Fairy Tail: I Stole the Ryujin Jakka in My Sleepwalking - Chapter 132: FTRJ -

“We could be louder,” he whispered in a raspy voice. She shook with need and was about to turn when he clucked his tongue. “Ah, ah, ah, don't do that. I'll see you later, little girl.” And with that, he vanished.

- - - -

Cage was at the top of the world: the emperor of the film industry. But it is truly lonely at the top. Surrounded by staff members who want him to work to his bones and no one to lean on, Cage turns to gaming. In such dire times, he stumbles across a mysterious female gamer who leaves him speechless and aroused at the same time.

Graphic designer and fangirl extraordinaire, Katherine, finds a gamer who outshines her. In this world there was someone like this? All she can do is acknowledge his brilliance. [Take my bow, Senpai. You have eaten my gold.] But why does this message sound so… provocative?

A series of lecherous conversations turn into something deeper, until one day the two fall irrevocably in love with each other. “Hey, let’s fall in love...” Follow them as they traverse through life and the hardships that are thrown at them. Who knows, maybe us single dogs can learn a thing or two.

- - - - -

“My little loli likes to watch? What a naughty little girl.” She was embarrassed that she was caught and mortified by the voice of the man she recognized as ‘him’. What was he doing here? She started to turn around, but he grasped her shoulder so she couldn't move.

“No, let's watch.” His breath was at her ear, fire lapping at her nerves, singeing and burning her insides, making a pleasant feeling erupt in her stomach. His arm snaked around her shoulder and grabbed her hand while his other hand slid down to her sides until it rested on her hip. He was not pressing himself into her, but she felt completely engulfed by him. She knew she should scream, or stomp on his foot, but all she could do was listen to his breathing escalate as his thumb rubbed her shoulder, putting her in a stupor.

She thought she heard him sniff her hair and his lips lightly grazed her ears as he whispered. “Don't miss the show because of me, little girl.”

Her eyes flickered back to the couple in the car, and she let out a whimper as she saw the man pull at the woman's hair, baring her beck to him, inviting his mouth to lick and suck. She felt ‘him’ close the gap between them, his hard body pressed up against hers, his arms tightly holding her. There was no mistaking what she felt on her lower back and she closed her eyes in delight.

One day, I – a high schooler – found a paperback in the hospital. The “Disease Coexistence Journal” was its title. It was a diary that my classmate, Sakura Yamauchi, had written in secret. Inside, it was written that due to her pancreatic disease, her days were numbered. And thus, I coincidentally went from Just-a-Classmate to a Secret-Knowing-Classmate. It was as if I were being drawn to her, who was my polar opposite. However, the world presented the girl that was already suffering from an illness with an equally cruel reality…

The best-selling, award-winning debut work by Yoru Sumino:

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“Bestsellers 2016 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” – 1st Place

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“Bestsellers 2015 (Literary Books) by TOHAN” – 6th Place

As of May 2017, this book has sold over 1.2 million copies.

“It’s true… So why does no one believe me?”Sometimes, I play small pranks, but they’re really just small ones.I’m not the mastermind at all.

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”