Maki woke up pressed against Nemuri's exposed chest, his face buried in the soft warmth between her breasts. With one hand free, he grabbed both sides and squeezed gently, pressing them together as he latched onto her pink nipples. He sucked with quiet determination, as if conducting a serious experiment. He wanted to see if Nemuri could produce milk.
The steady pressure and warmth stirred Nemuri from sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked down to see Maki suckling at her chest, her breasts pressed together firmly by his hands. Her hardened nipples were pinned close, allowing him to draw on both at once.
He looked almost innocent—like a child searching for something he believed had to be there.
"You won't get milk out of that," Nemuri murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.
Maki heard her. He simply continued.
Nemuri sighed, half amused, half resigned. She reached out and gently patted his head, fingers brushing through his hair as he stubbornly carried on.
From that day forward, Maki made it a habit to test his theory. Every night, when things began to escalate and the air between them grew heavy, Nemuri would release her quirk just enough to make him drift off before either of them crossed a line they both pretended not to notice.
Still, Nemuri was not one to lose the teasing war.
When they kissed deeply, she would slip her tongue into his mouth and claim him first. Her hands would wander across his broad chest, tracing muscle and heat before biting lightly at his skin. Sometimes she would drag her tongue slowly down his sternum just to watch him stiffen.
And she always noticed the bulge beneath his pants.
It was impossible not to. Thick, obvious, straining fabric that left very little to imagination. For someone of Maki's height and build, it was almost expected. Nemuri would smirk to herself and casually drag a single finger along the outline, just enough to test his restraint.
Maki would respond with that calm, infuriating smile before pulling her into a kiss that devoured her completely—mouth open, breath stolen, control slipping. In retaliation, Nemuri would wrap her hand around the bulging shape through the cloth and stroke it slowly, deliberately, watching his composure crack by the second.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.
The tension between them never disappeared. If anything, it sharpened. They were both waiting—waiting to see who would surrender first.
Maki's daily life revolved around the condo. He handled Nemuri's meals, laundry, and the countless small details that kept everything running smoothly. He was like a husband working from home while his wife went out into the world to teach at U.A. every day.
During his free time, he trained relentlessly.
The Sharingan became part of his routine. He used it while cooking, measuring heat and timing with unnatural precision. Cracking eggs felt effortless. Slicing vegetables became flawless. Like a certain infamous prodigy cooking breakfast, Maki turned even simple tasks into training.
As for the Moa Moa no Mi, Samehada, and Santa Teresa, he hadn't pushed them to their limits yet. But whenever he activated them, it felt natural—like muscle memory. The abilities came with instinct, fragments of knowledge woven into him. They weren't just powers; they were experiences layered into his body.
What he lacked was real combat refinement.
In the meantime, he worked on his physique. Not only for strength—but because he noticed how Nemuri's hands lingered whenever she touched him. She would squeeze his arms absentmindedly, trace his abs, test the firmness of his chest. So he trained harder.
Unbeknownst to him, the Capoeira he practiced daily was slowly transforming. What began as fluid, dance-like movement was becoming something sharper, more lethal. In the near future, a woman skilled in soft palm techniques would witness it and give it a name: the Dance of Death.
Meanwhile, his music was climbing charts in silence.
A certain diva reacted to every new release with a single heart. That tiny gesture alone sent waves through her global fanbase. The internet erupted each time.
Maki remained oblivious.
What the diva didn't know was that Maki admired her deeply. Her songs carried hope, rage, depression, acceptance, healing—music that felt honest. For someone like Maki, who found comfort in melodies, her voice had once meant everything.
Behind the scenes, fate—or rather, a mischievous little girl pulling invisible strings—was weaving two unrelated paths closer together.
And she laughed quietly while doing it.
As Maki's music exploded like a bombshell, offers and messages flooded in from everywhere. He knew none of it. But Nemuri's He-ssenger and Hero-net notifications never stopped buzzing.
Present Mic kept pestering her, insisting they form a band together. Nemuri's eyes sparkled at the idea, but she knew Maki well enough to hesitate.
"I'll try to talk to him," she replied.
Something about him worried her.
Whenever she asked why he never went out, why he didn't explore or have fun outside, he would dodge the question. He claimed he needed to guard the condo from imaginary robbers. Ridiculous excuses.
She assumed he was simply introverted.
Yet whenever Hizashi visited, Maki acted like an old drinking companion, relaxed and loud.
And when Nemuri looked into his red eyes, she sensed something heavier beneath the surface. Something unspoken.
She didn't pry.
If he ever needed her, she would be there.
Slowly, the day Maki promised to attend U.A. approached.
The night before the entrance exam, Maki tried to pull her into bed, eager for cuddles.
Nemuri refused.
"If you fail tomorrow," she warned, pouting slightly, "you can forget about cuddling. And kissing."
She knew exactly how to motivate him.
Maki stared at her. "When did my Nemu get so strategic?"
She punched his side lightly.
"I'm joking," he laughed. "Wait. I'll prepare dinner first."
Nemuri watched him walk away, thoughtful.
His powers remained a mystery to her. From the day he fell from the sky unharmed, to the strange shift in his eyes while cooking, to the steel-like firmness of his skin—there were too many questions.
Once, when she asked directly, he answered casually, "Just some transformations… and some accessories."
"I've never seen you transform," she pointed out.
He only smiled. "It's a surprise."
"Cheeky brat," she muttered.
She had tried teaching him about the world's power systems before, explaining classifications and mechanics. But he never truly focused on the lesson. He focused on her.
Eventually, she stopped.
He adapted quickly anyway.
At dinner, she reminded him again, "Tomorrow is the entrance exam. Just pass. Any class. I don't care which—just pass."
Maki was too busy chewing to reply properly, so he gave her a confident thumbs-up.
And just like that, the flashback ended.
A messy, chaotic backstory of how Maki fell into this world. How he met Nemuri. How he spent years drifting, unproductive.
And how, somewhere in the shadows, a little girl began reshaping fate itself.
.
.
.
.( *´・ω)/(;д; )
AM N. NOT.