying across the desk. The low hum of his office, combined with the rhythmic tapping of the quill, creates an aura of calm efficiency around him.

His hair is meticulously styled, and his tailored suit is sharp, every line of his appearance designed to radiate authority and control. He’s completely absorbed in his world — until the sudden click of your phone camera interrupts his thoughts.

You hold up your phone, framing his flustered face in the “kiss cam” shot with the words “KISS CAM” displayed prominently on the screen. His eyes snap to the phone, his face turning an alarming shade of red as the implications of your actions hit him like a wave.

He freezes, his eyes wide, his body going stiff as he looks back and forth between you and the screen. His voice shakes slightly as he tries to mask the nervousness bubbling up inside him.

“What… What is this?!” he stammers, the words catching in his throat as his mind scrambles for a way to undo the situation.

You flash him a mischievous grin, holding the phone closer as if capturing every moment of his discomfort. “Azul, don’t tell me you’re too shy for a kiss cam moment?”

Azul’s face burns a deeper shade of red, and his fingers twitch at his sides, unsure of what to do with his hands. His usual confident demeanor has completely shattered, and he’s left scrambling to regain his composure.

“This is highly unprofessional! You can’t— this isn’t appropriate!” His voice rises a bit higher, but there’s a hint of humor in his panic, as though he knows he’s being overdramatic.

The discomfort doesn’t fade, though. Azul averts his gaze, but you can still see the faint blush creeping up his neck. He shifts in his seat, his gaze darting around the room as though searching for an escape, but no such luck.

You stand there, poised with your phone, watching his every move. Finally, in a mixture of resignation and a bit of nervous excitement, Azul leans forward slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“You’re… impossible,” he mutters, his voice a mixture of exasperation and something else — something softer. “Delete that immediately, or else I’ll have to charge you for this.”

You can’t stop the smile spreading across your face, secretly relishing the blush that stains his cheeks. “It’s too late for that, Azul,” you tease, holding up your phone to show him the video you just captured, his flustered expression frozen for all eternity. “This is gold.”

. . you start dancing randomly in front of him and see how he reacts! !

Kalim Al-Asim is always full of energy, a cheerful and carefree spirit that brightens even the darkest of days. He's always surrounded by laughter, music, and joy, and it’s rare to see him without that ever-present smile on his face.

One afternoon, after classes, you find yourself hanging out with him by the campus courtyard, the sun setting and casting a warm glow over the scene. Kalim is sitting on a stone bench, a relaxed grin on his face as he watches the world around him.

Suddenly, without warning, you start to dance —nothing special, just moving to the beat of an imaginary song. It’s spontaneous and silly, but you do it to see how Kalim will react.

The moment you start, Kalim’s eyes widen in surprise, and his grin grows even larger. His laughter rings out, loud and infectious, as he jumps to his feet.

“Whoa, whoa! What’s this? A spontaneous dance party?” Kalim exclaims, clapping his hands to the rhythm as if encouraging your movements. “I’m in, I’m in! Let’s go!”

Without hesitation, he starts dancing with you — wild, carefree, and full of infectious energy. His movements are exuberant and full of life, and you can’t help but laugh along with him.

His colorful robes twirl around him as he spins and jumps with abandon, his infectious smile lighting up the entire courtyard. It’s impossible not to smile with him, his happiness so genuine that it becomes contagious.

“You’re amazing!” Kalim says between laughs, his golden eyes sparkling with excitement. “We should do this all the time! I’ll have the best music ready next time! We could even have a whole party!”

His energy is boundless, and despite the suddenness of it all, there’s something so wonderfully freeing about it. Kalim has a way of turning the simplest moments into unforgettable memories, and in that moment, as you both dance under the fading light of the sun, you realize just how much his exuberance makes life a little brighter.

. . you run toward him, and he instinctively catches you.

Vil stands in the middle of the room, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the evening sun, his skin glowing like porcelain. His violet eyes glimmer with an inner fire, as always, his posture impeccable as he adjusts his jacket, his movements smooth and fluid.

His gaze is sharp, but there’s a hint of weariness underneath, as though the demands of his beauty and fame are beginning to take their toll.

Seeing an opportunity, you decide to make a dramatic move. With a burst of energy, you run toward him, not at a leisurely pace, but with all the enthusiasm and speed you can muster.

Vil’s eyes widen for a split second as he watches you approach, and his body instinctively shifts, a well-honed reflex honed by years of maintaining control and grace in every situation. As you get closer, his arms open just in time to catch you, the soft thud of your body against his chest resonating in the room.

For a moment, the two of you are frozen in the embrace, his arms around your waist, and you find yourself staring up into his flawless face, inches away from the perfection of his features.

Vil’s breath hitches ever so slightly, his usually composed demeanor momentarily faltering as he registers the closeness. His violet eyes lock with yours, and there’s a flicker of surprise in them, quickly masked by his usual cool elegance.

You feel the tension in his muscles, his heart beating just a little faster than usual as he holds you, but the expression on his face remains as composed as ever.

“You’re so… reckless,” he murmurs, though the coolness in his voice seems to lose its usual bite, softened by the intimacy of the moment. He holds you for a moment longer than necessary, as if he’s savoring the proximity, before gently setting you back on your feet.

His lips curl into that perfect, almost imperceptible smile, the one he saves for moments that truly matter.

“Next time, darling, I expect you to be more graceful with your approach,” he says, his voice low and sultry, but his hand lingers on your shoulder a moment longer. And for all his coolness, the glint in his eyes suggests that he doesn’t mind your spontaneity at all.

. . you surprise him with an unexpected compliment and see how he reacts!

Idia Shroud is lost in his own world, as usual. His blue hair sprawls messily around him, an electric halo of sorts as he stares intently at the screen, fingers flying over his keyboard in a blur.

His eyes, hidden behind his signature glasses, are fixed on the game in front of him — his safe space, his sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. You can hear the faint sound of his voice muttering to himself as he adjusts his in-game character's equipment, focused to the point where nothing else exists.

You hesitate for a moment, watching him so absorbed in his game. Then, you step forward, feeling an unexpected surge of affection for this awkward, brilliant, and often misunderstood boy.

Quietly, you murmur, “Idia, you're really amazing, you know that?”

At first, he doesn’t react. He’s too absorbed, too entrenched in the virtual world. But then, you notice his fingers falter. His body stiffens slightly, and his breath catches.

Slowly, his wide eyes — surprised and yet a little soft, shift away from the screen and you realize he’s finally hearing you. His fingers still rest on the keys, but now they seem uncertain.

Idia’s gaze flicks from you to the screen and back, clearly panicked.

“W–Wait, what?” he stammers, voice high-pitched in shock. “M-Me? Amazing? I’m just a gamer. I’m.. I'm not anything special.”

You chuckle softly at his reaction, the familiar awkwardness that always surrounds him now being endearing instead of awkward. His eyes dart to his keyboard again, but this time, they can’t seem to focus as he fumbles with the keys, as if trying to regain control of the situation.

His cheeks take on a faint blush, a stark contrast to his usual cool demeanor. His nervousness is palpable, and you can practically feel the warmth radiating from him.

“I-I mean, I'm just... sitting here playing games all day, so...” Idia trails off, unable to finish his sentence. He clears his throat awkwardly, avoiding your gaze now. “I don’t know, you’re probably just... saying that because you feel sorry for me or something.”

His self-doubt is written all over his face, but his lips twitch in a way that almost betrays a smile, a small flicker of happiness hidden behind his words.

After a long pause, as if contemplating something far more profound than just a compliment, he mumbles, almost to himself, “Well… if you say so… I guess I won’t argue with you.”

Despite his usual attempts to downplay anything positive, the way he carefully places his hand on his keyboard again suggests he's finally processing your words. There’s something in the way his shoulders relax, ever so slightly, as if your words provided a strange but welcome reassurance.

You can’t help but smile at him, knowing that under all the layers of gaming jargon and the wall of anxiety he’s built around himself, there's someone who truly shines.

. . you walk up towards him, kiss him on the forehead, and suddenly walk away to see his reaction.

The atmosphere around Malleus is always one of quiet grandeur — his very presence seems to command attention, and his royal aura makes him seem untouchable.

This is a man who holds the weight of centuries of tradition and expectations on his shoulders. So when you approach him on a serene evening, standing by the moonlit garden as he stares up at the sky, everything feels still.

Malleus’s tall figure is a striking silhouette against the soft glow of the moon. His hair seems to shimmer in the light, and his eyes are lost in the vastness above. It's as though he’s waiting for something, or perhaps simply lost in his own thoughts.

You walk up to him, your steps quiet but deliberate. The air between you feels thick with unspoken words, as if the world is holding its breath. You stand before him for a moment, the words you want to say caught in the silence. But instead of saying anything, you make a spontaneous decision, driven by the electric charge between you, and lift your hand.

With a gentle motion, you press a soft kiss to his forehead, a fleeting, intimate act that feels both personal and daring. It’s quick — just a whisper of contact but the weight of it lingers in the air.

Malleus freezes, his eyes widening slightly, his posture stiffening as if he had been caught in a moment far more intimate than he had expected. His amber gaze follows you as you pull away, but before he can say a word, you start to walk away.

You move briskly, leaving him standing there in the stillness of the night, a sharp contrast to the calmness he usually exudes.

For a moment, there’s nothing. The world seems to pause, hanging in a delicate balance. You can feel Malleus’s eyes on your back, and there’s an almost tangible tension in the air. The only sound is the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the quiet rhythm of your footsteps fading into the distance.

Then, slowly, you hear him speak, his voice low and filled with surprise. “What… was that?”

His words hang in the air like a question, his tone not harsh or accusatory but full of genuine curiosity. There’s an underlying uncertainty in his voice, as though he’s trying to make sense of what just happened.

His eyes, usually so composed and regal, are now searching, confused and slightly uncertain.

Malleus takes a step forward, his tall figure moving in your direction, but you don’t stop. You continue to walk, not glancing back at him. The unease in his voice betrays the usually unshakable Malleus. He feels a tinge of vulnerability that he doesn’t often express.

“You…” His voice falters for a moment, as if trying to comprehend the situation. “You kissed me… and then proceeded to leave?”

Despite the calm exterior, there’s a vulnerability in his words that catches you off guard. His royal composure falters, and it’s a rare sight to see the ancient heir of the Draconian throne so thrown off by something so simple. His brow furrows slightly, and you catch a glimpse of his struggle, trying to understand why something as small as a kiss on the forehead could unsettle him.

As you continue walking, you can hear the soft sound of his footsteps following behind you, though he doesn't close the distance. His movements are hesitant, almost as if he's testing the waters, unsure whether to approach you or remain in the distance.

“I... I do not understand,” Malleus admits, his tone still laced with confusion but a little softer now. “Why did you do that?”

You can feel the heat of his gaze on your back, but you don’t stop. You want to leave him with a sense of longing, a small but significant act that will stay with him long after you’ve gone.

His voice calls after you again, quieter now, though there’s still a touch of that regal weight behind it. “I... I do not believe I will forget this.”

The last words echo in your ears, and as you turn the corner, you finally let the corner of your mouth tug upwards into a small, knowing smile.

© 2025 readrecieptoff . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

thoughts about my boy riddle? ‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥🔥

Riddle just wanted to study. You wanted to make that impossible. One minute, he’s reviewing his notes with the precision of a scholar — the next, his quill is ruined, his ears are red, and he’s holding a book over his face like it’s a shield against your relentless flirting.

Riddle Rosehearts prided himself on discipline. He woke up at exactly 5:30 AM every day, maintained perfect posture during meals, and adhered strictly to his meticulously planned schedule. He was, in every sense, a paragon of order and precision.

So why, why did you always seem to unravel all that with just a look?

The Heartslabyul common room was quiet, save for the sound of pages turning and the occasional scratch of a pen against paper. It was supposed to be a productive study session. Supposed to be. Except, you weren’t really studying anymore. No, you were propped up on your elbows, chin resting on your palm, watching Riddle with a lazy, amused smile.

At first, he ignored it. He was very good at ignoring distractions. He kept his eyes trained on his notes, his quill moving with precise strokes. But then you sighed— a soft, drawn-out thing, and he caught the way you tilted your head slightly; gaze unwavering.

Riddle cleared his throat. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

You hummed, tapping your fingers against the wooden table. “You’re really pretty when you’re focused, you know?”

His quill slipped.

Ink bloomed across the parchment, bleeding into his neatly written notes. Riddle stiffened, staring at the growing stain as if it had personally offended him. You, meanwhile, had the audacity to laugh.

“Riddle?” you prompted, voice teasing.

He inhaled sharply, gripping his quill with slightly more force than necessary. “That is—” He cleared his throat again, willing the warmth creeping up his neck to disappear immediately. “That is hardly an appropriate thing to say during a study session.”

“Why not?” You leaned closer, elbows now pressed against the table as you grinned at him. “It’s the truth.”

Riddle, usually composed and articulate, was now just... staring at you. His mind raced, grasping at anything to steer the conversation back to normalcy. He settled for what he knew best — rules and logic.

“This is highly inappropriate behavior in an academic setting,” he managed, lifting his chin. “One should be focusing on their studies, not—”

“—admiring their very pretty study partner?” You batted your lashes at him playfully.

Riddle made a noise in his throat that could only be described as a strangled gasp, or a yelp.. It’s hard to tell. His grip on his quill tightened to the point where it might snap.

“I— I need to focus,” he muttered, turning back to his notes with a level of determination usually reserved for battling rogue magical creatures. But the redness creeping up his ears betrayed him, and you, of course, noticed immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, a delighted laugh bubbling up. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” he shot back, voice an octave higher than usual.

“You so are, so cute.”

“Enough.” He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as if that could erase the heat spreading across his face. “If you are not going to take this study session seriously, then perhaps—”

“I am taking it seriously.” You tapped his book with your pen. “I’m seriously admiring you.”

Riddle nearly knocked over the ink bottle.

There was a beat of silence. His fingers twitched, and he took another deep breath, as if trying to compose himself. You just sat there, watching him like he was the most entertaining thing in the world.

“…You are insufferable,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

“And yet,” you said, grinning, “you still agreed to study with me.”

He groaned, tilting his head back slightly. “Remind me why I did.”

“Because you like studying with me.” You leaned closer again, voice turning sing-song. “And maybe —just maybe, you like me too?”

Riddle nearly knocked his entire book stack over.

You laughed, reaching out to steady them before they could tumble. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond. His throat had completely closed up, and his mind was currently short-circuiting. But he refused to give you the satisfaction of a verbal defeat, so he settled for the next best thing.

He grabbed his book, held it up to cover his face, and pretended to read.

You laughed even harder.

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[readrecieptoff]

annoying . . | akaashi keiji

Falling for Akaashi was less of a dramatic revelation and more of a slow, creeping realization — by the time you figured it out? Yeah, he already knew. Good for you, huh?

authors note. the characters’ personality may come off as slightly wobbly, i had fun writing akaashi — albeit, not fully understanding his character. ahhshdhs, my apologies in advance ^ᴗ^

i. sand and sunlight

The first time you met Akaashi Keiji, he corrected your spelling.

It was the kind of summer that felt infinite, where the sun hung lazily in the sky, warm and golden, unwilling to set just yet. The heat shimmered off the pavement in translucent waves, making the world look wobbly, and the air smelled thick with freshly cut grass, chlorine from backyard pools, and the sweet stickiness of half-melted popsicles.

Neighborhood kids ran shrieking through sprinklers, their laughter bouncing off the pavement, and somewhere — a radio played an old, warbled song from a garage left half-open. The sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at, and everything felt slow, like time itself had decided to take a nap.

And yet, none of that mattered to you.

Because at that moment, you were crouched on the driveway, chalk dust staining your fingers, wholly consumed by the very important, highly meticulous task of writing your name across the pavement in big, bold letters.

It was, if you were being honest, a masterpiece.

Each letter was crafted with the utmost care, sprawling and dramatic, some curved, some jagged, some teetering on the edge of legibility — but that was beside the point. It was yours.

A declaration of existence, right there in pink and blue, basking in the sun like a badge of honor. You sat back on your heels, wiping the sweat from your brow, and surveyed your work with a smug little huff.

Perfect. Shakespeare could never.

“That’s wrong.”

The words cut through the thick summer air like a stone dropped into a still pond. You snapped your head up so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

A shadow loomed over your work, blocking the sun. A boy — tall, skinny, maybe your age; maybe older, stood a few feet away with a thick book tucked neatly under one arm, his dark hair ruffled slightly by the breeze. His eyes, sharp and impossibly serious for a kid, were trained entirely on your writing, like he was analyzing the situation, calculating.

You squinted at him.

“‘Scuse me?”

The boy — who you didn’t know yet, but who would later haunt your every waking moment pointed at the pavement with an air of absolute certainty.

“You wrote one of your letters backwards.”

You blinked. Frowned. Looked down.

Oh.

There it was. Bold. Obnoxious. A single letter, flipped the wrong way, taunting you.

You subtly — very subtly shifted, trying to block it from view with your arm. “It still looks fine,” you muttered.

The boy tilted his head, unimpressed. “But it’s wrong.”

You scowled. “Okay, well, you don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not rubbing it in,” he said, completely straight-faced. “I’m just stating a fact.”

Your frown deepened. Who even was this guy? You didn’t know what was worse — the fact that he had spotted the mistake immediately, or the fact that he was standing there like some ancient scholar, looking down at you with judgmental literary disappointment.

“Well, Mr. Stating Facts,” you said, crossing your arms, “maybe I meant to do that. Ever think of that?”

The boy stared at you, utterly deadpan. “Did you?”

“…Yes.”

A long pause.

Then, without a shred of doubt in his voice, he said, “No, you didn’t.”

Your jaw dropped. “You don’t know that!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You looked surprised when I pointed it out.”

“That was just—” you scrambled for an excuse, “because I was testing you!”

“Testing me?”

“Yeah—” You nodded rapidly. “to see if you were paying attention!”

He stared at you. You stared back. The sun blazed overhead, cicadas buzzed somewhere in the distance, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, in the most neutral, completely unbothered voice; he said, “Well, you failed your own test.”

You gawked.

“You!” you pointed at him, grasping for words. “You’re so—”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“You are the most—” you clenched your fists, trying to summon every insult you had in your nine-year-old arsenal, “insufferable know-it-all I have ever met!”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “But you just met me.”

“And?”

His lips twitched, like he was barely holding back a smirk.

You were seething. Who was this guy? Who just walked around correcting people’s spelling like some kind of self-proclaimed language police?

“You know what?” you huffed, crossing your arms. “You probably make mistakes too. What if I went through your book and corrected your mistakes?”

He actually looked amused by that. “You can’t correct something that isn’t wrong.”

You gasped, “You’re annoying!”

“That’s an opinion, not a fact,” he said mildly.

You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat. “You're an opinion!”

“That doesn’t make any sense—”

“Your face doesn’t make sense!”

Akaashi blinked. Then, with infuriating composure, said, “That’s a terrible insult.”

You clenched your fists. “I’m nine!”

For the first time, his expression cracked — barely, just a flicker of amusement, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

You were going to throw hands. Before you could launch into another verbal attack, he crouched down beside you, plucking the chalk from your fingers.

“Hey—!” you started, his fingers brushed yours.

Just for a second. Barely there. But warm.

You immediately forgot what you were mad about.

Akaashi, completely oblivious to your minor internal meltdown, carefully rewrote the letter beside yours. His strokes were smooth, deliberate. Neat.

You hated how much better it looked.

Which was annoying.

“Mine was almost like that,” you muttered, grabbing another piece of chalk.

Akaashi was already shaking his head. “It was backwards.”

“Barely backwards.”

“There’s no such thing as barely backwards,” he deadpanned.

“There is now,” you shot back.

He gave you a long, unreadable look. Then, standing up, he dusted off his hands and turned to leave.

You blinked.

“…Wait, that’s it?”

Akaashi glanced over his shoulder. “What else would it be?”

You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, for some reason, you didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“Hey!” you called after him, scrambling to your feet. “What’s your name?”

He paused at the edge of the pavement.

“Akaashi Keiji.”

Akaashi.

You rolled the name around in your mind, smirking. “Bleh— you’re too formal!”

Akaashi just stared.

Undeterred, you continued. “Anyway, Akaashi Keiji, I bet I can spell better than you by next week.”

He regarded you for a moment. Then, with the faintest, barely-there twitch of his lips, he said, “I doubt that.”

And just like that, he walked away.

—

From that day on, you made it your life’s mission to annoy the hell out of Akaashi Keiji.

He was ten, barely a year older than you, but he carried himself with the kind of serious, almost unshakable composure that made it very fun to test his limits. Where other kids in the neighborhood ran wild, scraped their knees, and got scolded for climbing trees too high, Akaashi was the weird kid who sat under the shade, nose buried in books that were definitely not meant for his age. He didn’t even seem to sweat in the heat. You found that suspicious.

Naturally, this meant you had to make him sweat.

And oh, did you try.

You made a habit of flopping down beside him whenever you spotted him reading, propping your chin on your hands and staring. Just staring. Not blinking, not moving, just watching him with unwavering intensity.

It took him exactly four minutes and thirty-six seconds before he finally sighed and said, without even looking up — “What.”

You grinned. “Whatcha reading?”

Akaashi turned a page. “A book.”

You gasped dramatically. “No way! I thought you were staring at the sun, trying to blind yourself!”

Silence.

“…Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, Keiji,” you said, leaning in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why do you do any of the things you do?”

Akaashi finally looked up, his sharp blue eyes squinting slightly like he was actually considering the question.

You grinned wider. “See? You don’t even know yourself!”

“I know myself perfectly fine,” he muttered, returning to his book. “Unlike some people, I don’t waste time asking ridiculous questions.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t react.

Keiji - 1 You - 0

“That was so rude.”

Still, nothing.

“Keiji.”

No response.

You inched closer, until your shoulder just barely bumped against his.

“You wanna hear something insane?” you whispered, voice low, conspiratorial. Akaashi sighed, but you did not miss the way his fingers tightened just a little on the edge of the page.

“…What?”

You grinned, leaning in further. “Your face is ridiculous.”

Akaashi shut his book.

For a second, you thought — this is it. He’s finally going to snap, finally going to yell at you, finally going to break that carefully controlled exterior.

“That’s still a terrible insult.”

You gawked.

“I—” You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible!”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Your existence doesn’t make sense!”

Akaashi blinked. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t exist?”

“That’s not what I—” You threw your hands in the air, groaning. “Ugh! You’re impossible!”

Akaashi simply opened his book again, completely unbothered. Which only meant you had to try harder. So, naturally — you upped your game.

You started doodling in the margins of his notebooks when he wasn’t looking, filling them with tiny, stick-figure versions of him doing ridiculous things — like wrestling a shark, or flying a spaceship, or reading even more books while scowling at a chalkboard full of deliberately misspelled words.

He didn’t react at first.

One day, you caught him hesitating — his pencil hovering just slightly over one of your doodles. His brow furrowed.

You smirked.

“Go on,” you whispered. “Correct my spelling.”

Akaashi exhaled very slowly through his nose.

“You're insufferable,” he muttered.

“And yet,” you beamed, “you still sit next to me every day.”

Akaashi looked at you. And for one single second, you swore you saw something flicker in his expression — something amused, maybe even fond.

Then, with a sigh, he closed his notebook.

“..You’re not going to stop, are you?”

You grinned. “Nope.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

And just like that, Akaashi Keiji let you stay.

ii. paper planes and playground wars

If there was one thing you learned about Akaashi Keiji, it was that he never really lost his cool.

Annoying him was easy — he had that perfectly calculated way of sighing, like he was mentally writing a thesis paper on why you were exhausting. He would blink, exhale through his nose, and give you the kind of deadpan stare that made you almost second-guess your life choices. Almost. But getting him genuinely riled up? Now that was a challenge. And oh, did you love a challenge.

So, naturally, you made it your goal to win.

It started on the playground, where recess wasn’t just a break — it was a battlefield. The jungle gym became a fortress, the slides were a kingdom of their own, and the swings? The swings were your territory. You had spent weeks perfecting your method, learning exactly how to launch yourself into the air with the perfect amount of force, timing the rhythm of your legs just right, so you could go higher than anyone else. The swings belonged to you. Everyone knew that.

Everyone except Akaashi Keiji, apparently.

You had been running back from the drinking fountain, already planning your next move — a perfect, record-breaking swing launch. But when you saw him sitting there, calmly swinging back and forth, a book balanced in his lap, completely at peace with the world.

Your steps slowed.

Your eyes narrowed.

Your jaw dropped.

He didn’t even like swings! He was a bench person, the kind who preferred sitting in the shade with a book, quietly passing judgment on the rest of the world. He had never shown interest in the swings before, and yet — here he was, taking up your spot, as if he had every right to be there.

The betrayal.

“Keiji!” you gasped, storming up to him, arms flailing dramatically.

Akaashi didn’t even blink. “Yes?”

You pointed at him, scandalized. “That’s my swing!”

Akaashi barely lifted his gaze from his book, his face unreadable. “I don’t see your name on it.”

For a moment, you just stood there, stunned. Flabbergasted. The audacity, the sheer gall of this child.

“Are you kidding me?!” you sputtered, stepping closer. “You— You know that’s mine!”

Akaashi turned a page. Calm. Unbothered. A menace to society. “It was unoccupied,” he said, voice as even as ever.

“I was gone for two minutes!”

“Two minutes is a long time,” he replied smoothly. “You should have marked your territory more effectively.”

Your soul left your body.

You sputtered. “I— What am I supposed to do? Pee on it?”

Akaashi gave you a long, slow blink. “…That would be highly unsanitary.”

You threw your hands up. “That’s not the point!”

He tilted his head, regarding you with the same quiet curiosity he always did. Like he was studying some rare, mildly interesting creature. “Then what is?”

You glared at him, crossing your arms. “That swing is mine.”

Akaashi stared at you for a long moment, then sighed, closing his book with an air of finality. “Fine.”

You brightened. “Oh! Good—”

“But I’m not getting off.”

Your smile dropped.

“What.”

Akaashi gave the slightest shrug. “I’ll move,” he repeated, voice infuriatingly neutral. “But only a little.”

Your eye twitched. “Keiji. This swing is barely wide enough for one person.”

He looked up at you, utterly unfazed. “Then I guess we’ll have to make it work.”

You gawked at him.

Was he — was he actually challenging you?

Your eyes narrowed. “Fine.”

Before he could react, you plopped down next to him, squeezing onto the tiny space he begrudgingly left. The swing wobbled dangerously, tilting slightly to one side, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in Akaashi’s usually composed expression.

“…This is impractical,” he muttered.

“So are you,” you shot back, cheerfully swinging your legs.

His hands gripped the chains a little tighter, his entire body tensing slightly as he adjusted to the awkward, cramped position. You could feel the hesitation radiating off him.

“What? Uncomfortable?” you asked sweetly.

Akaashi exhaled through his nose, long and slow. He turned his head to give you the flattest look imaginable. “That comeback doesn’t make sense.”

“You don’t make sense.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“That’s not an argument either.”

Akaashi closed his eyes briefly, as if summoning the patience of a saint. “You are exhausting.”

“Aww,” you grinned. “Are you finally admitting I get on your nerves?”

Akaashi exhaled again, slow and measured. “I have been admitting that since the day I met you.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Keiji!” you gasped, clutching your chest like he had personally stabbed you. “That was almost mean!”

“It wasn’t mean,” he replied, tone flat.

“It was borderline mean,” you said, crossing your arms. “You basically just admitted I’m a chronic annoyance.”

Akaashi gave you a slow, considering look. Then, in the most neutral tone imaginable; he said,

“…That’s not news.”

You sputtered.

“Excuse me?!”

“I’m just stating a fact,” he said, way too calm.

“Oh, I’ll state a fact,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You are the most infuriating person I have ever met.”

Akaashi exhaled again, looking to the sky like he was physically restraining himself from responding.

“And yet,” he said slowly, too patiently, “here you are. Sitting next to me.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Scowled.

“…You shut your face,” you muttered.

Akaashi’s lips twitched.

Not a full smile. Almost. And for some reason; some completely stupid, unexplainable reason — it made your heart do a weird little flip.

iii. notes in the margins

You had an ongoing war with Akaashi Keiji.

It wasn’t an official war, no battle lines drawn in the sand or treaties signed in secret, but it was real nonetheless. A quiet, ever-present battle of wits and endurance, fought in stolen pencils, stolen lunch snacks, and stolen victories.

The battlefield? Your shared desk in class.

The war had started months ago, born from boredom and your insatiable need to be just a little annoying. It began small — little pokes, tiny jabs. Borrowing his eraser and conveniently forgetting to return it. Nudging his elbow just as he was writing. Whispering his name dramatically under your breath in the middle of a silent reading period, just to see how long it would take before he cracked.

(Akaashi never cracked. He just stared at you with the weight of a thousand unspoken sighs.)

But then he had retaliated.

The first time was subtle. You hadn’t even noticed it at first — just a quiet, unnoticed shift in the way your notes looked. You had been flipping through your notebook, skimming over your own messy handwriting, when you saw it.

Tiny, perfectly written corrections in the margins.

You had blinked. Squinted.

Akaashi, beside you, had not even glanced your way.

“Keiji.”

“Mm?”

You held up your notebook, jabbing a finger at the corrections. “Did you edit my notes?”

Akaashi finally looked up, gaze flicking to the page. “You misspelled ‘photosynthesis.’”

You gawked at him. “So you edited my notes.”

He blinked. “Would you rather keep misspelling it?”

“That’s not the point!” you whisper-hissed.

Akaashi’s face was too neutral. Suspiciously neutral. Like he wasn’t even remotely sorry.

“You’re welcome,” he said blandly.

You sputtered.

And thus, the war escalated.

From then on, you made it your mission to out-annoy him.

You started doodling in his notebooks — tiny, barely noticeable things at first. Little stick figures in the margins. A smiley face beside his equations. Then bigger things. More dramatic. A doodle of Akaashi himself, glasses slightly askew, looking deeply unimpressed.

Akaashi noticed. Of course, he noticed.

But instead of getting mad, instead of sighing and telling you to stop, he simply… added to them.

One day, you had drawn a tiny cat beside his name. The next day, you found that the cat now had a book in front of it, a tiny speech bubble reading, ‘Please be quiet in the library.’

You had stared at it for a full ten seconds before whipping around to him.

“You—”

Akaashi didn’t even look up. “Yes?”

“You updated my doodle!”

Akaashi turned a page, utterly unbothered. “It was incomplete.”

“Incomplete?!”

He hummed noncommittally.

You narrowed your eyes. “This is a challenge, isn’t it?”

Akaashi didn’t say anything.

You squinted harder. “You want me to keep drawing in your notes.”

Silence.

Akaashi turned another page, gaze focused on his textbook. Too focused. Suspiciously focused.

You gasped. “You like this!”

Akaashi’s grip on his pen tightened slightly. Just slightly.

Your eyes widened. “Gasp.”

Akaashi sighed, “You did not just say that.”

And that was when you knew.

The war wasn’t just yours anymore.

It belonged to both of you.

From that day on, the margins of your notes became a secret battleground. You doodled, he improved them. You left little notes, and he left corrections. One time, you wrote Keiji has no heart in the corner of a quiz review, and the next day, you found — but at least I can spell ‘heart’ correctly written neatly beside it.

The audacity.

The absolute disrespect. It was a war, yes. A battle of pettiness and stubbornness. But it was yours and you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

iv. between the lines

There were a lot of things you and Akaashi Keiji didn’t say.

Like how he never actually told you when he started playing volleyball, but you noticed the way his school bag got heavier, the way his posture straightened slightly, the way his hands — slim, steady fingers that used to only ever scribble in notebooks began showing the faintest signs of callouses. You didn’t ask him about it. Not outright. But you noticed.

Middle school was supposed to be a time of change, but you never expected to watch him change. Akaashi had always been composed, quiet in a way that made people hesitate before approaching him, sharp-tongued when provoked but never unkind. You had been convinced, for the longest time, that he was immune to the chaos of growing up. But then, out of nowhere, one day he mentioned practice — offhandedly, as if it wasn’t important, as if he hadn’t just casually dropped the information that he was now a part of something bigger; something that took up his afternoons, something that didn’t include you.

You had blinked at him, completely thrown. “Practice?”

Akaashi barely glanced up from where he was adjusting the strap of his bag. “Volleyball.”

You continued staring, processing.

“…You play volleyball now?”

Akaashi finally looked at you, raising a brow. “Yes?”

You squinted at him, as if this were some elaborate prank. “Since when?”

“A few months ago.”

“A few months — Keiji,” you gaped. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

You made a strangled, incoherent noise of betrayal. “How was I supposed to ask if I didn’t know?”

Akaashi hummed thoughtfully, like he was actually considering your question. “You could’ve guessed?”

You spluttered. “How would I have guessed??”

He sighed, adjusting his bag again. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” You were offended. “You, my best friend since elementary school, decided to go off and become a volleyball player, and I had to find out by accident? I feel betrayed.”

Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Tell me everything. When do you practice? What position do you play? Are you good?”

He gave you a long, measured look, as if debating whether or not to entertain your antics. “I practice after school. Setter. And yes, I suppose I’m decent.”

“Decent?” You narrowed your eyes at him. “That means you’re good.”

He didn’t confirm nor deny it, but the way his lips barely twitched; just the faintest hint of amusement — told you enough.

And that was how you learned that Akaashi Keiji played volleyball.

—

The thing was, it wasn’t just some casual hobby.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. After all, Akaashi had always been meticulous about things he put effort into — his schoolwork, his writing, his ability to tolerate your nonsense. But volleyball? It was different. It wasn’t just something he did after school.

It was something that changed him.

The first time you saw him practicing — really practicing, you hadn’t meant to. You had just been passing by the gym on your way home when you caught a glimpse of him through the open doors. The Akaashi you knew had always been composed, thoughtful, a little sarcastic but never reckless.

But on the court, he was something else.

You had stood there, stunned, watching as he moved across the court with sharp precision, every motion controlled, every pass measured. He wasn’t just decent. He was incredible. You had never seen him like this before — focused, intense, completely in sync with his teammates. Albeit, his teammates were a little wonky. The ball left his fingertips with effortless accuracy, and for the first time, it occurred to you that this wasn’t just some casual pastime for him. It was something he loved.

You had never realized that Akaashi Keiji was capable of loving something so visibly.

You didn’t tell him you saw.

But the next day, when he offhandedly mentioned practice again, you surprised him by asking, “How was it?”

Akaashi blinked. “What?”

“Practice.” You nudged his arm. “How was it?”

He hesitated — just for a moment. Then, in a tone almost too soft to catch, he said, “It was good.” That was the moment something shifted.

—

The notebook war was still ongoing.

Only now, between the usual sarcastic quips and exaggerated doodles of you dramatically dying from math homework, there were new additions.

You started sneaking in little messages.

(Good luck at practice today.)

(You looked cool setting that last play.)

(I think you’re better than decent.)

Akaashi never reacted outright. But his replies became different.

(You were watching?)

(Are you a volleyball critic now?)

(…Thanks.)

It was subtle. Barely there. But the way his words softened — the way he let you see him, just a little bit more was enough. And one evening, when you were walking home together, he spoke first.

“You’re staying late at school more often,” he noted.

You hummed. “Maybe I just like annoying you.”

Akaashi didn’t look at you, but you saw the corner of his lips twitch. “Is that all?”

You hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper, so quiet it almost got lost in the evening air — you mumbled, “Maybe I just like… seeing you play.”

For a second, Akaashi didn’t respond.

And then, in a voice just as quiet, but warm — he said, “I’m glad.”

The cicadas hummed in the background, the streetlights flickered faintly, and you — well. You pretended you didn’t feel your chest stutter at that.

v. what is happening to me?!

High school changed everything.

Not in some abrupt, world-shattering way, not like a scene in a coming-of-age film where the protagonist blinks and suddenly everything is different, but in the quiet, creeping way time always shifts things. It settled into the little things first — the way Akaashi’s uniform fit him a little better now, no longer slightly loose at the sleeves. The way his hair, once an unruly mess that he barely put effort into taming, now fell into place naturally, almost effortlessly. The way his voice had smoothed out into something steadier, more deliberate, as if he was learning to weigh each word before letting it go.

And in the way your once-parallel paths began to diverge — subtly, like a river splitting into two streams, only noticeable if you paid close enough attention.

You had always been a part of Akaashi Keiji’s everyday routine. It was just the way things were. You walked to school together, sat in the same lunch spot, bickered over the most trivial things just to fill the spaces between moments. It had always been natural, the way he fit into your days, the way you fit into his. But now, something else had wedged itself into the spaces where you used to be — something that demanded more of his time, more of him.

Volleyball.

Not the casual, middle school version. Not something he did just because it was fun. But high school volleyball — competitive.

Fukurōdani wasn’t just any team; it was one of the strongest in the region. And suddenly, Akaashi wasn’t just a setter — he was their first-year regular, their prodigy, the name upperclassmen murmured with interest. He was someone to watch out for.

But you?

You had always known.

Long before the matches, long before the whispers of “first-year genius” started, long before the coaches and captains took notice — you had already seen it. You had seen it in the way he started staying behind after school, in the way his hands, once just a little rough from middle school practices, were now always bandaged, calloused, marked by hours of setting and receiving. You had seen it in the way he stopped waiting for you after classes, how “I’ll catch up” turned into “Go ahead,” turned into nothing at all.

The first time, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal.

“I have extra drills,” he had said, adjusting his bag, and you had waved him off like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter that something in your routine had cracked just slightly.

The second time, it was easier.

The third time, you stopped waiting.

And just like that, the spaces between you stretched wider. Conversations became shorter, less effortless. You still talked, still bickered, still passed notes in class whenever the lessons dragged on too long, but it wasn’t the same. Because sometimes, you would be in the middle of a story — one of your usual exaggerated retellings, meant to pull a reaction out of him; only to realize that he wasn’t fully listening. That his gaze was distant, his mind still somewhere on the court.

You frowned one afternoon, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Oi.”

Akaashi blinked, his attention snapping back to you. “What?”

“You’re thinking about practice again.”

He didn’t deny it.

You groaned, dramatically slumping onto your desk. “Keiji. Your bestest best friend is talking, and you’re too busy thinking about tossing a ball.”

“That’s a very reductive way of describing my sport,” he replied, unimpressed.

“Your sport — wow, okay, Fukurōdani’s first-year star, my bad.” You pressed a hand to your chest, mock-offended. “Would you like me to kneel the next time I address you?”

Akaashi sighed. “I have no idea how you have the energy for this every day.

“It’s called caring, Akaashi,” you huffed, before softening, just slightly. “You should try it sometime.”

For a second, something flickered in his expression — too fast for you to catch. Guilt? Maybe.

“…I know I’ve been busy,” he admitted after a pause.

“Busy?” You gasped, clutching your forehead. “Keiji, do you even remember what I look like? What if I’ve completely changed? What if I dyed my hair neon green?”

“I would have noticed that.”

“What if I shaved it all off?”

“..I would pay you to do that.”

You gasped. “Traitor!”

His lips twitched, but the amusement faded quickly into something quieter, something unspoken.

“…I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he murmured, voice softer now. “Volleyball just… takes up a lot.”

You watched him for a moment. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, you flopped forward onto your desk again. “I guess I could forgive you…”

Akaashi raised a brow. “Oh?”

“If,” you said, peeking up at him, “you let me come watch your practice today.”

Something in his expression flickered. Hesitation. “It’s just drills.”

“So?”

“You’ll get bored.”

You shrugged. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, considering.

Then, exhaling through his nose, he muttered, “Do whatever you want.”

—

The first thing you learned about high school volleyball practice was that it was no joke.

Fukurōdani’s gym was bigger than you expected, louder, filled with an intensity that caught you off guard. Even from the sidelines, you could feel the energy thrumming through the space — the sharp sounds of sneakers against polished floors, the steady rhythm of balls hitting hands, the calls and shouts that wove through the air like an unspoken language.

You had been expecting something familiar — maybe an upgraded version of middle school training, something just a little more refined. But this?

And Akaashi — your Keiji, the one who used to argue with you over stationery brands, the one who still corrected your spelling in texts, the one who somehow put up with your antics on a daily basis, he belonged here.

His movements were seamless, his tosses precise, his every shift calculated. Even with upperclassmen around him, calling the shots, he didn’t waver. It was almost unfair, how natural he looked.

And maybe it was because you had known him for so long had watched him grow, had seen the way he analyzed things before acting — but for the first time, you realized that volleyball wasn’t just something he did.

It was something he understood.

—

After practice, when the team started dispersing, you walked over to him, hands stuffed into your pockets. “You’re kinda cool, huh.”

Akaashi gave you a look. “You sound surprised.”

You grinned. “That’s because I am.”

Akaashi sighed. “Should’ve let you stay home.”

“And miss out on this?” You nudged him. “Come on. Admit it. You liked having me here.”

His gaze flickered away. “…I didn’t mind it.”

Your heart did something stupid at that.

You shoved it down.

Instead, you smirked, bumping his shoulder again. “Well, I’m coming back, then.”

Akaashi shot you a flat look. “Didn’t you say you were bored?”

“Oh, I was.” You grinned. “But I like watching you.”

His breath hitched.

Just for a second.

So quick, so subtle, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.

But then, without another word, he turned away — walking ahead, brushing a hand through his hair, voice just a little too casual when he said, “…Suit yourself.”

And just like that, you knew. Maybe high school changed everything. But this — you and him, was still yours.

vi. too soon?

There were many things Akaashi Keiji was good at.

Volleyball? Obviously.

Academics? Annoyingly so.

Arguing with you until you admitted you were wrong? His favorite pastime.

But figuring out his own feelings?

That was a work in progress.

vii. this is it, i’m gonna jump off a cliff—

Midterms were the worst.

It wasn’t even about the difficulty of the exams — you were used to those by now, even if they still made you want to hurl yourself off the nearest flight of stairs. No, the real problem was the way they turned everyone into a sleep-deprived, caffeine-fueled mess. Students trudged through the hallways like ghosts, murmuring formulas under their breath, clutching review sheets like lifelines.

And Akaashi?

He was thriving.

He was the only person in the entire school who looked unaffected. While everyone else had eyebags deep enough to hold a week’s worth of stress, he still carried himself with the same calm, unreadable expression, his uniform crisp, his notes meticulously organized.

It was obnoxious.

“…Are you even human?” you muttered, slumping across your desk.

Akaashi barely spared you a glance, flipping another page of his book. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” you accused, dramatically pressing a hand against your forehead. “You don’t even look stressed.”

“I am,” he said, as if stating a simple fact.

You squinted at him. He didn’t look it.

“You’re not normal,” you concluded.

Akaashi hummed, unbothered. “And you’re not studying.”

You groaned, turning to smush your face into your notebook. “I hate this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Akaashi sighed, finally setting his book down. “You don’t hate studying. You just hate exams.”

You peeked up from your notebook. “What’s the difference?”

Akaashi stared at you, unimpressed. “One is about learning, the other is about being evaluated.”

“..That sounds the same to me.”

Akaashi exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Do you actually need help, or are you just complaining?”

You grinned. “Can’t it be both?”

Akaashi shook his head, but there was something softer in his expression, something that wasn’t quite amusement, but close.

And that was the thing about him, wasn’t it?

He was careful. Measured. He never overreacted to anything — except when you were involved.

He was always paying attention.

Even when you thought he wasn’t.

Later that afternoon, as you walked home together, the weight of the day settled in. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement. Your backpack felt heavier than usual, stuffed with textbooks and review sheets, but your mind was drifting elsewhere.

Akaashi was quiet beside you, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead. He had been like this for a while now — more thoughtful.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

It was easier, before.

Before you realized how used you were to him. Before you caught yourself looking too long when he wasn’t paying attention. Before you noticed how your pulse hitched whenever he leaned in too close, or how your breath caught when his fingers brushed yours.

“..Why do you keep looking at me?”

You almost tripped.

Akaashi had stopped walking, tilting his head slightly in your direction.

Because, you’re pretty?? Hello?

You cleared your throat, crossing your arms. “Why do you keep noticing?”

“Because you’re not subtle,” he said, flatly.

“Neither are you.”

Akaashi blinked, as if considering that.

And then, completely out of nowhere; like a huge ass brick that hurled towards you, “Do you like me?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your heart stopped.

“What.”

Akaashi just tilted his head. “I’m asking if you like me.”

You felt your face heat. “That’s— what kind of question is that?”

“A valid one.”

You gaped. “You can’t just—”

And that’s when you realized — oh.

He knew.

He already knew.

That meant — he wanted to hear you say it.

Your stomach twisted. Your heart pounded. He knew. He had always known. And yet, he waited. Waited for you to catch up, to put the weight of your feelings into words. Your throat felt tight. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, not out of anger, not out of fear, but because the moment felt too big to hold.

“…Would it be bad if I did?”

Akaashi’s eyes softened, his gaze steady. “No.”

Silence stretched between you. A single heartbeat. Then another. Your pulse was too loud. Your breathing uneven.

“Do you like me?”

Akaashi exhaled, a slow and measured thing. And then, in the calmest, most Akaashi way imaginable;

“Yes.”

The world seemed to tilt. Your stomach dropped.

Your fingers twitched, uncertain. His did too.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt impossibly small, yet too vast. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, for your breath to catch in your throat, for your heart to stutter against your ribs. Close enough that if either of you moved even a fraction, but he didn’t.

Instead, his fingers brushed against yours, featherlight, grounding. And when he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“…I really do.”

© 2025 readrecieptoff . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

You try to convince them to do the “Do you even have back muscles?” trend in Magicam with Vil Schoenheit and Malleus Draconia

note. might as well do everyone ^^” (even the ones whose one flick away from dropping dead)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

You were scrolling through MagiCam when a particular trend caught your eye. It was a simple yet devastatingly effective challenge — someone would record their boyfriend pulling off their shirt or jacket, revealing their back muscles, and the comments would immediately go feral.

You would too for them, but we won’t speak of that. And of course, your mind went straight to them.

Would they agree to it? Would they even care about the challenge? Honestly, you had no idea. But that didn’t stop you from trying.

So, you asked.

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

Vil didn’t even look up from his mirror, expertly applying a touch of moisturizer to his already flawless skin. “I refuse to subject myself to the whims of a trend so tacky. I have no reason to entertain the desperate thirst of the masses.”

You crossed your arms. “Tacky? Vil, it’s literally just a fitness trend. A simple show of strength and physique—”

“Exactly.” He finally turned to you, amethyst eyes sharp, assessing. “Simple is dull. Predictable. And I am neither of those things.”

You had expected resistance. What you hadn’t expected was Vil’s complete and utter dismissal, as if he were above the mere concept of proving himself. Which — fair. He kind of was. He was Vil Schoenheit. The epitome of physical discipline and aesthetic excellence. But still—

“...So you’re saying you could do it.”

The slight twitch of his brow was all the confirmation you needed.

A slow smirk crept onto your face. “Oh. You are built, but you just don’t want to be lumped in with the commoners, huh?”

His fingers halted against his temple. For a single, fleeting moment, you saw it — the hint of a nerve struck, the glint of something both irritated and calculating in his gaze. And then, in one fluid motion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back with practiced ease.

“Fine.”

You barely had time to react before he reached up, undoing the delicate clasps of his dorm uniform, shrugging off the pristine white coat with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible. The silk of his dress shirt followed suit, each button slipping free with deliberate precision, until the fabric slid from his frame like water—

And holy shit.

Vil was divine.

His back was a masterpiece — taut, sculpted, every muscle honed to perfection. Broad shoulders framed an expanse of smooth, meticulously toned skin, the elegant curve of his spine leading down to a lean, devastating waist. His traps, his lats — everything was balanced, refined, the result of years of dedication to both form and function. There was nothing excessive, nothing overdone — just immaculate symmetry, beauty carved into strength.

And he knew it.

With an exhale, Vil reached for the nape of his neck, gathering his golden locks in one hand, tilting his head slightly to the side. The movement sent a ripple of motion through his back, subtle but mesmerizing — the kind of controlled power that didn’t need exaggeration.

A simple, effortless display.

You swallowed. “Damn.”

Vil hummed. “I should hope that suffices. I am perfection, after all.”

You were still staring. Possibly drooling. The Magicam feed was already on fire.

With a sigh, he released his hair, letting it cascade back into place before buttoning up his shirt. “If you’re going to insist on recording, at least ensure my best angles are captured. I won’t have my efforts wasted on poor cinematography.”

You weren’t sure anyone would survive this.

This was a mistake. A grave, irreversible, world-ending mistake.

You should have known better. You should have never brought up a Magicam trend to Malleus Draconia. The moment the words left your mouth, you felt a shiver — an instinctive, primal warning deep in your gut, telling you that you were about to witness something that mortal eyes were not meant to see. But it was too late.

Malleus had already set his book aside.

Had already stood to his full, monstrous height, the dim lighting of Diasomnia’s lounge casting long, imposing shadows across his frame. The air around him crackled faintly with energy, like the hum of a storm right before the first strike of lightning. His expression was calm, curious, but there was something unreadable beneath the surface — some silent, unknowable power stirring in the depths of his emerald gaze.

“Show my back?” His voice was as smooth as ever, but there was a glint of intrigue in his eyes. “Is that the nature of this challenge?”

You gulped. "Uh… yeah?"

His head tilted ever so slightly, the motion fluid, almost too graceful. “I see.” A thoughtful pause. And then, with zero hesitation — zero hesitation — Malleus reached up and unfastened the clasps of his high-collared coat.

And the world stopped.

The heavy fabric slid from his shoulders, folding onto itself in a way that seemed impossibly delicate for someone of his sheer size. He removed it with practiced ease, as if he had done this a thousand times before. It should have been elegant. It should have been effortless. But to you — it was catastrophic.

Because now, you could see everything.

And everything was devastating.

Malleus was inhuman. There was no other way to describe it. His frame was sculpted, carved from something far beyond the flesh and blood of mortals. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his traps forming a sharp, sloping curve that led down to a back so defined that it looked like something out of a myth. His lats framed the length of his spine with an absurd level of precision, each muscle shifting in perfect synchrony as he rolled his shoulders back. His posture was impeccable, his stance unwavering. Every single movement was controlled, deliberate, yet terrifyingly natural.

But it wasn’t just the size of him that had your soul leaving your body. It was the presence.

Malleus Draconia was too much.

His magic crackled through the air with an unrestrained hum, unseen but felt — a weight pressing against your chest, the charge of a storm waiting to be unleashed. His horns, ever so slightly curved, cast long shadows against the flickering candlelight. And then—

Then he stretched.

A slow, effortless roll of his shoulders, his head tipping back just slightly, exposing the column of his throat. His shoulder blades shifted beneath flawless, pale skin, his traps tightening before relaxing again. His lats flared for a fraction of a second — just long enough for you to register that he was dangerous, that his body was built for a kind of power that no ordinary person could fathom. His back muscles were alive, moving with a kind of fluid grace that was utterly hypnotic.

And then, Malleus reached up.

With an almost absentminded motion, he gathered his inky black hair with one hand, lifting it from his back to expose the full, unobstructed view of his physique. And gods help you — his spine curved, the muscles along his lower back shifting subtly with the motion, his waist narrowing into a taper that should not have been that unfairly well-proportioned.

You had never known fear like this.

Malleus glanced over his shoulder, curious at your prolonged silence. The movement sent another ripple through his muscles — smooth, effortless. “Does this suffice?”

You tried to speak. Failed.

Your soul had departed.

“Child of Man?” His voice was tinged with genuine concern now, because of course Malleus had no idea what he had just done to you. The very concept of thirst traps, of Magicam trends designed to reduce people into feral masses — he had no understanding of it. He had simply obeyed your request with the same grace he did everything else, not realizing that he had just single-handedly obliterated whatever shred of composure you had left.

Your hands were shaking as you tried to steady the Magicam feed. You weren’t even sure if you were still recording at this point. You weren’t even sure if you were still alive.

“Are you well?” Malleus asked again, his brows knitting together in mild concern. “You seem.. unwell.”

Unwell?

Unwell?

You were about to combust.

Diasomnia’s dorm had never known such an abrupt drop in sanity. The moment this hit Magicam, NRC would not survive.

And Malleus — the absolute menace — merely blinked in quiet amusement before rolling his shoulders one last time, then carefully refastening the clasps of his coat.

As if he hadn’t just committed an act of war.

© 2025 readrecieptoff . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

You try to convince them to do the “Do you even have back muscles?” trend in Magicam with Jamil Viper and Lilia Vanrouge

note. i love this, im confident (at least i hope) that i captured their personality

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

You were scrolling through MagiCam when a particular trend caught your eye. It was a simple yet devastatingly effective challenge — someone would record their boyfriend pulling off their shirt or jacket, revealing their back muscles, and the comments would immediately go feral.

You would too for them, but we won’t speak of that. And of course, your mind went straight to them.

Would they agree to it? Would they even care about the challenge? Honestly, you had no idea. But that didn’t stop you from trying.

So, you asked.

Convincing Jamil to do anything remotely ridiculous was already an uphill battle. Convincing him to willingly take part in a Magicam trend? Practically impossible.

But you? You loved a challenge and him being your boyfriend, was already a plus.

“C’mon, Jamil,” you coaxed, leaning on the kitchen counter as he chopped vegetables with precise, effortless movements. “It’s just a video.”

Jamil didn’t even look up. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me explain—”

“I don’t need to,” he cut in flatly, sliding the sliced onions into a pan. The sizzle that followed almost felt like it was mocking you. “If you’re asking me to do something for Magicam, it’s probably not worth my time.”

You dramatically clutched your chest. “Ouch.”

He sighed, finally glancing at you, eyes filled with his usual mix of exhaustion and reluctant patience. “What is it this time?”

You perked up immediately, shoving your phone into his personal space. “It’s a trend where people film their boyfriend pulling off their hoodie or jacket, showing their—”

“No.”

“—back muscles.”

Jamil froze.

It was brief, a fraction of a second, but you saw it. The slight hesitation in his grip on the spatula. The way his shoulders tensed just a bit more than usual. The way he immediately turned back to the stove as if willing you to drop the conversation.

Oh. Oh.

You smirked. “Jamil.”

“No.”

“You totally have—”

“No.”

“—crazy back muscles, don’t you?”

Jamil exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his face. “Why are you like this?”

You grinned, setting your phone on the counter. “C’mon, just one take! You don’t even have to do anything. Just pull your hoodie off naturally—”

“I don’t want people thirsting over me online,” he muttered, rubbing his temple.

“Oh, please,” you snorted. “Like they aren’t already.”

Jamil nearly dropped the pan.

You watched the internal battle unfold behind his tired gaze; the sheer reluctance, the annoyance, the suffering. But you also knew Jamil. He wasn’t just avoiding the video. He was avoiding acknowledging the fact that, yeah, he probably did have ridiculously defined muscles. And he knew it.

So you did what any normal person would do.

You cheated.

“Kalim would do it,” you said innocently.

Jamil stared at you. Slowly, dangerously.

“…You did not just say that.”

You shrugged, playing with your phone. “I dunno. I just think it’d be real funny if Kalim—”

“Fine.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

Jamil huffed, already pulling at the hem of his hoodie. “One take. And you’re deleting it after.”

Oh. Oh, this was happening.

Jamil turned away from you slightly, sighing in exasperation as he tugged his hoodie off in one smooth motion. And oh.

The second the fabric lifted, it was game over.

The motion sent his shoulder blades rolling beneath tanned skin, muscles flexing instinctively with the stretch. Jamil wasn’t bulky; no, his strength was something lean, something sharpened through years of discipline, through hours upon hours of dance and combat. His back wasn’t just toned, it was refined; defined muscles shifting naturally, like a dancer mid-performance.

The light from the kitchen window hit just right, accentuating the ridges of his shoulders, the subtle flex of his arms as he tossed the hoodie onto a chair. He was so used to controlled movements, to quiet, effortless precision, that even something this simple looked unfairly good.

And then he turned back to you, brows raised in dry amusement.

“Happy now?”

You forgot how to speak.

Jamil blinked. “…Hello?”

You still didn’t respond.

His expression slowly shifted into one of smug realization. He sighed, shaking his head, but you did not miss the way the corners of his lips twitched. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “You’re deleting that.”

You barely processed his words, brain still buffering.

Jamil rolled his eyes, reaching for your phone; only to pause when he saw the screen.

Your hands had been shaking so much, the video was a blurry mess.

“…You’re hopeless,” he sighed, shoving his hoodie back on.

You groaned dramatically, flopping against the counter. “Can you blame me? That was illegal.”

Jamil scoffed. “Not my problem.”

You whined. “Jamil.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“But what if—”

Jamil flicked a slice of onion at you. “No.”

You should’ve known better.

Lilia Vanrouge was a menace on a normal day; give him a challenge, and he turned into an absolute menace to society. So when you approached him, MagiCam in hand, he had already sensed the chaos in your intent.

“Oho?” Lilia’s crimson eyes gleamed mischievously. “A challenge, you say?”

You nodded. “Mhm. It’s a trend. People record their boyfriends pulling off their jackets or hoodies, and if they’ve got, like, ridiculously toned back muscles, everyone goes wild.”

Lilia tilted his head, arms crossed as he considered your words. “And you’re asking me?”

“Yeah?” You shrugged. “I mean, why not?”

Lilia grinned, his fangs peeking out. “My dear, I’ve been alive for centuries. You think my back hasn’t seen its fair share of battles?”

You blinked. “Uh. I mean, yeah, I guess, but—”

Before you could finish, Lilia suddenly moved.

With a practiced flick of his wrist, he unfastened his coat and flung it into the air. The dramatic motion sent his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the taut muscle beneath; lean, battle-hardened, the kind of strength that came not from gym workouts, but from war.

For a split second, you saw it.

The sharp cut of his shoulder blades shifting beneath pale skin, the way his muscles tensed and released with every slight movement, a quiet reminder of just how strong he really was. His back wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder’s, nor was it overly sculpted for show. It was the kind of honed, wiry strength that spoke of centuries of wielding swords, of flying through battles, of outmaneuvering enemies with impossible agility. The ridges of muscle along his spine flexed as he rolled his shoulders back, the motion so natural, so effortless, that it made your breath catch in your throat.

Your phone almost slipped from your grasp.

Lilia turned back to you with a knowing smirk, catching his coat effortlessly before slinging it over his shoulder. “Did I do it right?”

You had to physically reboot your brain. “What— what the hell was that?!”

Lilia chuckled, stepping closer, his presence entirely too smug. “Oh? Were you expecting me to be weak?”

“No—well, maybe—but that’s not the point!” you spluttered. “Why did you do it like a final boss cutscene?!”

Lilia leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Style points.”

You groaned, clutching your phone like a lifeline. “You are so unfair.”

Lilia laughed, clearly enjoying your suffering. “Oh, but we must check the reactions. I do love watching the internet descend into chaos.”

You immediately snatched your phone away. “Absolutely not.”

Lilia pouted. “You wound me, dear Prefect.”

You scowled. “You wound me, Lilia. You single-handedly destroyed me.”

Lilia only grinned wider. “Well then,” he mused, adjusting his coat. “Shall I do another take?”

You were so done.

© 2025 padf-0-ot . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

Could you do the back muscles ficlet with Jade and Floyd please

You try to convince them to do the “Do you even have back muscles?” trend in Magicam (with Jade and Floyd Leech) but differently?

note. do you mean together or alone? i was rather skeptical eith this. i hope you like it!

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

You were scrolling through MagiCam when a particular trend caught your eye. It was a simple yet devastatingly effective challenge — someone would record their boyfriend pulling off their shirt or jacket, revealing their back muscles, and the comments would immediately go feral.

You would too for them, but we won’t speak of that. And of course, your mind went straight to them.

Would they agree to it? Would they even care about the challenge? Honestly, you had no idea. But that didn’t stop you from trying.

So, you asked.

The water in Octavinelle’s private bathhouse is quiet. It ripples in gentle waves, reflecting the dim, ambient glow of bioluminescent lanterns lining the stone walls. You shouldn’t be here, at least, not at this hour. Not when the Leech twins are lounging so carelessly, so at home in their element.

But you made a mistake.

You looked.

Not just a glance, not just a flicker of curiosity. You stared.

The realization hits you only when you see the sharp glint in Jade’s eye, the slow, creeping amusement curling at the edges of his lips as he adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. Across from him, Floyd, in all his lanky, half-draped laziness, grins like he’s caught a little fish in his net.

“Ehh~? What’s wrong, Shrimpy?” His voice lilts with mock innocence as he stretches, rolling his shoulders. The motion is effortless, but beneath the pale light, the shift in his muscles is unmistakable. “Got something interesting to look at?”

You jerk your gaze away, heat rushing to your face. “I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Floyd’s eyes are alight with mischief as he suddenly leans forward, elbows propped on the bath’s stone edge. His long fingers drum against the surface, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. “You totally were staring~”

Jade hums, tilting his head ever so slightly. “It’s understandable.” His voice is smooth, calm, as if he’s analyzing you through a microscope. “Bodies shaped by the sea are rather… unique. Land-dwellers wouldn’t be accustomed to such differences.”

You hate how composed he sounds, how he speaks with such calculated amusement while Floyd sprawls, his back exposed to the water, rolling his shoulders like a lazy predator stretching its limbs.

You want to argue. Tell them both they’re imagining things, that it was nothing but then Floyd moves, and your train of thought is gone.

The way his back tenses, how every muscle ripples beneath his damp skin, it’s like watching a wave crash against jagged rocks, power and motion intertwined so seamlessly. His shoulders are broad, his spine dips just slightly at the curve of his lower back before leading to where he’s propped up against the edge of the bath.

And then, without warning, he turns to you. “Ne, ne~ You wanna feel?”

You freeze. “What?”

Floyd doesn’t wait for an answer. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you forward with ease, pressing your palm flat against his shoulder blade.

Warm. Firm. Alive. Buff.

Your fingers twitch slightly, and Floyd takes that as permission to move. He shifts beneath your touch, rolling his shoulders again, letting you feel the way his body works. Strength beneath the surface, raw and untamed. “Cool, right?” he muses, voice playful but just slightly lower, closer.

You swallow, the heat in your face spreading down your neck. “That’s—uh—”

“You should compare,” Jade’s voice cuts in smoothly, a contrast to Floyd’s easy teasing. When you glance at him, he’s already undone the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up with slow, precise movements before slipping off his coat. “Floyd tends to be more… haphazard with his strength. Mine is a bit more refined.”

You barely have time to process what’s happening before Jade turns his back to you, standing with the same effortless grace he carries in all things. His movements are slower, measured, almost like he’s offering something; an invitation.

“Go on,” he says, tilting his head ever so slightly, the flicker of challenge barely concealed in his voice.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

Your palm presses against Jade’s back, fingers barely grazing his skin. It’s different from Floyd’s. Cooler, controlled. Where Floyd is wild energy, a force barely contained, Jade is sharpness. His muscles are lean, honed by precision rather than brute strength. When he shifts, it’s not careless.

Floyd pouts dramatically from behind you. “Boooooring~ Bet Shrimpy likes mine better.”

Jade chuckles, low and knowing. “That depends.”

Their eyes are both on you again, waiting, watching. Two eels, two predators, coiled and amused, letting you think you had the upper hand when in reality, you were always, always the prey.

© 2025 readrecieptoff . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

You try to convince them to do the “Do you even have back muscles?” trend in Magicam

note. immediately thought of them 😞

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

You were scrolling through MagiCam when a particular trend caught your eye. It was a simple yet devastatingly effective challenge — someone would record their boyfriend pulling off their shirt or jacket, revealing their back muscles, and the comments would immediately go feral.

And of course, your mind went straight to them.

Would they agree to it? Would they even care about the challenge? Honestly, you had no idea. But that didn’t stop you from trying.

So, you asked.

Getting Leona to do this was the hardest part. You practically had to grovel, and even then, the best you got was a lazy glare from where he was sprawled on the lounge sofa in Savanaclaw’s dorm.

“You want me to what?” His tail flicked in irritation, half-lidded emerald eyes barely acknowledging you.

“It’s just a quick video! You just take off your jacket and—”

“No.”

“Leona, come on!” You grabbed onto his arm, attempting to shake him, but it was like trying to move a boulder. “Please?”

He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his temples. “What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll let you nap in my room whenever you want.”

That got him to open one eye. “…Fine.”

The video starts in his dorm room, dimly lit by the sunset filtering through the blinds. Leona stands before the mirror, exuding his usual nonchalance. He tugs off his jacket in one smooth motion, his broad shoulders shifting under the warm light.

Then, as if to prove a point, he flexes just slightly, and the taut muscles under his skin ripple in response. His tail flicks behind him, a clear sign of amusement. Finally, he turns his head just enough to glance at the camera over his shoulder, smirking lazily.

You practically had your jaw on the floor. Muttering something, this is so not fair.

“Happy now, herbivore?” he mutters. “Careful, you’re practically drooling.”

“WH—”

After that video, the comments explode.

“WHY IS HE SO CASUAL ABOUT IT? HELLO???”

“Leona flexing as if he isn’t literally built like a jungle king already.”

“not the tail flick at the end LMAO he knows what he’s doing 🙇‍♀️”

When you show Leona the video, he just shrugs. “Told you it was stupid.” But you don’t miss the way his lips twitch upward, and flicked his tail towards you.

Jack didn't need much convincing — he just needed an explanation.

“So, it’s a trend..?” He frowned, crossing his arms. “Why would people ask if someone has back muscles? That’s dumb. You either train for them, or you don’t have them.”

“…Jack.” You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It’s just a joke.”

Though reluctant, he agreed, but he insisted on doing it after his daily run. “If I’m gonna do it, I might as well make it worth recording,” he reasoned.

So, the video starts right outside Savanaclaw’s dorm, the golden hues of the afternoon sun casting a glow on Jack’s skin. He’s panting slightly from exertion, rolling his shoulders as he pulls off his hoodie. His white tank underneath clings to him, but then, without hesitation, he yanks that off too.

And — well. Safe to say, your jaw was nowhere to be found.

Jack’s back is carved like he’s been sculpted from stone. His posture is rigid, strong, muscles shifting naturally as he runs a hand through his hair. Then, just to test something, he flexes slightly, and damn, it’s evident just how much effort he puts into his training.

After a moment, he glances back at the camera, ears flicking slightly. “Was that good enough?” he asks, voice gruff, oblivious to the absolute chaos he’s just caused. While you just stood there. No thoughts.

The comments go wild.

“JACK HOWL WHAT DO THEY FEED YOU IN SAVANACLAW????”

“this isn’t a man, this is a werewolf 🐺🐺”

“Not him asking ‘was that good enough’ like he didn’t just obliterate my soul.”

“the prefect is so lucky bro 💔”

“HAVE YOU SEEN THE PREFECT???”

When you show Jack the video, he stiffens. “Wait—why does it have that many views?” His tail wags slightly despite himself.

“…It’s called having fans, Jack.” I’m one of them.

Sebek? Refusing to do something that could prove his strength? Impossible.

When you brought up the trend, he scoffed loudly, arms crossed. “Hah! What a foolish question! Of course I have back muscles! I am Lord Malleus’ retainer, after all!”

You barely had to convince him before he was already setting up the camera himself.

The video begins with Sebek standing tall in a Diasomnia training room, exuding his usual powerful presence. With a dramatic flourish, he undoes the buttons of his uniform coat, sliding it off his shoulders. His movements are stiff, but the sheer definition of his back muscles is undeniable.

Just to emphasize the point, he straightens his posture, muscles tensing as if preparing for battle. Then he turns sharply to the camera, eyes gleaming with determination. “This challenge is absurd,” he declares. “But let this serve as proof of my training!”

The comments are a mix of admiration and sheer entertainment.

“why did he strip like he was revealing a battle armor LMAO 😧”

“Sebek acting like this is a royal decree from Malleus.”

“HE LOOKS SO STRONG BUT HE’S SO SERIOUS ABOUT IT HELP”

When you show him the final post, he nods in satisfaction. “Hmph! As expected! This should serve as an example to the weak!”

“…Sebek.”

Silver wasn’t against the idea — he was just confused.

“I… don’t understand the purpose,” he admitted, tilting his head. “Isn’t physical training something you just do? Why record it?”

“Because me personally people like it, Silver.”

Eventually, after some encouragement, he agrees, but not without a sleepy yawn first. The video starts in the Diasomnia courtyard, Silver stretching lightly as he removes his jacket. His movement is slower, more relaxed compared to the others.

And yet — his back is defined without effort. Years of training under Lilia and Malleus have sculpted him into someone strong, even if he never brags about it. When he shifts slightly, his back muscles move in perfect synchrony, powerful but calm.

At the end, he glances over his shoulder, silver hair slightly tousled. “…Was that good?” he asks, oblivious to the absolute havoc he’s just unleashed.

The comments?

“HELLO??HERRO?”

“silver could carry the entire NRC on his back, and he’d still be confused about why people think he’s strong”

“Sir, you could slice diamonds with your shoulder blades.”

When you show Silver the video, he blinks in surprise. “People seem really interested in this…” He stifles a yawn, “I guess if it makes them happy, that’s good.”

He was amused but hesitant.

“You really want me to do this?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. “I don’t think anyone’s gonna be impressed by a baker’s back.”

“Trey, you literally lift flour sacks heavier than me. Just do it.”

Sighing, he agreed. The video is taken in kitchen, where he’s prepping dough. He rolls his shoulders before pulling off his apron and unbuttoning his uniform coat, revealing the tight black undershirt clinging to his broad frame. Then, with a casual stretch, his back muscles shift in an easy, natural way— nothing exaggerated, but strong.

After a moment, he chuckles and glances at the camera. “Happy now?”

You just stood there, with your mouth agape.

And, the comments?

“WHY IS HE SO NONCHALANT ABOUT BEING BUILT LIKE THAT??”

“Trey flexing just enough and then going back to kneading dough like he didn’t end lives.”

“tHE GLASSES. THE SMILE. THE ARMS. I’M FERAL.”

When you show him, he just chuckles. “Didn’t think that would get so much attention. Guess I underestimated people’s interests.”

Deuce, sweet boy that he is, had no idea why you were asking this of him. Of all people.

“Uh… why do you need a video of my back?” He blinked at you, confused.

“It’s a trend, Deuce!”

Still puzzled but eager to help, he agreed. The video starts in the Heartslabyul gym, where Deuce pulls off his hoodie after an intense workout. He’s sweaty, hair sticking slightly to his forehead, and when he turns, his back muscles are unexpectedly well-defined.

Then, without thinking, he stretches his arms up, causing even more definition to show. He finally looks back at the camera, red-faced. “W-Was that okay?”

You just raised your hand, and answered with a thumbs up emoji while grinning.

The comments explode.

“Why does he look so STRONG but also so CUTE??? I’m losing my mind.”

“deuce stretching like thatHELLO??? SIR???”

“Him asking ‘was that okay?’ like he didn’t just destroy us”

When you show him the reaction, he turns even redder. “W-Wait, why are so many people watching it?! I wasn’t even trying to flex—!”

Rook? Oh, he was thrilled.

“Ah, mon amour! You wish to capture my physique in all its glory?” He grinned, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “But of course! How could I deny such an artistic request?”

The video starts in the woods behind Pomefiore. Rook, already wearing a sleeveless hunting vest, smirks at the camera before turning away. Then, in an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, he pulls off the vest, revealing his toned, defined back. The way he moves is almost theatrical, muscles shifting like a work of art.

Then, without warning, he spins back to the camera, winking. “Magnifique, non?”

The comments? Pure chaos.

“ROOK. PLEASE. GIVE ME A WARNING NEXT TIME”

“He didn’t just show his back; he put on a WHOLE PERFORMANCE.”

“why does he move like a shakespearean god???”

“next time you shoot your arrows, aim towards me”

When you show him, he just smirks. “Ah, c'est magnifique! The beauty of the human form is meant to be admired!”

© 2025 readrecieptoff . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

[readrecieptoff]

sypnosis. a queen waits for the return of the man who promised he would always come back. her lover, who disappeared years ago chasing an adventure only he could see. the court demands a king, and suitors press in, but she remains unmoved, weaving a shroud of time until he returns. then, a challenge: whoever can string her betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes will claim the throne. the suitors fail, but the beggar steps forward, rook, disguised. the bow bends, the arrow flies true, and rook stands before her, alive, and home at last.

note. i was listening to “the challenge” and thought of rook, stupidly enough cause of the bow & i immediately thought of “rook would love this” but you get it ^^’’ !!! immediate apologies if it may seem ooc, or off grammar (unfortunately, english isn’t my first language)

𝕿He. . . loom stretches before you, a seemingly endless web of threads that twine and twist in complex patterns. It feels like an impossible task, one you can never quite complete. Each morning, your fingers move with purpose, the rhythmic motion of weaving pulling you deeper into the task, a desperate distraction from the ache in your chest. Each night, when the rest of the castle has drifted into slumber, you return to the loom to unravel the threads, as if in some way, that will erase the time that’s passed — the time that you’ve been forced to endure without him. They do not know. The suitors who fill your court like hungry wolves — bright smiles and velvet robes hiding the sharp edges of ambition — believe you are near the end, that soon, you will choose a new king.

But you are still his.

He left you years ago, chasing a challenge that only he could see. The great hunter, the man who had seen beauty in every fleeting moment, had sworn to return. His final words still echo in your memory: “Mon amour,” he had whispered, breath warm against your temple, hands pressing over yours. “I leave not for adventure, but for the promise of coming home to you. What is love, if not the patience to wait?”

But patience is cruel, and faith wears thin when it is constantly tested by the long silence between you. The world does not stop spinning while you wait for a man who might never return. You have held your breath for years, hoping against hope that the promise he left you would hold true, but as the days turn into months, and the months into years, you begin to wonder if perhaps the sea has swallowed him whole.

The kingdom stirs. The whispers grow louder each day. It has been too long. He is gone. A queen cannot rule alone forever, they say. And so they press closer, thousands of men draped in velvet and gold, smiles dripping with false sweetness, eyes gleaming with greed. They speak of duty, of stability. They speak of the future.

But what of the past?

The love you held for Rook is not something fragile that can be traded away. It is not a thing to be bartered like the throne you sit upon. And yet, the court grows impatient, the vultures circling, waiting for their moment to swoop in.

“Your Majesty,” one of them says, his voice smooth as silk, his hand lingering too long on the armrest of your throne. “The throne needs a king.“

“A nation without a ruler is weak,” another murmurs, his eyes glinting with something more dangerous than mere concern. “Choose, and we will grant you peace.”

Peace? How.. humourous. As if the love you hold for Rook could ever be bought, as if it were something to be sacrificed to ease their hunger. As if you are not the woman who has held the kingdom together, the queen who ruled with strength and wisdom while he was lost to the world. But they do not understand. They never have.

Still, they will not stop.

So, you buy yourself time. But, is it for yourself?

“I will choose,” you say, your voice steady, betraying none of the chaos inside. “As soon as I finish weaving this shroud.”

They believe you. And so, the cycle continues.

Day after day, you sit at the loom, hands moving with mechanical precision, the rhythm of the work a small comfort in a world that no longer makes sense. You tell yourself that you will be free once it is finished, that once you have completed the task, you can let go. But every night, you return to unravel the work of the day, pulling the threads free, watching the promise of completion slip away like sand through your fingers.

And unexpectedly, the storm will come by.

Huh, the weather today.. seems peculiar. I wonder.

You thought, the sky today looks unlike anything you have ever seen, dark clouds gathering on the horizon, the sea thrashing wildly as though it too were in mourning. The wind howls, rattling the castle walls, and in the darkness of that night, something shifts in the air, a whisper, a possibility. Could it be—?

No.

But still, there is a flicker of something. Was it hope? Something that makes your pulse quicken, something that stirs in your chest and makes your breath catch in your throat.

You do not sleep that night. The next morning, the court is restless, but you do not care. Another suitor has arrived. You barely glance up at first, prepared for the same hollow flattery, the same empty promises they have all offered. Another face, another man desperate for the throne. And then—

“Your Majesty.”

The voice is low, rich, unmistakably familiar.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You lift your gaze, and the breath leaves your lungs.

There, standing before you in the grand hall, disguised as nothing more than a beggar? A tattered cloak hanging from his shoulders, boots caked in dust, golden hair hidden beneath a hood, is him.

Rook.

“Mon amour,” he breathes, and it is neither a plea nor a question. It is a vow renewed, a promise fulfilled.

The court does not understand why your fingers clutch the armrests of your throne, why your breath trembles in your throat. They do not understand the weight of this moment, the storm that has raged inside you for years, breaking now into sunlight.

But they will.

“A challenge,” you announce, your voice ringing out through the hall, silencing the murmur of voices. “The one who can string my betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes shall take the throne beside me.”

The suitors laugh. They know the stories of Rook’s war bow — the weapon only he had ever been able to wield.

The bow itself, was a testament to strength, a mark of kingship, a relic of a past only one man could claim. Crafted long before his reign, it was a thing of unyielding power, curved in a perfect arc. Only he can wield.

One by one, they step forward, pride on their faces, convinced that they, too, can master the impossible. One by one, they fail. The bow does not bend to their hands. The string does not yield. Each failure cracks their pride, their frustration mounting as they realize that they are not Rook.

And then, the beggar steps forward. The court erupts into laughter.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you do not mean to let this vagrant attempt—”

But you do not stop him. You do not move, barely even breathe as he steps forward, his hands brushing against the polished wood of the bow, a deep, knowing silence settling over the room.

With a swift movement, the bow bends. The string sings its familiar song as he draws it taut, the echo of it resonating through your very bones. You can feel the air shift, the energy in the room snapping like a taut wire.

The arrow flies.

The sound of it is pure. Sharp and true, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It whistles cleanly through each of the twelve axes, the force of it a declaration. A promise.

Silence.

And then, he lifts his head. The hood falls away.

Rook stands before you, golden-haired and smiling, as if no time at all had passed. As if he had never left.

You take a step forward, your breath catching in your throat, but you do not move too quickly, afraid that he might vanish as suddenly as he appeared.

“You’re late,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but it carries through the silence like a blade.

Rook’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with the same wild fire you remember. “Ah, mon amour,” he breathes. “But I am here.”

And then, he kneels before you.

The years between you crash down like a tidal wave, the weight of everything you’ve endured settling heavily upon your chest. You do not hesitate. You move toward him, your hands trembling as they find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. He leans into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, as if memorizing the feel of you, the texture of your skin beneath his fingers.

“I should kill you for making me wait,” you whisper, your voice breaking with the ache of all that has been lost and found again.

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your wrist, “you have never looked more beautiful than you do now, in your fury.”

You let out a breath, half a sob, half a laugh. But it is enough. It is everything. You pull him to you, your lips crashing against his, desperate and alive, the years of longing melting into this single, fleeting moment.

The court watches, but you do not care. The suitors recoil, but you do not see them. There is only Rook. his hands in your hair, his arms around you, the warmth of him solid and real after all these years. When you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and the world is suddenly right again.

“You came back,” you whisper, a question, a plea, a confession.

“Always,” he swears, his voice rough and raw. “I will always find my way back to you.” This time, you believe him.

That night, the castle breathes with a new kind of silence. The suitors have left, some in anger, others in shame, their ambitions shattered like glass beneath the weight of inevitability. The whispers of the court fade into the distant hum of the sea, and for the first time in years, you are alone.

But you are not lonely.

Rook stands before you in your chambers, no longer the beggar who had slipped unnoticed through the doors, but the hunter who had once stolen your heart with laughter and reckless devotion. He is older now —sharper in some places, softened in others — but when he smiles, it is the same as it ever was. Wild and knowing, like he has already mapped out every thought in your head before you can voice it.

And yet, for the first time since his return, he hesitates.

“You are staring, mon amour.” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but underneath it, there is something else. Something unspoken.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “You disappeared for years, Rook. Forgive me if I wish to confirm that you are not merely a ghost come to haunt me.”

His lips twitch. “And if I were?”

“Then I would curse you for eternity,” you say, stepping closer, until only a breath separates you. “And still, I would not let you leave.”

The teasing falters in his expression, giving way to something raw, something that makes your pulse thunder in your ears. His hands, calloused and sure, come up to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over the curve of your cheek. “I was gone too long,” he admits, a confession, a wound.

“Yes.”

“I have no excuse.”

“No.”

His fingers tighten, the breath in his chest shuddering. “And yet—” He swallows, eyes burning gold in the candlelight. “Would you still have me, knowing that I am a man who loses himself in the hunt?”

Your breath catches. Not because you do not know the answer, but because he would even dare to ask.

You take his hand, pressing his palm flat against your chest, where your heart beats strong and steady. “You left,” you say. “And I waited. And I cursed you. And I wept for you. And still—” You inhale, exhale, let the weight of the years settle between you before crushing them beneath your next words. “Still, my heart knows only your name.”

Rook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but it is too broken, too relieved to be anything but the unraveling of something long-held. “Then it seems,” he murmurs, leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, “I have found my way home after all.”

He kisses you, it is not with the desperation of before. It is steady, certain. It is the promise he made you all those years ago, at last fulfilled.

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