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mooningningg · 4 days ago

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Extra Credit - Megumi F. (4)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 03, chapter 05

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.38k

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, unprotectd sex, creampie, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. I've been soooooo excited to post this, and before anyone asks questions I spent the whole night writing this, I just got so carried away... I hope ya'll enjoy it!

Megumi didn’t know how liking something was supposed to feel, not really.

He knew how to tolerate. How to endure. He’d been taught early that silence was safer than feeling, and that logic—clean, rational, detached—was the only way to survive in a world that wanted too much.

But you— you were anything but rational. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the word—people threw it around all the time. Liking a person. Liking a subject. Liking a song, a movie, a pair of shoes.

But liking you? It didn’t feel simple. Or light. It felt… tense. Electric. Like holding a live wire between his teeth and pretending he wasn’t getting burned.

You were sitting across from him again, legs curled up on the chair like you owned every inch of this space. Like his house was just another set piece in the drama that was your life.

And yeah—you were trying now. Actually reading the material, taking notes with your pen twirling dramatically between your fingers, reciting things back with that same smug bite in your voice. But it wasn’t fake this time. You were showing up. You were trying.

Still, you couldn’t get through a paragraph without insulting someone. Or him.

“Okay, but who names their kid ‘Tokugawa’? It sounds like a bad cough drop.”

Megumi didn’t look up from his textbook. “It’s a family name.”

“Well, their whole family needs lozenges.”

He sighed. “You’re lucky I’m being paid in patience.”

You rolled your eyes. “No one’s paying you, loser.”

He muttered, “Exactly.” But he didn’t snap at you the way he used to. Not anymore.

Because somewhere between the failed midterm and your unexpected essay redemption, something shifted. You started turning pages with less sighing. Started showing up with scribbled notes and highlighted sentences. Still late. Still dramatic. Still wearing lip gloss like it was armor. But different.

You were still a brat. Still loud. Still mean, sometimes.

But you were honest. Everything that came out of your mouth, whether it was dumb, crass, or painfully sharp—it was real.

And he found himself wanting to hear more of it. All of it.

You were so fucking pretty it made his head hurt. But it wasn’t the kind of pretty people wrote poems about. It was the kind that interrupted his thoughts mid-sentence. That dragged his eyes across the curve of your smile or the annoyed flick of your wrist. That made him forget what year the Meiji Restoration happened. (1868. He remembered, eventually.)

It wasn't just the gloss on your lips or the ridiculous skirts you wore to tutoring like this was some social call. It was the way your voice pitched higher when you were actually confused, when you really wanted to understand something and didn’t know how to ask without sounding vulnerable.

Like now.

You squinted at the textbook. “Okay, this is phrased so dumb. What does ‘centralization of feudal power’ even mean? Why not just say ‘a bunch of dudes fighting to be king’? They’re so obsessed with sounding smart.”

Megumi rested his chin in his hand, watching you frown at the page like it personally offended you.

“It means uniting all the regional lords under a single authority,” he explained, calm. “It was a turning point. Less infighting, more nation-building.”

You blinked. “Could’ve just said that.”

He shrugged. “Some people enjoy full sentences.”

You stuck your tongue out, then scribbled something into your notes. “You’re lucky I’m actually writing this down.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched you.

Watched the furrow between your brows when you were focused. The gloss smudged slightly on your bottom lip. The faint ink stains on your fingers from dragging your hand over your writing. You weren’t trying to impress anyone here. Not anymore.

You weren’t posturing. You weren’t performing.

You were just… you.

And Megumi— Megumi was starting to realize he wanted to see more of that version. The one you didn’t show anyone else.

Even if you called him names. Even if you rolled your eyes every time he corrected you. Even if you would never admit how hard you were trying now. He reached for his water bottle, trying to cool the heat in his chest.

You glanced up at him suddenly. “What?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

He looked away. “You’re imagining things.”

You snorted. “Ugh. You’re so annoying when you lie.”

“And you’re unbearable when you’re right.” You grinned at what he said. He didn’t.

But he did allow himself to look at you one more time—quietly, briefly—before flipping the page in the book and beginning the next topic. If this was what liking someone felt like—this quiet ache, this constant hum of attention, this need to understand every version of you—then maybe he could live with it. Even if he never said it out loud.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Megumi kept telling himself that—again and again like some mantra meant to ground him. Like it would rewind time, make things easier. Simpler.

You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

You were chaos. Noise. All sharp edges and unapologetic confidence, pulling attention like gravity. You cursed too much, you interrupted his explanations just to roll your eyes, and you refused—refused—to let anyone think you cared.

But you did.

He could see it now, sitting across from you as you hunched over a half-written sentence, mumbling to yourself about power structures like it wasn’t already a miracle you’d even remembered the term.

You cared so fucking much you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Megumi… didn’t either.

Because for the longest time, he thought someone like Miwa was what he wanted. She was kind. Polite. Smart. She smiled without hiding anything behind it. She was gentle in all the ways life never let him be. And she didn’t make him feel like he was unraveling every time she laughed.

Miwa was soft. Safe.

Everything that should’ve been good for him.

But she never looked at him like you did. Never challenged him. Never cut him open with a single glance and then left him there bleeding, only to stitch him up again with some bratty little smirk and a flick of your hair. You were a storm. And for some reason, his whole body leaned toward it. He glanced up again, stealing a look at you without meaning to.

You were chewing your pen now, eyes narrowed at your notes, one leg bouncing restlessly. You looked frustrated and stubborn and real. Your nails were painted, your lashes curled, and yet there was ink smeared on the edge of your palm from where you’d been writing too fast.

You weren’t perfect, but fuck, you were trying. And somehow that made you more dangerous than Miwa ever could’ve been. Because this version of you—this girl scribbling down answers like she had something to prove—this was the version that had cracked something in him open. This was the version he wanted to see again. And again. And again. He didn’t know what to do with that.

He’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to see more than the surface. But you… you bulldozed past all of it without asking. You made him feel seen, even when he didn’t want to be. Even when it scared the hell out of him. You weren’t good for him, but somehow, you felt right. His chest tightened.

He didn’t know how to let someone in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this version of you—the one who was trying, who looked up at him after answering a question like she needed him to say she’d done okay. Who still called him names but now lingered a little longer after sessions ended. He didn’t want to be this close to someone, but he already was.

And when you glanced up at him again, cocking your head and muttering, “Okay, don’t give me that face, Fushiguro. I’m not dumb, I’m just tired,”—he didn’t even bother pretending not to stare.

Because you were right. You weren’t dumb. You were just tired. Tired of being underestimated. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of being afraid of how real this could get.

And maybe… he was tired too, tired of lying to himself, because whatever this was—whatever you two were becoming—it wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and now Megumi didn’t know how to go back.

The halls were quieter than usual—just the low echo of shoes scuffing tile, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Nobara’s voice weaving effortlessly through the silence.

“Okay, but I swear to god, if they put streamers on the ceiling again, I’m not going,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she leaned casually against the lockers beside you. “Like, we’re not in middle school. What is this, Pinterest-core depression?”

You snorted—barely. A weak smile flickered across your face, just for a second. “You’re still going?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” she grinned. “If I’m gonna suffer through a school dance, I’m at least gonna do it in heels and with free punch. And I heard they booked that DJ—the hot one.”

You blinked, distracted. “There’s a hot DJ?”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “You are so out of it.”

You shrugged. Adjusted your bracelet. Looked down the hall even though you knew who wasn’t there. “I’m not planning on going.”

She paused. “Why not?”

“I just…” You trailed off. “Doesn’t feel like my thing.”

Nobara looked at you for a second. You didn’t meet her eyes.

There was a stretch of silence, the kind only a close friend knows how to sit through without forcing you to fill. You kicked lightly at the base of your locker.

“I used to love that shit, didn’t I?” you said suddenly, voice dry. “Dances. Crowds. People staring. Picking the best dress just to make some insecure girl cry.”

“You did,” Nobara agreed with a small smile. “You were terrifying.”

You smirked, then it faded. “It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

And she didn’t have to ask why.

Because Megumi was in your head again.

No, he was under it—rooted deep in the places you didn’t want anyone to touch. The places you’d spent years fortifying with fake smiles and sharp words and a reputation built so high no one dared climb it.

And he was climbing it anyway.

You could feel it—the weight of it all. The way he looked at you now, like he saw every version of you and didn’t flinch. The way you remembered his voice when he explained concepts to you like you were worth explaining things to. The way his hand felt when it grazed your back. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember it later.

God, you were falling. Fast. Hard. But was that good for him?

Megumi was steady. Quiet. Good in the kind of way that didn’t need to be loud to matter. He gave a shit. He noticed things. He didn’t just listen—he understood.

And you? You were sharp and petty and glittering at the edges. Built on lies and control and showstopping exits. Your whole world was curated to be untouchable, and still you let him close. Still, he got in. And now you didn’t know how to protect him from it.

From you.

You leaned back against the lockers, head tilting until it thudded against the metal.

“I don’t like Megumi,” you said suddenly.

Nobara didn’t reply. Not immediately. She just raised an eyebrow.

You added, louder, sharper, “I will never like Megumi.”

The silence afterward burned. And she didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. Didn’t throw your words back in your face. She just tilted her head and stared at you for a long second, then said, soft and slow:

“You’re self-destructing again.”

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? She was right. You crossed your arms tighter, like you could fold yourself in enough to stop the ache. Because you weren’t supposed to like someone like him. You weren’t supposed to want good things. You deserved Noritoshi. Men who used pretty girls as arm candy and talked circles around your feelings until you thought you were the problem. Men who didn’t care too much.

Because caring too much meant someone could leave. And Megumi? He’d never leave in pieces. He’d just leave quiet. Fully. For good. So you lied, and Nobara saw right through it, but she didn’t say a word. She just slid down to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours, and let the silence speak for both of you.

The silence stretched for a moment longer. You stayed slumped beside Nobara against the lockers, feeling your ribcage squeeze with every inhale like your body was rejecting the truth you just spewed. But your eyes were dry now. Done sulking. Done wallowing in the hollow space between denial and regret.

You shifted, exhaled, then suddenly slapped your palm against her thigh.

“I need your help, bitch.”

Nobara blinked. “The fuck?”

You turned to her with that too-sweet, too-fake smile—the one that meant trouble. “No, I’m serious. I need your help. I’m on a mission.”

“Okay?” she said slowly, suspicious. “What mission? Did you finally realize you’re in love with Megumi and you wanna go confess on the school roof?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Ew, no. Gross. Barf. Never.”

“Uh-huh.”

You ignored her smug little grin and sat up straighter, crossing your legs like you were about to give a fucking TED Talk.

“I want to help him.”

Nobara stared. “…Help who?”

“Megumi, dumbass.”

She blinked. “Didn’t you already help him? You know, with the whole unvirginizing him thing?”

You snorted. “Oh my god, shut up. That wasn’t—I mean, okay, yes, I helped him with the sex thing. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Whatever, you should. I performed a civic duty.”

Nobara was biting her knuckle to hold back a laugh. “So what now? You’re launching a full-blown Megumi makeover arc?”

You clapped your hands once, sharp. “Exactly.”

“You’re serious.”

You grabbed her arm. “Look at me. Dead serious. We—I—need to fix the situation.”

“And what exactly is the situation, princess?”

You stood, pacing a little now like this was a war room briefing. “Megumi dresses like a damn divorced math professor who lost custody of his kids. I’m talking black-on-black, sad hoodie, never met a comb, wouldn’t know swagger if it slapped him.”

“He’s always been like that.”

“Exactly. And it’s criminal. Have you seen that body?!” you shouted, arms flailing. “Like, holy fuck, he’s hiding all of that under a zip-up and shame.”

Nobara wheezed.

“I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at her. “We need to fix his wardrobe. Change his hair. Show him what looking good actually feels like. Because Megumi Fushiguro being that hot in secret? That’s a sin.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care about that stuff,” Nobara offered, still smiling. “Not everyone wants to be a runway reject.”

“Well, he should,” you snapped. “Because people don’t see him right now. They don’t get it. He blends in like he wants to disappear.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “And you want him to stand out.”

You paused. Then slowly shrugged, crossing your arms again, eyes a little softer.

“…Yeah. I do.” Because people should look at him the way you did now. Like he mattered. Like he was there. Like he wasn’t just some sad genius background character who kept his head down until graduation. He deserved better than that.

And if he didn’t know how to show it, you’d do it for him. You grinned again. Bright. Dangerous. “So are you in or what, bitch?”

Nobara gave a mock sigh and stood up next to you, brushing dust off her skirt. “God, this is gonna be chaotic.”

You linked your arm through hers. “That’s the goal.”

And in the back of your mind, you weren’t just thinking about new jackets or hair wax. You were thinking about him, and this time, you were going to do it right.

“No.” Megumi said it flatly. Instantly. Without even turning his head.

He stood stiffly in the middle of the men’s section at a massive, modern shopping mall, surrounded by racks of jackets and hangers with carefully folded shirts. A goddamn fluorescent spotlight beamed down on his disheveled black hoodie like it was about to be burned in some sacrificial ceremony.

“No,” he said again, like it was final. You grinned like it wasn’t.

“Oh, come on, Fushiguro,” you groaned, dramatically flopping a blazer over your arm like it was a dying animal. “Live a little. It’s not like I dragged you here under false pretenses.”

“You said it was an emergency,” he said without blinking, staring dead ahead at a mannequin in cargo pants.

You beamed. “It was. Your wardrobe.” Beside you, Nobara cackled, holding up a dark olive button-down like she was choosing weapons in an armory. “Honestly, she’s right. You dress like an apocalypse survivor. And not in a hot, Mad Max way—just... sad.”

“I didn’t ask,” Megumi muttered, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest like it was his only armor left in this cursed environment.

“You never ask for anything,” you snapped, shoving a rack aside to step closer. “That’s the whole problem. You’re allergic to being perceived.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“Yeah, we know,” Nobara muttered. “The problem is we do.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “You’d rather walk around looking like a tax fraud suspect than admit you’re hot. It’s actually insane.”

“I’m not—” He cut himself off and glared. “This is pointless.”

“Oh my god. Fushiguro. You literally do martial arts. You could break someone’s jaw with your pinkie and yet you’re scared of trying on a fuckin’ jacket?”

Megumi turned toward you now, his brows furrowed, that signature exasperated glare leveled straight at your face. “I’m not scared. I just don’t care about stupid shit like this.”

“Well maybe you should!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Maybe people would take you seriously for once if you looked like you had your life together instead of like you live in a supply closet!”

“I don’t care what people think,” he growled, arms crossing.

“Not even Miwa?” you said, biting your lip with a smug grin.

That made him pause. Even Nobara blinked. “Wait what the fuck—”

“Oops,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Was that too honest?”

Megumi’s jaw tensed, and for a second he looked like he wanted to walk directly into oncoming traffic.

“She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“You like her,” you sing-songed. “And she’s all proper and polite and whatever. You really think she’s gonna look twice at you when you show up to events looking like a prison escapee?”

“That’s low,” he muttered.

“You know what else is low? Your pants. You don’t even wear a belt, it’s a miracle they’re not around your ankles right now.”

Nobara wheezed.

“You’re both insane,” Megumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“No, we’re fashion-forward,” you corrected, shoving a clean white T-shirt into his hands. “And this is an intervention.”

“I’m not putting this on.”

“Why?” you narrowed your eyes. “Scared I’ll see your abs again and have a full mental breakdown in the dressing room?”

Nobara choked. “Not again?!”

“You’re not helping,” Megumi growled, shooting her a glare.

“I am helping,” she chirped, tossing him a tan jacket. “Helping your hopeless ass look fuckable.”

“Please die,” Megumi said under his breath.

You shoved the clothes into his arms. “Three outfits. Try on three. Then you can go back to your corner of despair.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a second, it was like he saw something soft behind the snark.

You rolled your eyes before he could say anything. “Don’t get sentimental, bitch. Try on the fuckin’ shirt.”

And Megumi—muttering obscenities under his breath—finally walked toward the fitting rooms.

You high-fived Nobara like you’d just summoned a demon.

It wasn’t just about clothes. Not really. It was about showing him the version of himself the world deserved to see. And goddamn, he was going to shine. Even if it killed you.

He stepped out of the fitting room with the same flat expression he always wore when he was forced into anything mildly humiliating—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, hair slightly more disheveled than usual like he’d run his hands through it five too many times in frustration.

But none of that registered. Because the second Megumi walked out, wearing a black shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin and dark jeans that—oh fuck—sat criminally well on his hips, every cell in your body short-circuited.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Your brain? Vacant. Your heart? Punching itself in the face.

He looked… hot. Not “cute” hot. Not the quiet-guy-who-reads-in-corners hot. No. He looked like someone who should be banned from public spaces. Like someone who’d lean against a bar with his hands in his pockets and get phone numbers without speaking.

And he had the audacity to look annoyed about it. He stood in front of you, arms stiff at his sides, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Well?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were still staring. His biceps shifted beneath the sleeves—those same arms that used to cross in irritation when you were being a brat during tutoring. Now they just looked… solid. Defined. Powerful. The shirt clung to the dip of his waist, the muscle of his chest, and you were going feral.

“Earth to bitch,” Nobara said, elbowing you sharply. “You’re drooling.”

You blinked. “Am not.”

Megumi raised an eyebrow. “You’re quiet.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah, so?” you snapped. But it came out breathier than you wanted. You turned away like it might give your sanity a fighting chance. “Shirt’s tight. You look like a douchebag.”

Nobara snorted. Megumi crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

Your eyes flicked back to him without meaning to. “No. I mean. Yes. I mean—shut the fuck up.”

His lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there. You were going to combust.

You forced a scoff, grabbing the next outfit from the chair. “This isn’t even the best one. Get back in there, Fushiguro.”

But even as he rolled his eyes and turned away, the image burned into your skull. You hadn’t seen this version of him before. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.

And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you.

He didn’t know he’d just shifted something in you—something real, something terrifying. Because for the first time in a long time… you were speechless.

Megumi stepped out again.

Different outfit, same unbothered expression—except this time, it was worse.

This time, he was wearing a fitted white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, hanging slightly open like he gave zero fucks about propriety. Paired with a pair of dark, loose slacks that cinched perfectly at his waist, he looked like he belonged on the cover of some Calvin Klein campaign where the tagline was “Silence is seductive.”

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi.

Not the one who clicked his tongue at your mistakes. Not the one who made you repeat Civics dates until you cried out of rage and not frustration. Not the one who looked soft in the corners of his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

No—this Megumi was different.

Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.

He didn’t even glance at you at first. Just adjusted his sleeves slowly, hands veined and calm, like he had no idea he was doing things to your soul. But maybe he did. Because when his eyes finally flicked up, they went straight to yours. Quiet. Direct. Unrelenting.

And you forgot how to breathe. Nobara beat you to it.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, literally grabbing the rack next to her for support. “You’re lying to me. You’re not real.”

Megumi frowned. “It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s the shirt of Gods,” she corrected. “You look like you kill people with a fountain pen and then drink black coffee over their grave.”

He raised a brow. “That’s specific.”

“I have taste.”

You didn’t say anything. Because what could you say?

You were the one who dragged him here. The one who started this whole thing. The one who picked out that shirt because it might look good and—

Now you couldn’t even speak.

It looked too good.

Your heart was racing like a traitor. Your fingers itched to fidget with something—your bag strap, your hair, his fucking shirt, maybe.

“Looks fine,” you muttered, arms crossed tight, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“Fine?” Megumi echoed, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to light your entire body on fire.

“Yeah, fine. Don’t get cocky.”

Nobara gave you a look.

“Is that why you’ve been standing there in complete silence for a full thirty seconds? Because it’s fine?”

“I was just thinking,” you snapped.

“Thinking about how hard you’d let him rail you on a school desk—?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” you and Megumi yelled at the same time, both whirling on her.

Nobara just raised her brows and held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Lovers’ quarrel. Got it.”

You turned away, ears burning. “We’re not—”

“Don’t even start,” Megumi muttered under his breath, clearly flustered too, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt like they were suffocating him now.

But you both went silent again.

Your pulse wouldn’t slow. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way the collar of that shirt dipped into the line of his collarbone. The way his jaw tensed like he was holding something in.

And all you could think was: You did this. You made him look like this. And now? You didn’t know how to handle it.

Megumi looked like he was about to say something—anything to break the electric tension crawling between you. His hand lifted slightly, hovering awkwardly at his side as if caught between reaching for a hanger or snapping it in half.

Then he sighed. “Can someone help me with this—?”

Nobara perked up from the bench. “Well, I’ll go find something else. You two—” she wiggled her fingers, “figure that out.”

Before you could even open your mouth to tell her not to leave you alone with him—again—she was gone.

And then it was just the two of you.

Megumi still standing in front of the changing room door, looking disarmingly good in that white button-up and slacks, hair slightly damp from sweat, the scent of soap and something distinctly him still clinging to his skin.

Your heartbeat spiked.

“I can help,” you muttered, stepping forward before your brain could catch up with your mouth.

He didn’t say anything—just looked at you.

And that was all it took.

Because the moment you reached for the edge of the changing room curtain, Megumi grabbed your wrist, pulled—and you stumbled right into him.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. No warning, no question, just heat—his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer.

Your gasp broke the kiss, but he chased it, tongue sweeping against yours, messy and desperate, like he’d been waiting to do this since the second you walked into the store.

“Megumi—” you mumbled against his mouth, but it came out half-strangled because he was already backing you against the mirror, crowding your body, and hitching one of your thighs up around his waist.

His grip was rough. Possessive. Your skirt bunched around your hips as he lifted you with ease, hands firm beneath your thighs, grinding against your clothed core like he didn’t give a shit who might be outside that curtain.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your throat, kissing the skin there like he was punishing it. “You drive me insane.”

Your head thudded against the mirror, fingers threading into his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan against your neck. “You’re one to talk.”

But he didn’t answer—not with words.

He rolled his hips again, and the pressure made you arch into him, your breath hitching. Everything was so close—the heat of him, the taste of him, the sheer pressure of his body against yours. You felt like you were going to combust.

Clothes still on. Dignity long gone.

And he was still kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

Your hands fumbled with the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer—tighter—as your lips crashed together again. There was nothing soft about this. No hesitation. Just heat, and sweat, and the dizzying, aching need you both pretended didn’t exist for weeks.

And now it was here. Now he was here. And you didn’t want it to stop.

Not when his hands were sliding under your top. Not when your legs were trembling around his waist. Not when his tongue was in your mouth like he wanted to swallow every bratty word you ever spat at him.

But then— Voices outside. Faint. Distant. Still enough to pull you back.

You both froze. Megumi didn’t let you go.

But his breathing was uneven now, lips brushing yours in a breathless drag, like he didn’t want to stop—like he didn’t know how.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Gumi…”

He stared at you.

And you stared back. Chest heaving. Skirt still hitched. Mouth swollen. Something unspoken burning between you. And that’s where you stayed—hovering between whatever this was… and whatever came next.

His breath hit your lips, warm and ragged. His forehead rested against yours for a moment—then pulled back just far enough to see your face.

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

And Megumi noticed.

His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in concern. His hand, still hot from where it had been gripping your thigh, slid up slowly, brushing over your waist until it curled gently under your jaw.

“I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, like it scraped the edges of something unspoken.

You blinked up at him, stunned silent by the sudden shift in him—the switch from that sharp, cold, untouchable Megumi to this. This boy whose hand now held your chin with careful fingers. Whose voice trembled with the weight of something softer.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to muster up the usual bitchy confidence, the bratty armor you always wore like second skin.

But it cracked.

Just a little.

Megumi didn’t let it slide. He tilted your chin up gently, enough to make your gaze meet his again.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his stare unwavering. Still cold. Still composed. But that softness was there now—simmering beneath it all like a secret only you got to see.

“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught. You swallowed thickly, breath catching at the name. The way he said it—pretty—wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. It wasn’t a jab or a joke or some arrogant dig.

It was… warm, and that scared you more than anything.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered, voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “It’s not a big deal.”

Megumi didn’t move. He didn’t push or pressure or pull away. He just kept his hand where it was, thumb dragging over your jaw as his eyes searched your face for the truth.

“Then why won’t you look at me the same?” he asked, quieter now. “You’ve been avoiding it. You’ve been avoiding me.”

You breathed in sharply, back pressing against the mirror again, like it might absorb you whole. You hated this. Hated how naked it made you feel.

He was supposed to be the awkward one.

You were supposed to be untouchable.

So why the fuck did it feel like he was the only one who ever looked at you like he saw you?

“I’m not avoiding you,” you muttered, half-hearted.

You said nothing.

Not right away. Not when he was still holding you like that, arms strong and steady beneath your thighs, chest pressed to yours like he hadn’t just kissed the air out of your lungs.

So he dropped you.

Not harshly—but suddenly. Like he was testing you.

Your back hit the changing room wall with a gentle thud, your heels barely catching the floor before your knees almost buckled. You looked up at him, breathless, heart a mess, mascara smudged just enough to betray what had just happened.

And still—you smiled.

Smug. Crooked. Unbothered.

The kind of smile that always got you out of trouble. The kind of smile that meant game on.

“Don’t worry,” you said, smoothing your hair with both hands, the lace of your skirt riding scandalously high on your thighs. “I’m good.”

Megumi didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, bare chest rising and falling, hair damp, lips still slightly parted.

“You sure?” he asked, voice lower now. Quieter. A little cautious.

You nodded. “A hundred percent.”

And before he could say anything else—before you had the chance to crack even further—you turned around and opened the changing room door.

Nobara was standing right outside, arms crossed, one brow arched like she’d been waiting hours instead of minutes.

She gave you one long, slow look from head to toe.

Your skirt was wrinkled. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a war crime.

“Well damn,” she said, deadpan. “Did he fuck the physics into you or what?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved past her with a scoff. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Nobara chirped, following you down the hall. “Your hair looks like it got into a fight with gravity. And lost.”

You reached up instinctively to fix it, still feeling Megumi’s hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck.

You didn’t say anything. But the smile on your face didn’t fade. Not even a little.

“Okay, seriously,” you said, deadpan, staring at Megumi like he just kicked a puppy. “What the fuck is on your head.”

Megumi blinked, genuinely confused. “My hair?”

“No, your tragic decision-making, obviously it’s your hair,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Why does it look like a hedgehog lost a fight with a blender?”

Nobara burst out laughing behind you, flopping onto your bed with a snort. “Oh my god—thank you. I didn’t wanna say anything at the mall, but it’s atrocious. He looks like he cut it himself during an earthquake.”

Megumi frowned, defensive now, dragging a hand through the spiky mess. “It’s just… messy.”

“Messy?” you echoed. “No. Messy is a tousled ‘I-just-got-fucked-against-a-wall’ kind of hot. This?” You circled him like a shark, squinting at the disaster on his scalp. “This is ‘I got electrocuted in the shower and didn’t notice.’”

He turned slightly to Nobara, as if for help. She just smirked and held her hands up. “Don’t look at me, Fushiguro. I’ve been trying to say this since the first day we met. You’ve got good bone structure and awful hair.”

Megumi muttered something that sounded dangerously close to “I hate both of you.”

But you weren’t having it.

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this now,” you said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward your vanity like a man being marched to execution. “You let me bring you to the mall, you let me pick your clothes, and now? You’re letting me fix the national tragedy that is your hairstyle.”

“I never agreed to this,” he said, digging in his heels halfway across your carpet. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

You whipped around, inches from his face. “You’re hot now, Fushiguro. It’s your moral responsibility to have a hairdo that doesn’t look like it was styled by a weed whacker.”

“I liked it,” he muttered under his breath.

“I liked it,” you mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Oh my god, he’s got feelings. Someone call the news.”

Nobara snorted. “Y/N, be nice.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him into the chair in front of your vanity. “No. He deserves violence. Emotional or physical, I haven’t decided yet.”

Megumi looked at himself in the mirror, then back at you, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this point. “If you burn my scalp—”

“I will set you on fire on purpose if you keep complaining.”

“You’re terrifying,” he muttered, glaring as you sprayed water on his head.

You grinned. “I know.”

Nobara watched from your bed, sipping a boba drink she clearly found from your mini-fridge. “So what’s the plan, boss? We chopping it? Styling it? Shaving it off so he can start over?”

“Not shaving,” you said immediately, combing through his damp hair with a level of focus that would’ve shocked your teachers. “This bitch has potential. It just needs to be tamed.”

Megumi scoffed. “You make it sound like a wild animal.”

“That’s because it is, babe,” Nobara said helpfully.

You held up a strand and narrowed your eyes. “It’s giving ‘slept with my head in a microwave.’ Like, what is the texture? What is the shape? Where is the respect?”

Megumi rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

You and Nobara turned to him in unison.

“Yes,” Nobara said solemnly. “It is.”

“It’s a violation of basic human decency,” you added.

Megumi leaned back in the chair like a condemned man. “Do whatever you want. I’m already dead inside.”

You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

You and Nobara circled Megumi like vultures, armed with a spray bottle, two combs, a round brush, and enough styling product to open a pop-up salon. He sat rigidly in your vanity chair like he was preparing for surgery, eyes narrowed at his reflection as you pulled his hair back and forth with clinical precision.

“I swear to god, if this makes it worse—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, misting his head aggressively. “You gave up the right to complain the second you walked in here with this disaster on your scalp.”

“It’s not a disaster,” he muttered, grimacing as Nobara tugged a chunk of hair upright with a teasing comb.

“You’re right,” Nobara chimed in sweetly. “It’s a catastrophe.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “It looks like it’s been styled with a spoon and a prayer.”

Megumi groaned audibly. “Why are you both so dramatic?”

“Because we have eyes,” Nobara said.

“And standards,” you added.

It took longer than it should have—spraying, combing, trimming flyaways, arguing over center part versus side part, threatening to shave it all off entirely—but eventually, after a blur of movement and bickering and way too many close calls with Nobara’s flat iron, you took a step back.

You stared at him. Silently.

The spikes were still there—sharp, unruly, unapologetically him—but now they were tamed, softened in shape, styled with a cleaner edge that actually made sense with his face. Not too polished, not too wild. Balanced.

Dangerously so.

Because it brought out everything.

His cheekbones. The cut of his jaw. The deep-set steel blue of his eyes. It was like finally seeing a painting under the right lighting.

And you hated how hard your chest clenched.

“Oh,” Nobara said, her voice soft with shock. “Oh, you’re handsome-handsome.”

You flinched out of your trance. “Calm your fucking tits.”

Nobara ignored you, walking around to get a better view. “Y/N, we really did that. We should be charging for this.”

Megumi, still blinking at his reflection like he wasn’t sure what universe he was in, murmured, “It’s... better?”

“You look hot,” Nobara said bluntly.

“I said calm—”

“No, I’m serious. I didn’t know your face looked like that under all the porcupine static.” She turned to you. “Now—glasses.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with his glasses?” you and Megumi said at the same time, both frowning.

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong with them. But let’s just see. For science.”

“I need them to see,” Megumi deadpanned.

“Then close your eyes for two seconds and survive.”

Before either of you could protest again, she plucked the frames off his face.

Megumi blinked, disoriented. “I can’t see shit.”

And you— you couldn’t breathe.

Your fingers froze mid-adjustment. Something twisted low in your stomach.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi anymore.

This wasn’t the boy who wore soft, wrinkled hoodies and slouched with a pen in his mouth while mumbling about feudal Japan. This wasn’t the slightly awkward, perpetually annoyed tutor who scolded you for confusing Confucius with Confetti or whatever the hell his name was.

This was— Sharp. Composed. Disarmingly beautiful. And still undeniably him. But somehow… less yours. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

You swallowed around the dryness in your throat and reached over gently to slide his glasses back on.

“Okay,” you said, voice carefully neutral. “You look fine.”

Nobara arched a brow. “Fine? That’s all you’re giving him?”

“Jesus, calm down,” you muttered, waving her off. “You sound like you’re about to mount him.”

Megumi snorted softly, but he was looking at you now. Really looking. And you didn’t know what you looked like back.

Just that something inside you was shifting, and no matter how hard you tried to bury it beneath your snark and sarcasm—

You couldn’t help but think: He doesn’t look like my Megumi anymore, and that scared you more than anything. Because you weren’t ready to admit what you already knew: You didn’t want to lose the version of him that only you ever got to see.

The buzz started before first period even began.

It was in the halls, in the cafeteria, in the fucking girl’s bathroom stalls. You could hear it behind closed lockers, whispered in corners, shouted between friend groups.

"Did you see Fushiguro?" "Is that really him?" "Who knew he had a jawline like that?"

You slammed your locker shut hard enough to rattle the one next to it.

Nobara, walking beside you and munching on pocky like she owned the damn world, raised a brow. “You okay?”

“No,” you hissed, adjusting the strap of your bag sharply. “I’m not fucking okay. These bitches are acting like he hatched from an egg this morning.”

Nobara snorted. “Well, to be fair, he was looking like a soggy anime protagonist before we fixed his hair.”

You shot her a look.

She shrugged. “Hey, we did this. You should be proud. Your man’s finally getting the recognition.”

You turned to her, voice low and vicious. “That’s not my fucking man.”

She smirked. “Sure.”

And still, as you walked into the main hallway, the whispers amplified like a hive of flies. You could hear a group of girls ahead giggling too loudly, standing near the bulletin board where someone had literally taped a blurry candid of Megumi — from that morning — shirt tucked in, hair clean, glasses no where to be seen.

You stared. Blinked. And felt your blood boil.

You did this. You fixed that hair. You picked those fucking jeans.

And now they were all foaming at the mouth over it.

Not because they noticed him in math class, or watched him quietly help the juniors when no one else did, or saw the way his knuckles were always bruised because he boxed like he had something to prove.

No. They noticed because you made him hot. You did that.

And they were two seconds from sexualizing him like a piece of meat in your lunch tray.

“He could get it now,” one girl said, fanning herself with a worksheet.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” another giggled. “Those arms? He could ruin my GPA, and I’d thank him.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Oh my god,” a third voice added — Aiko, of all fucking people, her tone dripping with fake wonder. “Who knew Fushiguro had potential? He used to be such a loser, and now I’m like… kind of obsessed. He just needed a little help, right?”

You stopped walking. Nobara sensed it before you spoke. “Oh no.”

Your heels clicked against the tile like a warning shot. You stepped forward, stopping right in front of their little group like a queen entering the battlefield.

Aiko turned, already smiling, like she wanted you to join in on the joke.

You didn’t smile back.

“You wanna say that again?” you asked, voice deceptively sweet.

Aiko blinked. “What?”

“The part where you called him a loser,” you said, tilting your head. “Go on. I’m sure he’d love to hear that from someone who couldn’t spell ‘potential’ if her life depended on it.”

The girls went quiet.

You took another step closer, smiling now—but it was venomous. “See, you bitches love to pop your pussy for something shiny and new. But where were you when he sat alone every fucking lunch? Or when you called him creepy for knowing the answers before the teacher asked?”

Aiko’s face started to pale.

“That boy has more class in his knuckles than you have in your whole bloodline,” you sneered. “So maybe think twice before you talk about him like he’s your little glow-up project. You wouldn’t know what to do with him even if he let you try.”

Nobara let out a low whistle behind you. “Jesus.”

You didn’t care. Your heart was thudding in your chest, rage coiling behind your ribs. Because he deserved better than that. Better than them. Better than you, too, maybe—but they sure as fuck weren’t allowed to talk about him like that.

Not when they didn’t know a thing about him.

Not like you did.

The girls scattered like flies after that, mumbling apologies or pretending not to care.

You stood tall, smoothed your skirt, and turned on your heel.

“Feel better?” Nobara asked, falling into step beside you, eyebrow raised.

You huffed. “No. But I fucking meant every word.”

She bumped your shoulder. “Damn right you did.”

But the truth burned in your throat even as you walked away from the mess. Because the one person you weren’t brave enough to say that to… was the one person you’d started to care about way too much.

It was raining by the time you got there. Not heavy yet, but the clouds overhead promised hell was coming.

You barely knocked.

The door opened after one knock, and there he was—Megumi. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was a little damp, curling at the ends from either a shower or the humidity outside. The soft flicker of the TV behind him lit his silhouette.

His eyes skimmed over you. “You’re late.”

“I was being dramatic,” you said with a sniff, stepping inside like you owned the place.

You didn’t. And you felt it, too.

The quiet of the house pressed in on you. The only sound was the low murmur of the television—“storm warning issued for Tokyo Metro Area…”

Your shoes left faint water prints on the hardwood. You toed them off and dropped your bag beside the couch, pretending the silence wasn’t suffocating.

“So…” you said, voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re a big shot now, huh?”

Megumi frowned. “What?”

You gestured vaguely toward him. “The school. People are practically frothing at the mouth over you. I think I overheard someone say you could step on them and they’d say thank you.”

He blinked. “That’s… disturbing.”

You dropped onto the couch. “That’s teenage girls. Get used to it.”

He didn’t sit. Just stood there for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with you. Like he couldn’t decide whether he should start quizzing you on politics or kick you out.

You stared at him. “You really didn’t notice?”

“No,” he muttered. “I don’t care.”

There was a pause. A little too long.

Then—

“…Do you?” he asked, quieter now.

You tilted your head. “Do I what?”

He was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. But something about the way he said it—

“Do you like it?” he asked. “The way I look now.”

It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t a trap. It sounded like an honest fucking question.

You felt something pinch in your chest.

You wanted to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or tell him he looked fine and move on with your night. But you couldn’t. Because the way he was looking at you—calm, quiet, guarded—was killing you.

“Do you want me to like it?” you asked back.

He didn’t blink. “I asked first.”

You stared at him. Tried to read his expression. But he was unreadable, as always—except his shoulders were a little tense, and his eyes kept flicking between you and the storm outside the window. So you told the truth.

“I liked how you looked before,” you said, crossing your arms again. “I like how you look now. You’re hot. Congrats.”

That made him frown, just a little.

You rolled your eyes. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

“No,” he said. “I just… didn’t think you noticed me.”

The words were soft. Like they cost something.

You blinked. “What?”

He finally sat down beside you, slow and heavy, elbows on his knees. “You were with guys like Kamo. Loud, rich. The whole school knew when you were dating someone.”

“So?”

“So I thought you just… tolerated me,” he said.

You stared at him. “I showed up to your house in the rain. For tutoring. I literally begged you to tutor me again.”

His eyes flicked toward yours. “That’s not the same.”

Silence again. You bit your lip, then sighed. “I just didn’t want to be the only one who saw you.”

Megumi’s brows pulled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You swallowed, folding your arms tighter. “People didn’t really look at you. Not really. They saw the grades, the silence, the hair. But they didn’t look. I did.”

You paused.

“And I didn’t want to keep it to myself.”

Megumi was quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle. You looked down at your nails, chewing your lip. “That’s all. I just thought… people should know.”

“Why?”

You blinked again. “Why what?”

“Why did it matter that people saw me?”

The question was too honest. It made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Because maybe if they did… I wouldn’t feel so fucking insane for noticing you in the first place.”

Megumi’s throat bobbed. The rain outside was louder now. You could hear the drops hitting the glass like static. You were sitting so close on the couch now, knees almost brushing. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t touch you.

But his voice dropped a little. “I noticed you first.”

You turned your head.

Megumi wasn’t looking at you. But you could see the pink climbing up his neck.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d destroy me,” he muttered, almost like he was annoyed with himself. “You still might.”

You smirked, but it was softer than usual. “You’re not so easy to destroy, Fushiguro.”

He finally turned toward you again. And for a second—just a second—you weren’t the girl who wrecked reputations for fun. You weren’t the mean girl, the manipulator, the bitch with a crown on her head. You were just a girl. Wanting a boy who never thought someone like you would.

“…We’re here to study,” you said quickly, breaking the eye contact and grabbing your bag. “Don’t get weird about it.”

But your hands were trembling just a little when you opened your notebook. And neither of you pointed it out. Megumi didn’t move. You felt it before you saw it—that shift in the air. His gaze heavy on you, weighing every breath you tried to take like it meant something.

And maybe it did. Because then came the first real blow. “You’re quiet.”

Your pen stilled. “I’m literally speaking right now,” you muttered, not looking up.

“That’s not what I mean.”

You clenched your jaw, flipping open your notes like they weren’t trembling in your hand. “Well, maybe I just didn’t feel like biting your head off today. Shouldn’t that be a win for you?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve been off ever since the mall.”

“And you’ve been dressing like you’re starring in a Calvin Klein ad,” you shot back. “Maybe I’m just adjusting.”

His brow twitched. “So you are upset.”

“No.” You looked up at him, heat crawling up your neck. “I just think it’s funny.”

Megumi’s stare didn’t budge. “What’s funny?”

“That now everyone sees you,” you said, biting the words out, “suddenly you’re worth talking to. And I have to watch girls lose their shit over a guy I—”

You caught yourself. Hard. Megumi stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

“And what?” he said, voice low.

Your throat was dry. “And nothing.”

He tilted his head, sea-glass eyes narrowing. “That’s not nothing.”

You shot to your feet. “Can you not? Can you just, for once, not try to read my mind like I’m some fucking essay prompt?”

“I wouldn’t have to guess,” he said, voice tighter now, “if you’d just tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m fine, Megumi,” you snapped.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh my god, shut up—why do you even care?”

That stopped him. Just a second. But you saw the way it landed. Saw the shift in his shoulders, the pinch in his brows—like you’d yanked a thread that unraveled something you weren’t supposed to touch. You hated how your chest twisted.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said quickly, voice smaller. “I just—this was easier when you were just…”

“What?” Megumi asked quietly.

Just Megumi. Your Megumi. But you didn’t say it. You didn’t get the chance.

Because the thunder cracked so violently it made the windows rattle—followed by a sudden, sharp click as the power cut out completely. Lights. TV. Everything.

Gone. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the occasional flash of lightning. You could barely see him. But you felt him. Both of you stood there in the thick silence, the storm pressing against the glass like a weight.

And then— “I’m still me,” Megumi said quietly. “Even if I look different.” You exhaled. Slow. Unsteady.

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like I’m not?”

You hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper— “Because you look less like someone I can keep.”

The words hung there between you. Electric. Unforgivable. You weren’t even sure he heard them—until he stepped closer. Close enough that the scent of him, the heat of his skin, wrapped around you like gravity.

“You think I’m going somewhere?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Everyone else wants you now.”

“I don’t care about everyone else.”

The silence between you was louder than the storm now. You opened your mouth—then shut it again. Because you could still taste the fear in your throat. Not of losing him. But of how much you already had. You swallowed around the ache in your throat, trying not to blink too hard. The silence stretched. Too raw. Too exposed. So, like always, you threw up a wall.

“Well,” you said, stepping back and folding your arms, “isn’t this romantic. Power’s out, storm’s raging, and I’m stuck with Tokyo’s favorite new thirst trap.”

Megumi blinked, the sharpness in his expression dimming just enough to look mildly offended. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re sweaty and shirtless and we’re in the dark.” You gestured around. “I’m just saying, if this was a movie, I’d already be dead or pregnant.”

That earned a very faint snort, like he didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it. He exhaled, raking a hand through his damp hair. “My dad keeps candles somewhere.”

“Wow. Sexy and prepared,” you muttered, watching him disappear into the hallway. “No wonder the girls are eating it up.”

“Shut up,” he called back. A cabinet door creaked open, followed by the sound of matches scraping. “If you’re cold, there’s a blanket on the couch.”

You ignored that. Pulled out your phone instead—only to see one bar and a signal so weak it might as well be decorative. You sighed and dialed anyway. It rang once, twice. Then a familiar voice crackled through the speaker. “Sweetheart?”

“Daddy,” you breathed, the relief hitting hard. “The power’s out. It’s storming like crazy. Are you home?”

“I’m out of town, baby. Business trip. Flight got delayed.” His voice softened. “Where are you?”

You glanced at the flickering light starting to glow down the hall. “Megumi’s.”

A pause. “You safe?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… stuck.”

“Alright. Call me if anything changes. I’ll check the weather. Love you.”

“Love you more,” you said softly and hung up.

Megumi returned, two candles flickering in hand. One for the living room, one for the table. He lit them both in quick, practiced motions. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll walk you home when the wind dies down,” he said, flatly.

You narrowed your eyes. “I didn’t say I was leaving.”

“You were about to,” he muttered. “You always are.”

The jab caught you off guard.

“…Jesus, dramatic much?” you mumbled, shifting on the couch as the room glowed orange and gold. “You act like I’m trying to abandon you.”

He gave you a look. “You were literally about to walk out during a thunderstorm.”

“Yeah, well, I like living on the edge.”

“I swear to god, you’re going to get electrocuted one day and somehow blame me for it.”

“Obviously.” His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

The tension was still there—but softened now, under the candlelight. Like it had been dulled by the rain and everything neither of you could say outright. You pulled your knees up to your chest, watching the lightning flash against the windows.

“…You didn’t have to light all those, you know,” you said quietly, eyes flicking toward the candles.

“I know.”

You hesitated. “…But thank you.” Another small silence.

Then he sat down next to you again. A little closer this time. The storm howled outside, but in here—there was only the flicker of light between you and the quiet push-and-pull that had always felt like home.

“You really think I’m Tokyo’s favorite thirst trap?” he said suddenly, deadpan.

You groaned. “You remembered that?”

“You literally just said it.”

“Well, I’m not wrong.”

“Whatever.” You glanced at him.

His arms were folded again. His face still unreadable. But something in his expression had eased. Not softer, necessarily—but less guarded. And you… you could breathe again.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

“Miwa’s taking an interest in you.”

Megumi glanced up from where he was lighting a candle on the table, his face cast in flickering shadows. “What?”

You picked at the frayed hem of your skirt like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Nobara heard her talking in the bathroom. She was saying you’re different now. That you look… good.”

A beat of silence.

Then, like an idiot, he asked, “She is?”

You wanted to throw the fucking candle at his head.

Instead, you smiled. That sweet, mean smile you wore like armor. “What, hoping she asks you out? You want someone to touch your freshly styled hair and whisper about your jawline now?”

He didn’t bite. Just walked to the kitchen with that maddening calm of his. Megumi’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up, barely glancing at the screen before answering.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t look at him. You were too busy pretending to scroll through your phone, too busy ignoring the sting from earlier—She is?—like it hadn’t lodged itself right in your chest. But then his tone changed.

“…You’re stuck?” You peeked up, subtly.

Megumi’s voice dropped, quiet and curt. “Flooding?”

Pause. A sigh. “No, it’s fine. Yeah—I’m not alone.”

Another pause. “Yeah, it’s her.” You tensed, grip tightening around your phone.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of it. Just… stay safe.”

He hung up. Silence. You didn’t say anything, waiting.

He turned around, arms folded, voice neutral. “That was my dad.”

“Obviously.”

“There’s flooding near the station. He’s stuck for the night.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“And you can’t leave.”

You stared at him. “What do you mean I can’t?”

“There’s a blackout. The storm’s not letting up. Roads are a mess.” He gestured to the window where the rain slapped against the glass in heavy sheets. “Power lines are down. Toji said even the convenience store by the corner shut down. He’s not coming home.”

You blinked. “And what, you’re just holding me hostage now?”

Megumi’s expression didn’t change. “You came here.”

“I didn’t come here to spend the night!”

He crossed his arms tighter. “Well, congratulations. Looks like you’re going to.”

You huffed. Loudly. Dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” And then he moved past you, candle in hand, heading toward the hallway like this was all perfectly reasonable. You glared at the flame, at the storm, at your phone with zero service, and then finally threw yourself back against the couch with a groan.

“…Fine,” you muttered under your breath. “But I’m not taking the fucking bed.”

From down the hall, Megumi’s voice drifted back—completely unbothered.

“You’re not.”

It was quiet for a while. Too quiet. The storm outside had dulled into a low, steady rhythm—rain kissing the windows in soft percussion, wind rattling somewhere beyond the walls like a ghost trying to get in. The power was still out, the flicker of candlelight the only thing cutting through the shadows curling around the room.

You sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, pretending your phone wasn't dead and you weren’t mildly terrified of the dark. Then you heard footsteps. Not heavy. Not rushed. Just Megumi. He emerged from the hallway carrying a stack of pillows and a neatly folded blanket. He didn’t say anything as he knelt beside the couch, laying everything out with a quiet focus you refused to react to. But your throat tightened anyway. Because it was too much.

He’d brought the softest blanket. The only one that didn’t smell like detergent. He even slid a second pillow behind your back, like you couldn’t possibly sleep without it.

You didn’t comment. Just watched with a neutral expression, biting your cheek to stop from saying something snarky. You could've made a joke. Could’ve called him a housewife. Could’ve pushed, flirted, snapped.

But you didn’t. Because even you couldn’t deny what this was. He cared. And that scared the shit out of you.

When he finally sat down beside you—on the floor, back resting against the couch—you raised a brow.

“What, not going to bed?” you said, voice low.

He shrugged, eyes on the candlelight. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You blinked, letting your head rest against the cushion. “What are you, my emotional support boxer?”

That made him huff—barely a laugh, but still something. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smirked. “Please. You’re the one bringing luxury sleepware like I’m a fucking princess.”

“No,” he deadpanned. “You’re a brat. Princesses don’t throw paper at their tutors.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.”

“It was two.”

You both went quiet after that, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… still. You watched the flicker of flames bounce shadows off the ceiling, your heart slower now, your body less tense.

“…So why boxing?” you asked, surprising even yourself.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t really seem like the type. You hate attention. And yet here you are, shirtless and sweaty, punching people in a ring.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, after a beat— “It helps,” he said quietly. “Gets the noise out of my head.”

You frowned. “You get noise?”

He didn’t look at you. “Everyone does.”

The answer made your chest ache a little.

You didn’t press. Just let the silence fill in the blanks. Then— “...You’re good at it,” you said.

His brow ticked. “You saw five minutes.”

“Still.” Another beat.

“You looked hot,” you added, nonchalant, watching the side of his face carefully.

This time, he did look at you. “You’re deflecting.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to.”

You blinked. He didn’t elaborate. Just turned back to the candlelight, fingers fidgeting slightly against his knee.

The kind of fidgeting you did when you wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You swallowed.

“I never had something like that,” you said, quieter now. “Something that made the noise go away.”

Megumi didn’t speak, but you could feel him listening.

Really listening.

You rested your chin on your knees. “I tried to find it in people. Parties. Power. All that shit. But it never works.”

A pause.

Then Megumi asked, “And now?”

You looked at him. At the boy who used to flinch when you walked by. At the boy who looked at you like you were everything and nothing at the same time.

“…Now?” you repeated. He met your eyes. And for once—you didn’t look away.

“I don’t know yet,” you said. “But I think I’m closer than I used to be.”

You didn’t say it. But you were pretty sure he knew.

The silence had stretched into something calmer now—less tense, less biting. You were both still on the couch, the storm a dull whisper outside, the candlelight making the room feel smaller, warmer, like some strange little world that didn’t exist anywhere but here.

You shifted a little, resting your chin on your arms, curled up in the blanket he brought you like a sullen cat. Megumi sat beside you, back against the couch again, his legs stretched out, elbows on his knees.

Neither of you had spoken in a while.

You didn’t know why the words came out.

Maybe it was the dark.

Or the quiet.

Or the way Megumi was just... there. Not asking for anything. Not prying. Just existing beside you with that stillness that made people underestimate him.

“My dad’s out of town,” you murmured.

Megumi didn’t look at you, but his head tilted slightly—listening.

“Business trip,” you added, trying not to sound defensive. “He does that a lot. I used to hate it when I was younger.”

A pause.

Then: “But you’re close.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah. I’m a daddy’s girl. You can’t tell?”

Megumi snorted softly. “Oh, I can tell.”

You chuckled under your breath, but the laughter faded quickly, something deeper tugging at your chest.

“I don’t talk about him much at school,” you said. “People already have their little opinions about me, I didn’t want to... whatever. Make it worse.”

Megumi stayed quiet.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your legs.

“When I was eight, my mom and dad split,” you said suddenly. “It got messy. She didn’t want custody. Not really. But her new husband did. I think he just wanted to win something.”

Megumi turned his head a little, watching you now.

You stared ahead at the dim outline of his coffee table, your voice soft. “But my dad fought for me. Hard. Like—like it was war. Lawyers, courts, all that shit. I remember him carrying me out of the hearing room when the judge gave him custody. I was crying. He didn’t. Not once.”

Megumi didn’t interrupt.

“I used to think he was made of steel or something,” you whispered. “Like, nothing could break him. And he never—he never made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not even once.”

You blinked. Fast.

“He worked so hard. All those long hours. Just to give me this life. The clothes. The car. The schools. People see me and think I’m just spoiled. Rich bitch. But they don’t know how hard he worked for all of it. How hard he worked for me.”

Megumi’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “Sounds like he really loves you.”

You nodded slowly. “He does. And I love him, too. More than anyone.”

There was a pause. The quiet kind that settled in your bones.

You bit your lip. “My mom—she lives in Fukuoka now. Married to that same guy. I see her sometimes. She’s always smiling in her new house, with her new kids, like she didn’t leave me behind. But he never did.”

Megumi shifted then, just slightly.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his hand brushed gently against your ankle under the blanket, not a grab, not a hold, just... there.

Steady. Present.

“I’m glad you have him,” Megumi said. And he meant it. You could hear it.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

And for a while, that was all. No teasing. No bickering. Just a storm outside, and a boy beside you, and the quiet reminder that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The silence wrapped around the both of you again, more comfortable now. The storm outside had settled into a steady rhythm, wind pressing against the windows like a tired breath. The candle on the coffee table flickered lazily, casting long shadows up the wall.

You’d fallen quiet again, the weight of your last words still hanging in the air.

Megumi hadn’t said anything in a while. You glanced at him from under your lashes. His brows were drawn, expression unreadable—but his hands were tense in his lap, fingers rubbing at his knuckles absently. Like he was thinking too hard about something.

You nudged him gently with your knee under the blanket.

His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The broody, ‘I’m-staring-into-the-void-like-a-tragic-protagonist’ thing.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him. Barely.

Then his gaze dropped, his voice quieter. “I’ve been thinking about Tsumiki.”

Your teasing died instantly.

“Oh.”

He nodded slowly. “She’s… not doing great.”

The weight of those four words hit you like a punch to the chest. You sat up a little straighter, eyes scanning his face. There was something different in it now—tired, but deeper than that. Like something he’d been holding for too long.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “Her condition’s… it’s getting worse. The doctors said there’s not much more they can do here.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I might have to fly out next week. Fukuoka or even Sapporo—depends where they transfer her. She’s not waking up. And if something—if anything happens and I’m not there, I’ll never—” He cut himself off, jaw locking.

You didn’t say anything. You just reached out, resting your hand over his knuckles.

He didn’t pull away.

“She raised me more than anyone,” he said, voice gravelly. “After everything with my mom and dad… she was the one who kept me steady. Who made me believe I could be anything other than angry.”

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Megumi looked at you then. And for once, his eyes weren’t guarded. They were raw. Open. So full of guilt and helplessness that it made your chest ache.

“She’s so kind,” he murmured. “Always has been. She never hurt anybody. I don’t know why people like her—why she ends up paying for things.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want to lose her.”

His voice cracked at the end. Just slightly. Enough to make you want to pull him close and never let go.

You didn’t say you understood. Because you didn’t. Not really.

But you let your hand stay in his. And when his thumb brushed over your knuckles, soft and trembling, you didn’t call him out for it.

You just sat there.

Two kids. Bruised hearts. A flickering candle. And the quiet grief that filled the room like smoke.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, barely touching.

“I’ll be here,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

The thunder had quieted into a low grumble, distant now, like the sky was done screaming and only murmured in exhaustion.

You weren’t sure when the silence shifted—when the conversation turned from real, heavy things to just… breath. Just the warmth of being there beside him. You had your knees pulled up, a blanket across your lap, your arm pressed against his on the couch. The faint scent of citrusy soap clung to his skin. The candlelight flickered over his profile.

And when he looked at you… really looked at you—

Everything else faded.

No more school. No more rumors. No more fights, or essays, or storms. Just the steady sound of his breath, and the way he was staring like you were a question he never thought he’d get to ask, let alone answer.

“…What?” you whispered, pulse skipping.

Megumi just shook his head a little. “Nothing.”

But his eyes didn’t leave you. Didn’t drop, didn’t flinch. They were so blue in the dark, like sea glass catching fire.

You blinked, suddenly shy. “Why are you—”

He leaned in.

You felt it before you saw it—his hand ghosting over your cheek, gentle, almost hesitant. Like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

When his mouth met yours, it was soft. Barely there. A breath shared between two people who’d never thought this would happen. His lips moved over yours like he was learning how—like he’d only ever imagined it before, and now, he was finding out what it meant to want, really want, and be allowed to.

You tilted your face up, deepened it slowly.

He followed you, a little clumsy, a little shy—but eager. Your fingers slipped into his hair, still tousled from the storm, from your work earlier, and a quiet groan hummed in his throat.

When he pulled back, his breath was shaky.

“Are you…” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Are you sure?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then his hand touched your jaw again, thumb dragging over your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“I want to,” he said. His voice was steady, but his pulse was racing—you could feel it where your hand had pressed against his chest. “I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You swallowed, heart in your throat. “You’ve never…?”

He shook his head once.

Oh. You were quiet. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said again. And then softer, with something almost aching: “You’re the only one I’d ever want it with.”

Your chest ached.

And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t put up your usual wall.Instead, you kissed him again.

You ended up in his lap before you even realized it.

One second you were kissing him—soft, slow, like the world might shatter if you rushed it—and the next, your knees were straddling his thighs, blanket slipping off your lap, hands curled in the collar of his shirt as you breathed into each other.

The living room was drenched in warm shadows, candlelight flickering golden over the curve of his jaw, the sharp edge of his cheekbone. You could still hear the rain faintly outside, a low murmur against the windows—but in here, everything was still. Sacred.

Megumi’s hands rested uncertainly on your hips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. Like he didn’t trust himself.

“You can touch me,” you murmured, lips brushing against his. “You’re allowed.”

His fingers tightened slightly, eyes darting up to yours. That bashful, quiet intensity—it made your chest ache.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

“I know,” you said gently, and leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the corner of his. “That’s why I’m here.”

You kissed him deeper that time. Tongue teasing his lower lip, your body pressing closer. His hands slid up your sides hesitantly, under your shirt, skin to skin—and you felt the exact moment his breath hitched.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know.” His voice was rougher now, quiet. “I just… I can’t believe this is real.”

You smiled against his lips. “It’s real.”

You tugged your shirt over your head, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric fall to the floor behind you. His gaze followed every movement, and when your chest was bare in front of him, he froze.

Not out of fear. Not discomfort. Just awe.

“…Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, voice barely audible. “You’re—”

“Don’t say perfect,” you said quickly, your voice light, teasing, trying to play it off. But your heart was fluttering in your chest like it was trying to fly away. “That’s such a cop-out.”

Megumi blinked like he hadn’t even thought of that word. “I wasn’t going to.”

You arched a brow. “No?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes still glued to your bare chest, your soft skin, the curve of you in his lap. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like you were something out of a dream.

“I was gonna say… unfair,” he said, swallowing hard. “Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You froze.

Not hot. Not sexy. Not fuckable, or a ten, or any of the things guys had always tossed at you like they meant something.

Beautiful.

It hit different. Like a bruise blooming in your chest—but soft. Warm. Gentle. You didn’t even realize you’d gone quiet until his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Hey,” Megumi murmured. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, blinking quickly.

But the words were still echoing in your mind, messing with something deep inside you. Beautiful. Like art. Like something fragile and worth holding carefully.

No one had ever said that to you before. Not like this. Not with their hands trembling just from touching you. Not with eyes that looked like they were seeing straight through the act, the image, the attitude.

You looked down at him again—messy hair, bitten lip, flushed skin—and swallowed thickly.

“You mean that?” you asked, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “That I’m… beautiful?”

His brows furrowed, confused by the question, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

And just like that, the ache in your chest cracked open into something warm, something terrifyingly tender.

So you kissed him—slowly, deeply, like it was the only way to say thank you without falling apart.

He kissed you lower, lips skimming the slope of your breast, and when you arched gently into him, he let out a quiet groan.

“Can I…?” he whispered.

You took his hand and guided it up, letting him cup you fully. His fingers twitched at first, then softened, kneading tenderly as his thumb brushed over your nipple. You exhaled, body melting into his, your hands cradling his jaw as you kissed him again—deeper now. Lazier. The kind of kiss that made time dissolve.

You tugged his shirt off next, fingers brushing over the hard lines of his chest and the pale bandages still wrapped around his knuckles. He tried to hide the way his breath hitched, but you felt it—felt all of him.

His chest was rising fast. He was hard beneath you already, straining against his sweats, and your hips shifted instinctively.

“Shit,” he whispered, fingers digging into your thighs as you rocked against him. “You feel…”

“I know, baby,” you breathed into his neck. “You feel good too.”

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, and his head tipped back against the couch. He looked wrecked already—eyes blown wide, lips parted, jaw slack.

“Can I…?” you asked quietly, your hand drifting down between your bodies. “Can I see you?”

He nodded, a little frantic.

You slid his sweats down carefully, watched as his cock sprang free—long, thick, flushed a dark pink at the tip, resting heavy against his stomach.

You paused. Blinked.

“…You’ve been hiding this?” you said, scandalized.

His cheeks flushed red, eyes darting away. “I didn’t think it’d—look good. Or be… enough.”

Your mouth fell open. “Enough? Baby, it’s a fucking blessing.”

He let out a broken laugh, but it turned into a groan when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly. He was already leaking, the head glistening, and when you kissed his jaw again, his hips bucked helplessly under you.

You guided him to your entrance, your body already aching for him, but still—still—you paused.

“Are you sure?” you asked, voice steady. “This matters, Gumi."

His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You sank down on him slowly.

The stretch burned a little, but he was so careful—hands trembling, voice breaking every time he whispered, “Wait, let me—are you okay? Is this too much?” And you kept kissing him through it, calming him, guiding him, grounding him.

When he was fully inside you, you paused, gasping against his mouth. He filled you so deep it was dizzying. You could feel every pulse, every twitch of his cock inside you, and he just stared—completely overwhelmed.

You rocked your hips steadily at first, letting him adjust, letting you adjust—but God, the way he filled you. Thick and hot and deep, every inch stretching you open, your breath hitching every time your hips met his. His hands had gone from trembling to clinging, fingers digging into your waist like he didn’t trust his own self-control.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, breath ragged against your collarbone. “You’re so warm. So tight. I can’t—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, grinding your hips down into him. “You feel so fucking good, Gumi.”

The nickname made his hips jerk up. Hard.

Your moan cracked in your throat.

He groaned—deep, guttural, wrecked—and buried his face in your chest. “Say it again.”

“Gumi,” you whispered, rolling your hips slow, teasing. “My Gumi.”

Something snapped.

Suddenly, his hands slid up your back, grabbing fistfuls of your hair as he sat up straighter beneath you. His mouth captured yours in a messier, wetter kiss—more tongue than technique—and the next thrust he gave you was sharper. Rougher. Deep enough to make your thighs tremble where they straddled him.

You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. “F-fuck—what happened to being gentle?”

“I’m trying,” he growled, thrusting up again. “But you’re—shit—you’re making it hard.”

You felt his cock twitch inside you. You clenched around him just to hear the sound he made—half groan, half curse.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty—”

Your whole body shivered at the name.

“Say it again,” you whispered, breathless.

He kissed you. Nipped at your bottom lip. Then, rougher: “You’re so fucking pretty, baby. You’re unreal.”

That did it—you pushed at his chest, forcing him back into the couch cushions, and began to ride him again. Faster. Deeper. His hands gripped your ass, your thighs, your waist—wherever he could hold you steady—and he let you take control for a moment, let you ruin him.

“Gumi,” you moaned, voice pitchy now. “You’re so deep—I can feel you everywhere—”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He grabbed your hips and flipped you before you could blink, laying you out flat across the couch cushions. Your legs parted instinctively and he slid back in with a broken groan, arms caging you in, head bowed over your shoulder as he thrust deep—really thrust now. Controlled at first, but strong. Heavy. The slap of skin meeting skin filling the dark room as you took all of him, over and over again.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head tilting back, body arching. “Gumi—fuck—you’re—”

“I know,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple as he buried himself to the hilt. “I know, baby.”

His mouth trailed across your jaw, your neck, sucking marks into the skin before pulling back to look down at you—your makeup a little smudged, lips parted, chest heaving.

“You’re unreal,” he said again, voice deeper now, like gravel laced with awe. “My pretty fucking girl.”

His thrusts picked up again—harder, faster, the kind of rhythm that had your legs shaking and your back arching into him. Your moans grew louder, ragged, and when his fingers dropped down between your legs again, circling your clit with messy, desperate pressure, you gasped so loud it echoed off the walls.

“F-fuck, Gumi—don’t stop—”

“I want you to cum first,” he murmured, his voice tight, almost pained. “Please. I need to feel you cum.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

“You can do it,” he said, his hand never slowing. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

You clenched around him, legs locking around his waist as the pleasure crested—hot and deep and overwhelming. You came with a sharp cry, shaking beneath him, your nails dragging down his back as your orgasm shattered through you like a wave.

“Megumi—!”

He followed right after, gasping as he slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the base. You could feel him pulsing inside you, warmth spreading deep as his whole body tensed, then collapsed over yours in a breathless heap.

“Fuck…” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “Fuck.”

You wrapped your arms around his back, still trembling, your body soaked with sweat, your pulse a wild thrum in your chest.

For a long, long moment, you just lay there, tangled in each other, still connected, still catching your breath.

Eventually, he kissed your temple.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Better than okay.”

You turned your head and looked up at him, all flushed and wrecked, his lips pink, eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“…You know you’re stuck with me now, right?” you said, voice low, a little smug.

He blinked down at you, dazed and smiling. “Good,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smirked up at him, eyes gleaming. “Guess what, Gumi?”

He raised a brow, still breathless. “What?”

You grinned. “You’re not a virgin anymore.”

He blinked. Then rolled his eyes with the most offended expression. “Wow. So romantic.”

You laughed, nudging his chest. “I’m just saying—it’s official now.”

“Yeah, and you’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

He tried to scowl, but the soft curve tugging at his lips betrayed him. “…Shut up.”

You leaned up, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Never.”

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “God help me.”

But he was smiling. So were you. Megumi walked slow, hoodie unzipped, the morning breeze cutting through the damp weight of his thoughts. He hadn’t slept much.

Not because you kept him up—though, god, the memory of your body under his hands, the way you said his name, how your lips had tasted like fire and sugar and something he knew would ruin him forever—that didn’t exactly help.

No. It was more than that. It was you. It was the softness.

The way you looked at him when you thought he didn’t notice. The way your voice lost its bite when you touched his face. The way you called him baby, like he meant something.

Like he was yours. He’d never had something like that before. Not with Miwa. Not with anyone. So now, walking across campus with the sky still gray from last night’s storm, he was thinking. Planning. Something stupid. Something soft.

A picnic. Flowers. Maybe a question about the dance—nothing cheesy, just… something real. Honest. You deserved honesty. And maybe, maybe you’d say yes.

He spotted Nobara by the vending machine, squatting like she was about to fight it.

“Yo,” he called, hands in his hoodie pocket.

She turned, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what.”

“Like you just got laid and then went to therapy.”

Megumi coughed, looking away. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god.” Nobara straightened, grinning. “You did.”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed. “Finally. Thought I was gonna have to break the tension with a crowbar.”

He ignored her, kicking at a stone. “Hey.”

“What.”

“…Do you know if she’s going to the dance?”

Nobara blinked. “Who?”

He gave her a look. She raised a brow. “Oh. Right. Her.”

Megumi waited. Quiet. Hope tucked under his sleeve like a heartbeat.

Nobara sighed. Looked away. “She’s not planning on it.”

His chest sank. “Oh.”

Silence. Then her voice came, a little softer. “You like her?”

He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Nobara saw it—how he looked like someone waiting for a building to fall. How he was still standing there, trying to hold up hope with both hands even though it was slipping.

“She told me she didn’t like you like that,” she said, careful. Not cruel. Not cutting.

Just honest.

Megumi blinked. “…When?”

“A while ago.” Nobara’s voice was low. “Before you started tutoring her again. Before all of this.”

He looked at the ground. His hands tightened into fists inside his pockets.

You said that. You said you didn’t like him. And now?

Now he was standing here, remembering the way you kissed him, the way you called him beautiful, the way you came around him like you wanted no one else—and it all started to feel like a dream.

Like he’d misread everything. Like he’d built something out of nothing.

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Nobara offered, but her voice wasn’t convincing. “You know how she is.”

Yeah. He did.

You were a hurricane. Reckless. Sharp. Terrified of feeling too much, and even more terrified of being seen.

And maybe… maybe he let himself believe you saw him too.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you didn’t want to. Megumi exhaled, his chest tight.

“Thanks,” he said, voice flat.

Nobara opened her mouth, but he was already walking away. And the wind picked up again—colder this time. Like the storm wasn’t really over.

"Going to see my sister. Things got worse. I’ll be gone for a while."

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since you’d seen Megumi.

Not that you were counting. Obviously.

It’s not like you checked your phone like an insane person the second you woke up. Or reread his last text five times before class started.

It had landed like a rock in your chest. Not the message itself—just the simple way he said it. Like it didn’t kill him to write it. Like it wasn’t tearing him apart.

And he didn’t even say when he’d be back.

So you’d done what you were best at: pretending none of it mattered.

You went to school. You wore the shortest skirt in your closet. You handed in a pop quiz without crying over it. You even laughed at something Nobara said in chemistry without faking it.

Maybe that was the worst part. You were doing fine. Too fine.

You were perched on one of the picnic tables outside the school building, your platform heels kicked up on the bench, iced coffee in hand. The sun was warm, the sky blue, and your hair was freshly styled in waves that would make a shampoo ad weep.

You looked every inch the untouchable bitch.

But your chest ached in that quiet, hollow way.

“I swear to god,” Nobara groaned beside you, flopping down on the table with a dramatic sigh. “If one more boy breathes near me with Axe body spray on, I’m pressing charges.”

You snorted, sipping your drink. “Just bring a lighter. One flick and the entire boy's hallway will go up like a Christmas tree.”

Nobara pointed at you. “That’s why I love you.”

You smirked, then turned your head slightly, scanning the crowd near the school entrance. Your heart did that dumb thing again. Hopeful. Stupid.

But he wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.

Still. You asked, too casual. “Did you hear anything about Megumi?”

Nobara glanced at you, eyes narrowing just a little. “Nope. He texted Gojo, said he’s still out of town. Visiting his sister.”

“Oh.” You blinked down at your cup. “Right.”

Nobara let the silence hang for a beat, then elbowed you. “Anyway. Who cares about that—guess who I saw making out behind the gym?”

You leaned in, grateful for the distraction. “Tell me it was that weird art kid with the septum ring.”

“Worse. Fucking Haruna and that guy from the volleyball team.”

Your jaw dropped. “The one who eats chalk?”

“Yes, bitch!”

“Ew—what in the powder kinks is going on?!”

You both burst into laughter, the kind that made you feel weightless, for a second. The kind that made you forget there was an empty desk in third period with Megumi’s name on it.

And then Nobara leaned back on her palms, hair shining under the sun. “Are you okay, though? Like, actually?”

You raised a brow, defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She gave you a look. “Because your little emo virgin isn’t here, and you’ve been acting like that’s normal.”

You scoffed. “He’s not mine, Nobara.”

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Tell your heart that.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re annoying.”

She smiled. “You’re lonely.”

You hated how that landed.

You hated how the air felt heavier again. Like the second you stopped pretending, the silence filled back in.

Because the truth was—yes, you’d been doing fine. You’d been acing quizzes. You hadn’t picked a fight with anyone all week. You hadn’t cried, or screamed, or done something unhinged to distract yourself.

But you missed him.

The silence wasn’t the same without his sarcasm. The walks through campus felt longer without him beside you. You’d even caught yourself reaching for your phone during study hall, ready to text something snarky before remembering—

He wasn’t here.

And you didn’t know when he’d be back.

You sighed, collapsing back on the table beside Nobara and covering your face with your hands.

“I hate this.”

“What, feelings?”

“Yes. Emotions. Vulnerability. All of it.”

She cackled. “You’re such a brat.”

You peeked between your fingers. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Nobara grew quiet, more serious this time. “I think he’s strong. And I think he’ll come back.”

You nodded.

“I just…” you trailed off. “I hope he doesn’t come back different.”

Nobara tilted her head. “You mean like you did?” You didn’t answer. Because she was right. You had changed. And the worst part? It was because of him. And he wasn’t even here to see it.

You were walking down the hall like you owned it. Because you did. Your skirt was short, your blouse perfectly pressed, and your gloss was fresh—mirror-checked and lethal. The heels clacked with just enough bite to announce your presence before anyone had the nerve to look up. Students scattered instinctively as you passed, like you were the final boss of the east wing. You liked it that way. But your phone had no new texts. No new messages. Still no him.

You’d waited all morning. Pretended not to glance at the school gates. Pretended you didn’t notice the empty space where he usually stood during break. Pretended you didn’t hesitate outside the chem lab he always passed on his way to third period.

You hated that he wasn’t there. You hated that you cared. But today, at least, you looked perfect while doing it.

You smirked to yourself as you walked, swaying your hips on purpose. If he was back and trying to avoid you, fine. Let him suffer. Let him see what he’s missing.

Your locker door slammed shut behind you with a sharp clack, and you turned down the hall like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t still aching a little behind the eyes.

You were halfway to class, halfway through adjusting your sleeve— And then it happened.

You didn’t scream when the hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside.

You didn’t need to.

You knew it was him.

The closet door slammed shut behind you, a jolt of darkness swallowing the soft light from the hallway. You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the wall, and then—

“Megumi—?” He didn’t answer.

His mouth was already on your neck, warm and hungry, breath rough as he kissed down the side of your throat like he couldn’t get enough. Like he’d been starved.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground. Your hand flew up to clutch at his shirt. “You’re—fuck—”

He pressed into you harder, body flush with yours, teeth scraping gently at your pulse point. His hands gripped your hips, fingers tight, dragging you forward like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

You gasped as his thigh slotted between yours.

“You’re back,” you whispered, breath hitching. “You didn’t even say—”

“I know.” His voice was low, hoarse. “Didn’t want to talk.”

You opened your mouth, but then he kissed you—kissed you—like he couldn’t breathe unless your lips were on his. Tongue sliding hot and deep into your mouth, lips messy, desperate. Your knees went weak.

You’d missed him.

More than you realized.

You grabbed the collar of his uniform and yanked him closer, kissing him back with just as much fire. You could feel it in his body—the way he trembled against you, how hard he already was beneath his pants. You ground into him shamelessly.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses, your voice breathless. “Fuck—I was so mad—where were you—?”

“Thinking about you,” he muttered, dragging your shirt up, his mouth trailing lower again. “Every fucking day.”

You gasped as his hand slid down the front of your skirt, fingers quick and practiced despite the trembling. You grabbed at his hair, fisting it hard enough to make him groan.

“You couldn’t text?” you snapped, even as your legs parted for him. “You just show up and pull me into a closet like—”

“I’ve been losing my mind,” he growled, dragging your panties to the side. “You have no idea what it did to me—leaving you.”

Your head hit the wall. His fingers slipped between your folds, slow and teasing, and your breath left you in a moan.

“Gumi—”

“I kept thinking about you,” he muttered against your collarbone. “That mouth. That attitude. That fucking pussy.”

“Shut up,” you gasped, bucking into his hand.

“You want me to?” He curled two fingers inside you. “Or do you want me to bend you over right here and fuck you until you forget how to speak?”

You let out a broken whimper, hips rocking against him. “You can’t say that—”

“I will say that,” he said, voice sharp now, cocky in a way that made your stomach drop. “You think I haven’t been thinking about bending you over every surface in this school since the last time?” You moaned as his thumb rubbed circles against your clit. Your hands clawed at his back. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, finally tugging your panties down your thighs. “Still soaked for me.” Your skirt was bunched around your waist. He turned you before you could blink, one hand pressing hard between your shoulder blades to bend you over the low shelving behind you.

“Gumi—wait—” you started, but your voice broke as you felt his cock slide along your slit, thick and hot and already slick from your arousal.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, grinding against you, not pushing in yet. “Wanted to take you from behind like this—just rip your attitude out of your throat. Hear what you sound like when you’re begging.”

“God, you’re such a little shit when you’re horny,” you gasped.

“And you love it,” he bit back. “Don’t lie.”

Then he pushed in—slow at first, then hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You choked out a cry, gripping the shelf so hard your knuckles went white.

“Fuck—Megumi—”

He groaned low in his throat. “This pussy,” he hissed. “God, I missed this.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. His thrusts started fast, deliberate—hips snapping against yours as the slap of skin echoed in the tiny closet. His hand gripped your waist, the other in your hair, pulling your head back so he could whisper filth into your ear.

“You feel even better than I remembered,” he growled. “So wet for me. So fucking tight. You let anyone else fuck you while I was gone?”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Answer me,” he said, thrusting harder. “Anyone else touch you?”

“No,” you gasped. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Because this pussy’s mine.”

You whimpered. “Say it again.”

He slammed into you deeper, and you could feel him hit that perfect spot—over and over. “You’re mine,” he said, panting. “My girl. My pretty little brat. Say it.” You were already falling apart.

“Yours,” you moaned. “Fuck—Gumi—I’m yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, voice shaking. “All fucking yours—!”

His hand slid down, rubbing your clit again with messy, brutal circles, and you were already so close—hips stuttering, moans turning into high, broken whines. “I want you to cum for me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make a mess all over my cock. I’ve been dreaming about this—about fucking you stupid.”

You nodded frantically, your whole body twitching as you chased it, falling over the edge like it had been waiting for you all week. You came hard, clenching around him, crying out his name as your knees gave out. He caught you with one arm and kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—you’re so perfect—so mine—”

You felt his cock twitch, and then he buried himself deep, groaning loud as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking behind you, his breath hot on your neck. For a few long moments, the only sound was your panting, the heavy beat of your hearts in sync. He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his chest rising against your back.

Finally, you muttered, voice still wrecked: “You’re the worst welcome committee ever.”

Megumi laughed—soft, breathless, a little smug. “You missed me.”

You rolled your eyes, still panting. “Shut up.”

But your smile said otherwise. And his hand didn’t stop holding you. Not even when you turned around, leaned into him, and kissed him slow, like nothing else mattered. Because for once—it didn’t. The world had gone still.

You leaned weakly against the shelf, your skirt wrinkled, your knees barely steady, your heart still thudding somewhere near your throat. The air in the storage closet was thick with heat and the fading scent of sex.

And Megumi… Megumi was kneeling in front of you. Quiet. Focused.

His fingers were careful as he smoothed your underwear back into place, tugging the fabric up your thighs without meeting your eyes at first. You flinched instinctively—out of habit more than discomfort—but he didn’t stop. He didn’t tease. He just… looked up and adjusted the hem of your skirt with both hands, like it was normal. Like you were delicate.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

“Are you always like this after?” you asked, trying to sound smug but your voice cracked a little—too soft, too curious.

He stood, brushing hair from your face. “Like what?”

“Nice.”

He blinked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You shrugged. “Just… not used to it.”

Megumi looked at you for a second, eyes calm, unreadable. Then he reached up again, fingers ghosting through your hair, gently combing it back into place. You stared at him, thrown off by how domestic it felt. How natural.

“I missed a strand,” he muttered absently, flicking a tangle aside.

“You’re such a dork,” you whispered, but your voice was soft. Like you didn’t want him to stop. He finally stepped back, hands falling to his sides, and for a moment the silence stretched between you—thick with something unsaid.

“When did you get back?” you asked, quieter now. Like if you spoke too loud, the moment might break.

“This morning,” he said simply. “Didn’t want to go home. So I came to school.”

You nodded. Tried to think of something clever, something flippant, but nothing came. Instead, you just leaned back against the wall again and exhaled.

And then, after a long, aching beat— “…I missed you.”

His gaze softened instantly. “I missed you too.”

You looked at each other, not smiling, not joking. Just seeing one another. But then—

“I asked Miwa to the dance.”

parts, chapter 05

notes, I need to know what ya'll think so make sure to comment, ik i don't reply but i am reading ALL of them and im filled with love for each and one of you.

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise @gojoswaterbottle @hadesorion @ashhlsstuff @chocalycake @planetzetra @kenmacantakemeaway @urmotherswhor3 @kelppp @suki91 @secretlyapartofthisfandom @bleedingwhiteroses222 @luvvmae

970 notes · View notes

multicohn · 3 months ago

Text

summary: being an f1 driver and student really drives kimi insane. surely, his partner is willingly to do his homework for him... right?

warnings: cursing, short

pairing: gn! academically gifted! reader x kimi antonelli

genre: fluff

author note: i do admire kimi for still being in school. i would’ve quit

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

y/n understood that kimi is busy and can’t really do his homework or study for exams during the race weekend. he has so much going on and y/n always did their best to help him, but being in a top team in the top category for his sport changed things.

kimi has more media to do, meetings that required his attendance, longer warmups, and so many other things slotted in between. he was even busy during the weeks that didn’t have a race scheduled.

so, he relied on y/n to help with his studies. his partner is academically talented and is always gifted top marks in every subject they take. kimi didn’t care that much, but he still wanted to pass.

he normally called them at night or on the way to wherever he was going for help. however, kimi is currently stuck in the middle of a triple header and had forgotten all about the stacked emails sent from his teachers about what needed to be done until y/n came to watch him and asked about it.

“what homework?”

“have you not checked your emails?”

• • •

“shit”

y/n watched as kimi internally freaked out. maybe they shouldn’t have brought it up, but in their defence — he’s always remembered ( and then complained about it ).

“babe” he gripped their shoulders with an intense look in his eyes

“you have to do my homework”

silence.

the couple just stared at each other. kimi’s eyes were full of determination while y/n’s were blank.

“you’re not serious” his grip tightened slightly, but it was barley noticeable

“dead serious” y/n scoffed

kimi has never once asked them to do his homework. yes, there have been times where y/n did his homework, but it was only a few questions so they didn’t mind.

but this?

“kimi, you know i can’t”

“please! no one will know! i swear!” he clasped his hands together and put on his best “sad puppy dog” look, but y/n didn’t buy it

“like how no one would ever know that you and ollie committed credit card fraud?”

“that was one time!” kimi knew he was screwed when they raised an eyebrow

he was thankful they were in his hotel room since y/n started listing all the things ( that she knew of ) he had promised to keep quiet about, but either told his friends or the entire internet.

“okay! okay! i know i suck at secrets, but please!”

“kimi —“

“please! i'm an f1 driver now! i don't have time like in f2 or f3!”

y/n sighed.

“please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please —“ they quickly interrupted him

“i'm not doing it —“

kimi physically deflated at this.

“but, i'll tell you what the answers are”

he perked up and instantly wrapped them in a tight hug

“thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you —“

“yeah, yeah, you're welcome”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

extra scene:

it was the tuesday after his trple header when kimi handed in all his work. the teaches praised him, despite the few wrongs answers ( “it'll be suspicious if you get them all right” y/n had said and he felt very offended by their words ).

“and they said i couldn't keep a secret” he scoffed internally while waiting for one of his teachers to finish marking his homework

“excellent work, kimi. glad you could keep up” he smiled and grabbed the sheets of paper

“thanks! y/n told me!”

• • •

“shit”

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thinkinonsense · 10 months ago

Text

PAST LIFE⋆

dofp!logan howlett x mutant fem!reader

cw:fingering, cursing, dirty talk, mentions of motherhood, fluff

masterlist

logan should've known when he accepted the mission to come go back in time to stop the sentinels that you would still be here.

"is there an issue here, hank?"

the sound of your voice made logan's heart flutter. you were barely peaking out from behind the door but logan could see you just fine. he couldn't stop staring.

"no, everything's fine." hank assured you. just as you turned to return to charles's office, you heard the door burst open. this handsome stranger hits hank right in the nose before continuing up the stairs to you.

logan had to take you in for a second. his beautiful future wife stood in front of him and had absolutely no clue that they were married because she was only twenty-five years old.

had you always been this gorgeous? was that even fair? all of these were questions that floated around in his mind.

"who are you and what do you want?" you asked as he reached out to touch you.

"so you've always been this beautiful, huh, princess?" he purred, tucking away a piece of your hair behind your ear.

sure, he was attractive in his brown leather jacket and sunglasses but this man looked in his mid-forties. logan was too busy staring down at your frilly yellow babydoll dress to notice where you were looking at him. his left hand; more specifically the gold band on his ring finger.

"i don't mess with married men." you glare at him. he can't help but chuckle darkly down at your innocence.

"oh, my wife wouldn't mind."

god, logan felt like such a pervert for coming on to you but he couldn't help it. your ethereal beauty was unreal. not that you have aged much since the present day, as you two have the slow aging processes in common. older hank would always tell logan that he should be lucky that you agreed to date him because there were plenty of people who would love to take his place. sure, logan believed him but now, he really understood what hank meant.

"where's charles at, sweetheart?" logan asks, inhaling your floral sent.

before you can respond, charles comes barreling down the stairs drunkenly calling after you.

"where've you been?" he asked you then turned to logan. "who the hell are you?"

this should be good.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"how do we know that you're actually from the future?" you asked, sitting atop charles desks, swinging your legs. hank and charles stood outside in the hallway discussing whether or not to trust logan.

"you've always been this stubborn?" logan says under his breath, rolling his eyes.

"how do we even know each other in the future?" you finally asked.

for the past hour, this man has tried to sell this absurd story about how future charles and magneto sent him here together to save mutants from sentinels. so far he's managed to convince charles but hank and you were still on the fence.

"we're married, sweetheart." logan smirks wickedly.

there was absolutely no way that you two were married. this man is grumpy, mean-looking, and wears dark brown leather. you are an academic scholar who adores pastels and helping other mutants. he had to have you mistaken.

you squint up at him and laugh, "we are married?"

logan nods, walking over to you until he's standing between your legs.

"tell me something only i would know then."

"your favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry, you hate the cold and winter, anytime you drink coffee you get nightmares, your favorite color is green, but your favorite shade is the color my eyes get when i look at you." logan could see the way your eyes widen, slowly starting to believe him more and more. he couldn't help but feel cocky. "would you like me to continue?"

"im not sure... think you're gonna have to prove it. another way." you challenge him. logan's hand trails up your thigh, playing with the soft yellow material.

"c'mon sweetheart, this is too easy." he mutters against your neck, placing soft kisses and nibbling on the skin.

logan knew you like the back of his hand. he knew exactly what you liked and disliked. sometimes you would even tell him that he knew you better than you knew yourself.

"you like when i pull your bottom lip when we kiss. you blush every time i offer for you to sit on my face. one of your favorite ways to fuck is pressed up against a wall or bent over a table..." logan could go on and on.

"we do that...?" you whisper embarrassed by this version of yourself, trying to avoid his burning gaze.

"oh, all the time. sometimes you pull me down on the floor when i come home, begging to ride me right then and there." logan says, once he captures your attention again. you chew on your bottom lip adorably.

a small whimper passes your lips before you remember that hank and charles aren't that far away from the room. one of your hands comes up to logan's chest, slightly pushing him back despite not wanting to.

"w-we should stop." you warn him. "they can hear us."

this was when logan knew that you hadn't discovered part of your mutation yet. he had already assumed that you hadn't but this confirmed it.

"need you to relax, princess," he says, moving higher up to your jaw. your body betrays everything your mouth says, eating out of the palm of his hand. "i promise once you relax, it'll feel like time has stopped."

logan's lips taunt yours; not quite giving you what you want. fed up, you overpower him and push his lips into yours. the only word floating around in your head was 'relax'.

carefully, logan lays you back on the desk. something about being held in the stranger's arms set you at ease; maybe he was your husband?

"you don't know this yet..." logan huffs. "but you can stop time."

you scoff, thinking that you caught him in a lie. "no, i can't."

"if you relax like i said, then you can." logan mutters against your collarbone.

one of his hands slides up your thigh while the other rubs circles on your hip bone. was this wrong of you? if he is telling the truth –and it seems like he is– then technically he is your husband and it's not wrong to mess around with your husband.

"open up for me, babydoll." logan mumbled against your collarbones, placing wet kisses and nibbling on the delicate skin.

your legs spread with ease as his callused fingers rub over your cotton panties. the soft material of your dress is bunched at your tummy as he tugs your panties off, pocketing them for himself. his thumb returns to rub your button.

"p-please..." you whimper, looking up at logan with bambi eyes. "need more."

"anything for you, princess." he groans, slipping two fingers inside of you as gently as he can. this earned a loud moan from you when he nudged that spot deep in your gummy walls with ease.

"see how well i know my wife?" logan gloats, pressing soft kisses to your lips but never letting you catch him. "you usually prefer it rougher than this but i'm not cruel."

"y-you can go... can go faster." you pant, never having anything quite his size yet.

"i don't want to hurt you, baby." he says in a condescending tone. "wanna know something 'bout the future?"

it was difficult but you managed to nod your head despite how clearly fucked out you were at this point.

"a couple weeks ago, you came home telling me how much you want to be a mom; how you've always wanted to be a mom." he pulls back to look at your pretty face, lust darkening your eyes and slick pouring out of you, practically dripping down his palm onto the desk. "so, every chance we get alone you've been begging for me to go raw inside of you."

logan loved how even as you're all spread out for him, you're still blushing at his filthy words.

"look at you, blushing while you soak my hand." he mocks with a smirk.

"i'm s-so close, please!" you beg so politely.

his thick fingers pick up the pace as you clench down on them; jaw dropped and head thrown back. logan's other hand supports your back while your cute painted blue nails dig into his wrist as your climax starts to wash over you.

"hey sweetheart, look out the window." he chuckles, moving your chin to stare hazily out the glass window.

you couldn't believe it. every car, bird, street light, everything was stopped. everything but you and logan.

"how did you know that i could...?"

"you can't always control it but when you calm your mind, it's easier for you to do it."

"does it always happen when we...?"

"when we have sex...?" logan chuckles as you hide yourself in his chest. you nod. "no. over time you've found ways to control it. sometimes if we need more time, you might manipulate it."

"future me sounds cool." you giggle, lifting up to look at him. "how do we meet?"

"i can't tell you that." he smiles.

"well, then where are you in this timeline? how can i meet you sooner?"

"i'm not a very good man during this time, baby. you'll meet me when the time is right."

"what if you don't want me then? how do you know we will still get together?"

logan looks down at your pouty lips, swiping his thumb across it.

"i'll always come back for you. no matter the timeline or where we are in life; i'll find you again."

"promise?"

"i promise you, sweetheart. don't worry that beautiful mind of yours." he assures, kissing the tear strolling down your cheek.

logan reaches down and kisses you tenderly, pulling you out of the time freeze. suddenly the door swings open on the two of you. thank god, logan had quick reflexes, pulling your dress back down to cover you.

charles calls your name and then asks, "what are you doing?"

"it's okay, he's my husband."

a loud laugh escapes logan at your lovey-dovey tone, almost making hank and charles eyes fall out of their heads. you couldn't wait to meet logan again in the future.

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disneyprincemuke · 2 months ago

Text

the math homework problem * fem!driver

the rookie needs help with some math homework to stay in the scene and there is only one person around here who could help him

pairings: sebastian vettel x fem!driver, logan sargeant x fem!driver, george russell x fem!driver, kimi antonelli x fem!driver, max verstappen x fem!driver

notes: whoa noelle actually remembered rocky's existence? that's crazy

(series masterlist) | (📂 2025: fall from grace)

“math homework?” george raises an eyebrow as he looks down at his rookie. “you’re still in school?”

kimi presses his lips together, nodding. he drops his head and avoids the older driver’s judgemental gaze. “yeah. do you think you can help me later on?” he asks softly. he scratches the back of his neck and looks up. “come on. please?”

george blinks. “mate.”

the back of the truck is starting to get crowded, drivers like max and oscar hopping on as they engage in conversation. kimi notices this and takes a step closer to george, clearly embarrassed at his predicament.

he’d been so caught up with his first race weekend that he’d completely forgotten about his math homework.

“i’m serious,” kimi frowns. “it’s the only condition i had to fulfil to be able to drive in f1 this year.”

george is barely a graduate himself — why is his rookie asking for his help, exactly? george appreciates that his rookie thinks so highly of him. however, it’s just the wrong person to depend on academically. “finish your homework every weekend?”

“yeah, and keep my grades decent,” kimi admits through gritted teeth, “and i can’t do that if i’m barely keeping up with my math homework.”

george purses his lips. surely, there’s someone here that could help with said math homework. but who, exactly? he lifts his head and scans the back of the bus, thinking… and thinking…

“max!” george calls out, before he quickly beckons the dutch over to where he is. “i’ve got a question.”

max exchanges a worried stare with oscar as they cut their conversation short, before he walks over to george. “i swear if you called me over to show your rookie a fight-”

“kimi needs help with his math homework.”

kimi sighs, dropping his head low in embarrassment. sure, he is the youngest on the grid. but not more people need to know about his struggles with math.

“ah, mate,” max hisses as he shakes his head. “i’m not your guy for that.”

he turns around and beckons oscar over to where they stand. “oscar, we need your help.”

oscar hums curiously as he sips on his water bottle. “sure, what is it?”

��math homework,” george simply says as he points at the younger driver now pulling his jacket up to cover his flushed cheeks.

the smile on oscar’s face drops. “you’re still in school?”

“yes, i am. thank you for pointing that out,” kimi grimaces. “seriously? surrounded by 3 men who can’t help me with math homework?”

the longer they surround him, the harder he finds it to believe that not one person amongst them can offer him any aid. it’s just high school math. it might even be easier if they gave him a simple ‘no’.

“i used to get suspended for skipping homework for races,” oscar frowns. “i’m sorry, i’m not your guy for said math homework.”

“math homework?” logan pops up behind oscar, tilting his head. “that’s easy-”

“he will bring your average down,” oscar mutters.

logan rolls his eyes. “not me,” logan grins. he puffs his chest. “i know just the person who can help you with that.”

“sure, let’s let more people know that i’m bad at math!” kimi feigns a cheer, pumping his fists into the air. “should we get the media involved so they can tell the whole world too?”

“no,” logan scoffs, waving off the younger driver’s concerns. “trust me.”

oscar purses his lips and tilts his head. “i doubt you should trust-”

logan puts a hand up to silence oscar. he grins at kimi. “seriously. trust me.”

“oh, come on,” max calls out as he throws his hands in the air. “you can’t say no to this, can you?”

she folds her arms over her chest and nods, a wide smile on her face. “yes, i can.” she turns on her heel and starts to walk away. “watch as i do exactly that.”

kimi starts to get worried. he turns to logan, standing next to him, with a frown.

he is so going to get suspended for a weekend for not doing his homework. and god, it was the only condition for him to start racing so early, too.

he couldn’t even comply with that?

logan pats his back as he rushes forward, blocking off the young girl from straying too far from them. “he’ll buy you ice cream.”

“what?” kimi cried incredulously, arms in the air in despair. “i-”

max shakes his head, cutting kimi off. “do you want your math help or not?” kimi nods. “then be quiet.”

she raises an eyebrow as she keeps her sceptical stare on logan. “udders?”

“he’s a rookie, mate,” oscar finally steps forward, joining logan at his position. “he can’t afford to import ice cream just for you.”

she shrugs. “that’s too bad.”

she starts to walk off again. frankly, she would have helped for free. but with the past couple of weeks she’s been having, she is simply not in the mood to interact with anyone. much less relive the traumas of math homework as a full-grown adult.

it’s just not in the list of things that she wants to do this year.

“you don’t wanna see a good driver benched over homework, do you?” max tries to chase for her, grabbing her arm to gently yank her back. “come on.”

she looks over her shoulder and glances at the teen, awkwardly standing with his hands by his side. “maybe i do.”

“i did not think that would backfire at all,” max mutters under his breath. he takes a step back and sighs.

george nods, “completely understandable. have a good day, mate.”

oscar drops his head and hands in disbelief. has his best friend grown to be so cold over the winter break they spent apart?

“he’ll get you pepsi,” max calls out in a desperate attempt to get the rookie his much-needed help. the girl turns around and presses her lips together. “any soda you want.”

kimi nods frantically, a small smile spreading his lips. “any drink you want.”

she lets a moment pass. she turns around and faces kimi, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “fine. meet me at my garage later with a can of ice-cold pepsi.” she narrows her eyes and turns to start walking off once again. “i will turn you away if it’s not ice-cold.”

kimi turns to the group of older drivers. “where the hell am i going to get that?”

“i’ve got you, mate.”

— bonus

sebastian sighs, walking into the garage. he lifts his gaze from the ground and tilts his head at the sight: his driver is rocking back and forth on her seat, looking intensely at a piece of paper with a pen between her teeth.

he glances at the matt, sitting next to her, who shrugs in return.

“what are you doing, rocky?” sebastian calls out as he approaches her, eyes squinting as he tries to decipher what she’s doing. “is that-”

“kimi’s homework,” she mutters as she promptly writes something down on the paper.

sebastian gasps and opens his mouth to scold her. she waves her hand in the air to dismiss his concerns. “i’m helping solve it so i can teach him later. i’m not doing it for him.”

he audibly sighs. “okay. remember you’re paid to be a driver, not a tutor.”

“it could start to be my side hustle. you know,” she grimaces, "if the driving thing doesn't work out this year."

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valiumvenus · 1 year ago

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In the name of my friends, I am asking for help:

"Please SIGN and SHARE this petition against censorship at the University of Vienna! Give us back our lectures on Palestine!" 🇵🇸🕊️

TLDR: The University of Vienna is canceling lectures about Palestine, and disinviting scholars who have a pro-Palestinian stance; please sign & share the petition to show people everywhere care. The students' demands are listed in the petition. Anyone can sign.

Censorship surrounding topics of Palestine is nothing new - but in the last few months there has been an alarming increase in censorship, where artists have their exhibitions shut down, universities are setting up barriers to knowledge about Palestine, highly unserious articles with very serious accusations about academics are popping up, ... Now two lectures on Palestine were canceled, and another scholar was just uninvited for what he posted on his social media (pro-Palestinian content). A previous protest letter from the academic community was ignored by the University, and a recent sit-in there was met with an unnecessarily high number of police who intimidated the small group of protesters. That is the only reaction anti-Zionist protests yield. -> more info in the petition link

Why/How does the University of Vienna do this? Basically, any public criticism of the Israeli government is misconstrued as antisemitism. Then, the University disinvites the academics in question and cancels lectures, or forces lecturers to "adjust" their content. Scholars are being muzzled. The University doesn't want its students to learn about various perspectives on Palestine. Mind you, this is a public institution we're talking about.

The petition is intended to show the University that people disapprove of these practices. The argument of "safety" is brought up all the time, but at the same time, the University gladly erects barriers between their students and the valuable knowledge that would foster critical thinking and understanding. Palestinians are directly affected by this deadly apathy, and Muslim and Jewish people everywhere suffer from heightened antisemitism and islamophobia fueled by misinformation and myths. And at the end of the day, censorship is nothing but bad academic practice. It is an attempt to shape the minds of students by making information harder to access and to exclude scholars who talk about/are from Palestine. It's discrimination against Palestinians and it's shameless instrumentalization of Jewish trauma.

Anybody who is concerned can sign. Please share widely with any and all communities! The petition should go international! Every signature counts.

Say NO to all barriers to knowledge. 🇵🇸🕊️

#free palestine #signal boost #petition #censorship #palestine #gaza #west bank #university #pls idk how to tag shit..#academia #vienna

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youthguk · 11 days ago

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CUM LAUDE | JJK (M) | 📚🎓

Welcome back to his bed. Office hours just got a lot more complicated — turns out your academic rival holds a grudge... and knows exactly where to put it.

warnings: smut, professor x student (uni), explicit sexual content (18+), enemies with lingering desire, angst + hate sex, power play lite

⚠️minors dni ⚠️

Your heart plummeted into the abyss of your stomach, a free-fall of dread that left you breathless. It couldn't possibly be him. The universe wouldn't be that cruel, would it? Out of every goddamn face in New York City, why him?

"My name is Jeon Jungkook," he announced, voice like honey dipped in the kind of self-assurance that didn’t ask to be liked, but assumed it. You didn’t need the name. Every cell in your body was already burning like it had been branded.

“Calling me ‘professor’ sounds ridiculous, right? I’m only four years older than most of you. I just graduated recently, but I’ll be your guest lecturer this semester.”

He laughed, the sound soft and tinged with a practiced modesty that didn't fool you for a second. Your heart remained stubbornly unmoved while the girls around you dissolved into giggles, their cheeks flushing pink. Yes, those infuriating dimples could charm the skin off a snake.

How utterly predictable. You snorted silently, contempt burning in your throat. What twisted cosmic joke had brought him here? You'd been certain he was Boston University's golden boy, so what dark bargain had landed him at NYU's doorstep?

"This semester, we'll be studying Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems, and I'll try to..." His gaze wandered across the sea of adoring faces until, inevitably, it crashed into yours.

For the briefest fraction of a heartbeat, his face bloomed into a satisfied smile that made your blood simmer. The audacity of him, behaving like you shared some secret history, like you were anything but strangers with tangled pasts. Your fingers tightened around your pencil until your knuckles bleached white, nails carving crescent moons into your palm.

"Tell me," he said, voice shifting into something colder,the professor persona slipping on like a well-tailored suit that somehow still looked ridiculous on him. "When two countries are at war, who bears the guilt? Where does the ethical blame lie: with the soldier who pulls the trigger, the general who gave the order, or the historian who will distort everything in their texts? Or perhaps the blame lies with political leaders who shake hands behind closed doors?"

A whisper of unease unfurled, students exchanging glances. Not everyone had anticipated this abrupt tonal shift, this plunge into intellectual waters. A brave soul's hand twitched upward before wilting beneath the weight of Jungkook's expectant gaze.

“We talk about conflict as if it’s spontaneous. Like it’s a thunderstorm,” he said, voice wrapping around each syllable with deliberate precision. “But war doesn’t fall out of the sky.”

Your eyes tracked him like a predator follows prey; this wasn't the Jungkook you once knew. He'd evolved into something more dangerous, his confidence no longer a garment. And God, he knew it. Words of surprising eloquence cascaded from those infuriating lips.

"We build conflict brick by meticulous brick, in whispered agreements and handshakes exchanged in rooms where cameras dare not venture, in the rustling of expensive fabrics as world leaders embrace."

He prowled across the front of the room, Jungkook wasn’t just lecturing; he was performing, and you knew from the first word that he’d rehearsed this speech.

He'd crafted it for an audience hungry to be moved, to quote him on social media as if his words had changed the way they breathed.

“These classes,” he said, pausing near the edge of the platform and planting one hand casually on the desk as though the space belonged to him now, "won't offer neat answers tied with pretty bows. We'll wade through questions that leave mud on your conscience and dirt under your fingernails. I promise you'll squirm – " the corner of his mouth quirked upward, "– because we'll dissect the systems that cradle us while crushing others. You'll shift in your seats," he smirked, perching against the desk with casual dominance, surveying his kingdom of captivated minds.

A flicker of amusement danced across his face. “You will be uncomfortable here. And you should be. Because our comfort is paid for by someone else’s misery.”

You had to admit that the rhythm of his delivery was maddeningly effective. It had the rise and fall of something built for headlines and retweets, like the kind of TED Talk that people pretend changed their lives while they keep sipping overpriced lattes and refreshing their news feeds.#ProfessorJungkook would undoubtedly trend by nightfall. He looked out over the crowd, and you could practically hear the collective swoon, as if they’d all just been anointed into some intellectual cult, and you felt your fingers itch with the urge to smudge that perfect composure of his, to scatter his performance to the winds.

You permitted yourself a single, sharp smirk. Quiet enough to pass unnoticed by most, but just audible enough to slice through the sanctity of Jungkook's carefully cultivated moment. His eyes found yours instantly (of course they did), eyebrows lifting as something that looked dangerously like hope flickered across features too perfect to be trustworthy.

"Would you like to say something?" his voice cut through.

You smiled with the kind of smile that carries knives behind teeth, not believing at the exquisite timing the universe had handed you.

“Yes, actually. Sorry, maybe I misheard,” you batted your eyelashes with practiced innocence. “But did you say this course would be taught by someone who… graduated less than a year ago?”

You widened your eyes in theatrical shock, the gasp that rippled through the lecture hall. Jungkook's composure flickered for a heartbeat but long enough for you to catch it like a butterfly in cupped palms. The microexpression of panic that crossed his face was sweeter than any dessert you'd tasted in months.

"I completed my education and received a position here as a visiting lecturer based on..." he began, voice steady but eyes betraying him.

“Connections?” you offered helpfully, your voice all sugar-dipped politeness. “Oh, I’m sorry! Recommendations, is that what we call it now?” You tilted your head, all faux curiosity, watching his jaw flex with restraint. Your politeness was cellophane-thin, the aggression beneath it visible to anyone who cared to look.

“It’s just…” you glanced around, pretending to look for support, “some of us were expecting, you know, an actual representative of the academic body? Not someone whose biggest credential is quoting Sun Tzu on LinkedIn.”

A ripple of barely-suppressed laughter from the front row validated your performance. Watching Jungkook's jaw tighten sent a thrill through you that was almost electric, his eyes darkening to something stormy and dangerous that should have warned you away but only pulled you closer to the precipice.

"If you have concerns about credentials," he said, each word measured and careful, like someone crossing thin ice, "you're welcome to speak with the department chair."

Your thoughtful nod was Oscar-worthy. “Oh, I just might. I mean, I’m sure my parents would want a refund or at least a discount if they knew they were paying forty grand a semester to stroke the ego of a nepo baby playing professor.”

That one landed.

You'd gone too far, and the knowledge sat warm in your stomach like good whiskey. The muscles in Jungkook's jaw worked visibly beneath his skin, his bitten cheek a silent testament to restraint that clearly cost him .The room burst into hushed whispers and shifting bodies, the heat of anticipation thick in the air.

“I’ll say it again,” Jungkook bit out, voice clipped, every syllable polished with rage, “any questions or objections may be directed to the dean. Directly.”

Gone was the easy charm, the practiced charisma. He walked back to the desk, posture stiff. The presentation flickered to life on the screen, but the damage was done. His carefully cultivated aura of infallibility lay in elegant ruins at his feet. And all thanks to you.

You bit your lip, satisfaction curling through you. No one was going to ruin your fresh start. Not even him.

Four years ago.

“Don’t do this, Jungkook. Please.”

The words tore from your throat desperately hanging in the air between you like a prayer or a curse.Your chest ached with that peculiar pain that only comes from watching something precious slip through your fingers. There he stood, golden and untouchable, completely oblivious to how he was shattering your universe with each passing second.

God, it was humiliating but what did you know of anything else? What has your life ever taught you if not how to ache quietly, how to swallow back the lump in your throat and pretend it didn’t burn going down?

But this time it was different, it was about Jungkook. And he was standing in front of you, perfect in that effortless, cruel way that your fifteen year old self was head over heels for.

And he was about to ask someone else to be his girlfriend. Not just someone else but your sister! Your older, golden sister. The one the world seemed to orbit like a second sun.

"I don't understand!" Those eyes…god, those eyes! Fixed on you with genuine confusion. You remember thinking how unfair it was that he could look at you like that while breaking you. “Why?”

You could’ve laughed at that. How do you explain to someone that they’ve been your world since the first time you saw them?

Ever felt the ground beneath you dissolve into quicksand? That terrible sensation of sinking while remaining perfectly still? There you were, watching your sister steal another piece of your existence. First your parents' adoration, then your identity at school where you were only ever "Riri's little sister," and now Jungkook, the one treasure you'd foolishly believed might be yours alone.

Living in her shadow has become your default state of being. The hurt had calcified into something almost comfortable: a chronic pain you'd learned to carry with practiced indifference. Your ego had long since retreated to dark corners, curled up small and quiet like a wounded animal that knows better than to cry out.

But Jungkook? You couldn’t hand him over so easily.

And so your fifteen-year-old self, drunk on desperation and teen movies, made the kind of beautiful, terrible mistake that shapes a person forever. The butterflies in your stomach flapped violently, furious little wings threatening to break you apart as you inhaled once, twice, then took the plunge.

What if this was your movie moment? What if he looked at you and everything changed? What if the script flipped and you weren't the supporting character anymore?

“Because I like you,” you blurted, words colliding in your throat as they rushed to escape.

Usually, the mere thought of him painted your cheeks with betraying warmth.

But at that moment? Nothing but ice in your veins. A tremor starting somewhere deep and radiating outward. His face softened into that particular smile and you knew it before he spoke.

That wasn't the smile of someone whose world had just been rearranged by your confession. That was the smile of someone already looking past you, toward someone else.

“Sugar… you’re not serious, right?” He still smiled at you with the kind of smile people reserve for little kids who say silly things and don’t know any better. You wanted the floor to crack open beneath your feet, for the sky to rip wide and swallow you whole. Anything to make this moment vanish from the timeline of your life.

But the worst part was that you didn’t even feel embarrassed.

There was no room for shame in a body that felt like it had been gutted from the inside out. You were nothing but sharp pieces now, fragments of a heart too small to contain everything you felt, scraping and cutting at whatever softness was left inside of you.

“Oh God… you’re serious?” Jungkook’s voice faltered, just for a second, like he hadn’t seen this coming. Like the idea of you loving him wasn’t something that had ever crossed his mind. He took a small careful step forward like you were a wounded animal.

But you flinched away anyway, as if just the air between you hurt to breathe. Your eyes stung, the tears gathering at your lashes felt like betrayal.

“Sugar,” he said, voice low and laced with regret, “you’re like a little sister to me…”

Six ordinary words, blade met bone. He didn’t even know he was holding the knife. But he twisted it anyway.

"No, don't say that," you whispered, each word cracking like thin ice beneath a weight it couldn’t hold. Everything around you was already on fire, sinking fast into a place you wouldn’t know how to crawl out of.

“I’m four years older than you,” he continued gently, like that was enough to erase the ache. “This’ll pass, I promise.”

He reached for you again.

“I hate you,” you breathed, barely able to shape the words. Your lips trembled so hard it hurt to speak. “I hate you.”

His face fell, and for the first time, he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

“Sugar,” he tried again, softer now. “Please. This isn’t worth your tears. You believe me, right?”

But you were already turning, already running. Feet carrying you away before your heart could convince you to stay. That was the last time you saw Jungkook face to face: a moment forever frozen in time.

It was also the first time you understood with absolute clarity that in this vast, crowded world, no one stood on your side of the line you'd just drawn.

Present time.

Hatred has a color. Sometimes it bleeds into the jealous emerald of envy, that emotion you're not supposed to name, the one that burns beneath your ribcage at 3am. But you've never allowed yourself the luxury of envy, have you?

You weren’t allowed to, not as the black sheep in a house built to worship someone else’s light. Riri did this. Riri won that. Riri, Riri, Riri her name looped through your childhood like a song you never asked to learn, the chorus ringing in every quiet pause at the dinner table.

The curse of being born second is that someone always got there first, claimed everything worth having, left you nothing but scraps and shadows. No matter how bright you burn, you're always just a little too dim, a little too not enough.

Why can’t you be more like Riri? They never said it directly but it was stitched into your life with thread too fine to see, but tight enough to choke. Invisible stitches holding together the patchwork of your identity.

Here's the thing about pedestals, though: even golden things rot from the inside out. Sometimes people fall so madly in love with their favorite possession, they fail to see that it was never gold to begin with, just something shiny under the right light.

So when your older sister, after eighteen years of being the sun around which your family orbited, graduated high school and chose to stay in your sleepy town, enrolling at the local college instead of chasing some glittering dream out in the world, people blinked. Surprised, sure. But not shattered. Even your parents simply nodded, disappointed but resigned. Maybe this is just the level of our family, they seemed to think. Nothing extraordinary. Just enough.

You didn't celebrate her downfall (okay, maybe a little, in the privacy of your bedroom). She still had Jungkook, after all. Yes, you avoided him when he came home from Boston for long weekends and holidays, when he'd show up at the house to see her. You’d slip upstairs or vanish out the back door like a ghost.

But memories are persistent things, aren't they? And some wounds never quite close properly. You remembered him. Or more accurately, you remembered the precise weight of your heart as it shattered against the floor at his feet.

When it came time to apply for universities, no one really paid attention. All eyes were on Riri’s looming graduation, on the future she was supposedly about to inherit.

You worked in the shadows. Each Ivy League application is a perfectly crafted weapon, each essay a bullet aimed at the heart of your family's low expectations. Your academic profile wasn't just good—it was immaculate. But who had time to notice the quiet girl's quiet rebellion when the favorite child commanded every spotlight?

Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold. And patience is the secret ingredient. Victory isn't about winning every skirmish—it's about identifying which battles actually matter. You lost a thousand tiny wars throughout your childhood, but silently prepared to win the one that would define your future. The long game requires stillness, requires calculated moves made in the spaces between breaths.

“NYU?!” your mother shrieked, holding the thick envelope in both hands like it had caught fire.

“That can’t be right!” your father muttered, fumbling for his reading glasses to get a better look.

Riri stayed quiet, lost in her own thoughts. You knew she was genuinely happy for you, because beneath the rivalry and the comparisons, there existed this unbreakable thing called sisterhood. And even though you absolutely despised Jungkook for breaking her heart (the audacity, truly), there was this tiny, treacherous part of you that felt... relief? Satisfaction? You'd never admit it, not even in your diary.

But late at night, in those too-honest hours before the world begins to stir, and honesty creeps in through the cracks of your carefully constructed defenses... that's when you allow yourself to acknowledge it: you fucking won. You played the long game, and everything aligned exactly as it should.

Second semester at NYU, biochem major with a GPA that would make your academic advisor weep with joy. Life wasn't just good – it was intoxicating.

Victory tastes like city lights after rain, like those expensive croissants you treat yourself to before morning classes, like strong coffee that wakes up your mind. In this big city, you've become new. Your name belongs just to you now. No one says "Riri's sister" anymore.

You were the girl who made it out.The girl who left behind the town too small to hold her, and for the first time in your life, you were exactly where you needed to be.

This semester, your focus was razor-sharp: every assignment, every discussion, every line of every textbook was a stepping stone toward something bigger. You had your eyes set on an internship at the World Health Organization, a rare opportunity that demanded extra credits and a broader academic profile, which meant branching out into unfamiliar territory. So you did what any strategist does mid-battle: you adapted.

You enrolled in an interdisciplinary course far outside your comfort zone: Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems, a class steeped in geopolitics and moral philosophy, rooted more in theory than fact, full of endless reading and open-ended questions with no right answers. You didn’t love it. But you were ready for anything now.

Or at least, you thought you were. Because no amount of prep work or ambition could have prepared you for what happened next.

Apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and its name is Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“What the hell got into you?” Dery whispered sharply from the row beside you, leaning over the armrest.

It was a fair question, one you didn’t really have an answer for. Because it wasn’t like you had some solid reputation at NYU yet, not in a place this sprawling, this crowded with ambition and brilliance. But even in a sea of students, people had already begun to recognize you as the kind of girl who stayed quiet during lectures unless she had something brilliant to say. Definitely not the type to confront a guest lecturer on his first day with barbed sarcasm.

“Just felt like it,” you muttered back, waving her off with the flick of your hand as though it hadn’t meant anything.

The rest of the lecture unfolded without much tension as Jungkook regained his footing, and the classroom returned to its rhythm, but you didn’t miss the way a few students still glanced at him with a glint of uncertainty in their eyes, seeds of doubt planted about his qualifications, blooming in real time.

The rational part of your brain knew Jungkook wasn't actually terrible at this. He spoke with conviction, referenced compelling research, asked thought-provoking questions. And if it had been anyone else standing up there, any other young academic with a promising resume and a slightly self-satisfied smile, you wouldn’t have said a word. But rational thought had abandoned you approximately 45 minutes ago, right when those damned dimples made their first appearance.

You had barely gathered your notebook and slung your bag over your shoulder when his voice found you again, weaving through the crowd of students flooding toward the door.

“Miss Y/L,” he called, that signature calm barely covering the steel underneath. “Can I have a moment?”

Your brow arched instinctively, surprised not just that he spoke up but that he dared. Because if there was one thing you’d always known about Jeon Jungkook, it was that he didn’t shy away from a challenge.

“What do you want?” you asked, not bothering to mask the irritation in your voice.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to something softer. "Why are you like this, sugar?" he asked, voice dropping to that honeyed whisper that used to make your knees weak. The endearment landed like a slap.

"What kind of fucking sugar am I to you?" you hissed, feeling heat crawl up your neck. "Haven't you figured it out yet?"

"Listen, I'm sorry about what happened with your sister," he leaned in, words meant for you alone. His cologne was different now, less boyish and more intentional, momentarily short-circuited your brain. "I didn't want to hurt her..."

"Shut UP!" The words tore from your throat with such force that a few lingering students turned to stare.

“You think you understand anything about life? You think just because you got a fancy degree and a title, you suddenly have something worth teaching? You understand nothing, Jungkook. Not about the world, not about people, and definitely not about me.”

The poison of those words left a humiliation on your tongue as you turned away, disappearing into the steady stream of students leaving the hall, letting the crowd swallow you whole.

***

You never really thought of yourself as someone particularly persuasive. That was something you only discovered in the aftermath, in the lingering glances exchanged between students during lectures, in the slight shift of the room’s energy every time Jungkook spoke and someone hesitated before nodding along.

You had managed to plant doubt. Somehow, your little performance (half impulse, half years of pent-up resentment) had actually left a mark. And sure, you weren’t proud of it exactly, but the satisfaction came uninvited, curling warm and smug in your chest whenever you caught someone side-eyeing Jungkook’s lecture slides a little too critically.

But every action has its consequence, and this one came sharp-edged and dressed in tailored black, standing at the front of the classroom with a microphone clipped neatly to his collar and a vengeance stitched into the seams of his lecture notes.

Suddenly Human Conflict, Power & Ethics in Global Systems wasn't just another class, it became your personal battlefield. While other students breezed through readings, you found yourself hunched over textbooks at 3AM, fluorescent highlighting your fingertips yellow, preparing for the intellectual ambush he'd undoubtedly set.

Because Jungkook, with those eyes that still held galaxies you refused to name, had developed quite the talent for serving your own medicine back to you on a silver academic platter.

And today you sat at the auditorium in your pleated skirt and neatly buttoned white blouse, the picture of academic obedience, perfectly framed in one of the front rows where the projector glow cast soft light over the desk, your color-coded notes spread open like a ritual. You reviewed every line until your eyes burned and the words bled into your dreams the night before.

You looked like a student whom any professor would favor. Except for Jeon Jungkook, but given your emotional burst during his first class, it was expected. Expected but still annoying for you.

And now he stood there, leaning against the desk like it was his stage, sleeves pushed to the elbows, a pen spinning idly between his fingers. Jeon Jungkook, in black slacks and quiet confidence, posture relaxed and voice low.

“Let’s look at the third case in your packet,” he says, flipping the slide, a black-and-white image of post-conflict infrastructure crumbling behind rows of civilians. “This one’s particularly tricky: UN-led food distribution under military escort, but all local leadership is compromised. Humanitarian assistance becomes an extension of the occupying force. What’s the ethical liability here?”

His gaze sweeps lazily across the room, pausing just long enough to let a few hesitant hands hover in the air before settling on you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if this choice was inevitable from the start.

“Y/N. Walk us through it.”He is so casual, but you feel that sudden, unmistakable sting beneath your fingertips, like invisible needles pricking at your skin.

“The liability depends on intent, but more importantly on perceived neutrality,” you begin, slow but clean. “Even if the UN distributes resources fairly, using military convoys undermines trust and violates the humanitarian principle of impartiality. It turns food into propaganda. Aid becomes a weapon. In that case, the UN has an ethical obligation to restructure the delivery even if it slows response time.”

You wait for his reaction with practiced nonchalance, spine straight with the confidence of someone who's memorized the textbook just to spite him. His smile blooms slow, the way that something an untrained eye might mistake for approval.

“A polished answer,” he says lightly, turning back to the whiteboard, “but not a correct one.”

Your body goes rigid, pen clutched between white knuckles. The room suddenly feels three degrees colder.

"Your analysis rests on idealism," he continues, chalk scratching across the board in elegant strokes: operational ethics. The words hang there like an accusation. "But ethics in live conflict zones are governed by function, not theory. The UN's obligation isn't to appear neutral—it's to keep people alive. If military escort is the only option, it becomes ethically necessary, not unethical."

You breathe deep, oxygen scraping down your throat while whispers flutter behind you like startled birds.

“So,” Jungkook says, turning back toward you with a calm you could rip apart with your bare hands, “while your answer sounds compelling, what you delivered was a moral argument. Not an ethical one. And certainly not a strategic one.”

"But the Geneva principles—" Your voice rises slightly, refusing surrender. The academic hill you've chosen to die on suddenly feels very steep and very lonely.

“Don’t apply here,” he says, cutting clean through your sentence without raising his voice. “This is post-resolution occupation, not an active declared conflict. You’ve applied the wrong framework entirely.”

His expression is neutral, unbothered, as if he’s correcting a child who mixed up vocabulary words.

"And this is the third time in four weeks that you've made rhetorical choices over analytical ones," he adds with devastating smoothness, returning to his desk like he hasn't just set fire to your academic reputation. "Which is probably why your last paper earned you a C-minus."

Your leg starts bouncing beneath the desk. C-minus. The grade is so foreign it might as well be written in hieroglyphics. You don't get C-minuses. You've never gotten a C-minus. The unfamiliarity of academic failure expands in your chest, your eyes widening in silent horror.

This class wasn't even supposed to matter, just a wildcard requirement adjacent to your pristine science track. But it carries strategic weight you can't ignore. Without it and an excellent grade your application for the WHO internship you've been manifesting since high school crumbles to dust.

And Jungkook, with his perfectly tailored button-downs and devastating dimples, seems determined to salt the earth where your dreams once grew.

“I’ve sent feedback,” he continues, still maddeningly calm. “You’ll need to schedule weekly consultations with me if you want to pass. Otherwise, it’s unlikely you’ll meet the minimum grade required for departmental credit.”

The final brick hurled through the stained glass window of your academic heart. You feel your nails digging into the paper. You stare at him, mouth tight, as he meets your gaze with the same even expression he wears when assigning reading, like he hasn’t just taken a wrecking ball to your semester in front of twenty-five silent witnesses.

***

You don’t wait for any official invitation or carefully arranged office hour. You storm into his office the moment your last class ends, your backpack still slung halfway off one shoulder, your chest tight with a fury that’s been simmering.

He's there, of course. The inside of his office is insultingly calm. The blinds are half-closed against the pale afternoon light, casting thin, diagonal shadows across the desk where his laptop glows quietly, illuminating the sharp angles of his face in soft blue. He’s seated in the worn leather chair behind his desk, one hand cradling a coffee cup, the other idly scrolling through something on the screen.

“What the fuck is this bullshit, Jungkook?” You don’t soften your tone, and you certainly don’t censor your language. He doesn’t deserve that. “I swear to god, if you ruin this semester for me…”

If you sabotage my academic future the way you once shattered my heart, you think viciously, though you don’t say it aloud. You won’t give him the pleasure of knowing how deep the wound still runs beneath your ribcage.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even turn to look at you. His silence is infuriating, calculated, and cold, and it makes your rage bloom hotter in your chest, rising up like heat from pavement.

You just move, crossing the floor in sharp strides, planting your palms flat against the edge of his desk with enough force to rattle the ceramic mug beside his laptop, leaning over so you’re standing directly in his eyeline, close enough to steal the oxygen between you.

Only then does he look up.

"Perhaps," he says, each syllable pressed like a bruise, "you should have considered the consequences before your little performance. The dean calls me weekly now because someone," his gaze flicks over you like you're a particularly disappointing term paper, "has students questioning my qualifications."

He’s angry too, but he’s still holding it together.

“I don’t give a fuck,” you bite back, each word sharp, your voice trembling with the effort it takes to keep from shaking with pure rage. “I need this internship. You will not destroy this for me with your petty grading."

For a second, you think you’ve said too much, that he might see how close this is to breaking you. But then he started to laugh. And just like that, the blood in your veins begins to boil.

Jungkook rose slowly from his chair, his movement unhurried yet heavy with something that made your breath catch mid-throat, and as his body straightened, you instinctively stepped back, your legs brushing against the edge of the desk behind you, a pulse of heat already rising beneath your skin before he even reached you.

He didn’t stop moving until the air between you had thinned to the width of a single breath, and his voice, low and husky now, came like smoke curling beneath your skin.

“You’ve been misbehaving, sugar,” he murmured, and the rasp in his tone made your stomach twist so tightly you almost forgot to breathe. “And you know what that means — consequences. Whether you like them or not.”

You swallowed hard, spine stiffening as your fingers gripped the edge of the desk behind you, your body pinned between the cold metal and the growing heat of his presence. There was nowhere to run.

“You can’t do this to me,” you spat, but the words came out thinner than you meant them, your voice trembling. And gods, how pathetic it felt, because suddenly, standing this close, feeling his body so near yours that your skin was already humming, it wasn’t anger that was pouring out of you anymore. It was everything you’d buried. You hated that your voice cracked like you were fifteen again, like you were still that stupid girl who once loved him blindly.

He tilted his head slightly, one brow rising in quiet amusement, and for the first time, his gaze dropped. It moved over you with maddening slowness; over your parted lips, down the delicate line of your throat, across the thin white blouse you suddenly realized was still missing its last buttons. His eyes caught on the shape of your skirt as it hit mid-thigh, and you felt your cheeks burn hot with the realization of just how little you were wearing. When his eyes returned to yours, darker now, he swallowed hard, and your stomach clenched.

“You’ve changed,”his voice was close enough to brush your cheek like velvet. “But I don’t understand the hatred, not really. We used to be close, didn’t we?”

His eyes stayed locked to yours with a kind of quiet intensity that made your knees ache with the effort to stay upright, and when you couldn’t bear it anymore, you turned your head away, eyes darting across the room, anywhere but his face, because you could already feel yourself slipping into him, and you couldn’t afford to drown.

But he saw it.

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” he whispered, more realization than question, his voice curling around the corners of your thoughts like a noose. “It’s still about that confession, isn’t it?”

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the desk. How dare he bring it up. How dare he take something you’d buried alive years ago and speak it aloud like it still had power over you.

“Don’t flatter yourself, asshole,” you said with a forced scoff, tossing your head back as if the memory didn’t sting. “You’re not that important.”

He raised an eyebrow, slowly, like he could smell the lie on your breath.

Then he stepped closer. And suddenly, the desk pressed harder against your hips, your back arching to avoid the full weight of him, but not fast enough, because Jungkook moved like gravity, and the heat of his body rolled into yours like a tide you couldn’t outrun. He didn’t touch you but his breath fanned across your cheek, and it made you tremble in a way that only made everything worse.

And then his hand slid down, his fingers ghosted across the outside of your thigh, just the faintest touch, like he was testing a theory, like he wanted to know exactly how much it would take to make you unravel. Your body flinched against the contact, your breath catching so fast it burned. You gripped the desk harder behind you, fighting the moan that tried to claw its way out of your throat. The humiliation was dizzying.

His hand slid higher, palm warm and maddeningly slow as it followed the line of your leg, the pads of his fingers brushing against your skin. He watched your reaction, eyes flicking between your parted lips and the tremor in your jaw.

You lifted your chin, defiantly, as if to tell him you weren’t going to break even as your thighs trembled and heat bloomed between them. Maybe you had once loved him. Maybe everything you’d done since then was colored by that stupid, impossible crush. And you hated yourself for the way your barely-there panties were already soaked from nothing more than the brush of his hands.

But you weren’t the only one affected.

You could feel now the hard press of his arousal against your stomach, thick and hot beneath the fabric of his slacks, the way his body tensed ever so slightly when you shifted your hips. He was breathing harder now, his control slipping by the second.

“Seems to me,” he murmured, low and wicked, his mouth nearly brushing your ear, “that those feelings of yours didn’t stay in the past like you wanted to believe.”

His fingers reached the damp heat of your thongs, dragging slowly along the soaked fabric stretched over your folds, and when you gasped, finally unable to hide it, he smiled against your cheek.

“Tell me, sugar,” he whispered, voice dripping, hand pressed flush between your thighs now, “do you still hate me... even when your body’s begging for this?”

“It’s just physiology,” you breathed, head tipping back as your spine arched against the edge of the desk, your voice laced with defiance, though your thighs already trembled from the weight of your own want. Everything around you felt like fire and pretending no longer served you.

There was no shame left to hide behind, no mask of resistance you could wear without it slipping. But even through the haze of heat clouding your thoughts, you still wondered, stupidly, how far he would take it.

He leaned in closer his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, the low rasp of his voice turning your skin to static.

“Is that so?” he whispered, soft and sweet like poisoned honey. “Just biology, sugart?”

You barely had time to register the way his hand dipped lower before you felt the ghost of his fingers slipping past the delicate fabric of your panties. The moment he touched you, everything inside you collapsed in on itself, your body clenching around a pressure.

His fingertip circled your clit in slow, deliberate motion, and the world behind your eyelids bloomed white-hot as you gasped, your head knocking gently back against the wall behind you, lips parting with a sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“You like being the center of my attention, don’t you?” he hissed, and before you could even think of an answer he slid a single finger inside you, coaxing another breathless moan from your throat as your body instinctively clenched around the intrusion. “There you go, sugar. You’ve got all of me now.”

You swore you could feel the heat of his words pool low and deep, your body arching into his hand before your mind could stop it. When he pressed a second finger inside, stretching you slowly, rhythm tightening, you didn’t know whether to curse him or beg for more.

His pace picked up, fingers moving with practiced confidence, curling just enough to make your knees nearly buckle. Each slow thrust stoked the fire beneath your skin higher and higher, until you had to bite your lip to keep from sobbing out his name.

“Fuck, Jungkook!” you gasped, your voice breaking, your grip tightening against the edge of the desk.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your throat.

“Such filthy little words from a mouth that pretends to argue so well,” he murmured, voice silken with mockery. And before your trembling body could make sense of the shift, he gripped your waist, spun you to face the desk, and bent you forward with one sharp motion

You barely had time to gasp as your cheek pressed to the cool surface, his hand spreading across the small of your back, holding you there.

“You’ve been acting out, haven’t you?” he said low against your ear, no longer even pretending to sound kind. “Sabotaging my lectures. Cursing in my office. You think that earns you mercy?”

“My job,” he said, the words slow and terrible as his hand slid down again, now pressing firmly between your thighs, “is to correct my students when they misbehave.”

His words crackled through you like electricity licking across skin, each syllable laced with a dangerous promise that made your whole body tighten in anticipation for what might follow such a bold command.

When his finger brushed across your lips, your body responded before thought could interrupt, your mouth parting reflexively in invitation, lips closing gently around the pad of his thumb as you welcomed him.

You sucked him in without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut as your lips closed around him, tasting his skin while the other hand he hadn’t withdrawn yet kept moving lower between your thighs where you were already wet and pulsing and embarrassingly needy.

You arched your back instinctively, pressing closer to him, desperate to feel more: the firm shape of him pressed against your lower back through the thin barrier of clothing, the way your hips angled just right to rub against the heat of him as you offered yourself without a word. Every glide of his fingers between your slick folds was driving you mad with the sharp sweetness of pleasure that kept building.

“God, Jungkook,” you gasped around his thumb, your voice muffled and shameless, hips rocking into the rhythm of his hand, “please, fuck!”

You didn’t need to see his face to feel the way your voice affected him. The sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched, the way the rhythm of his fingers grew faster, more forceful, like he wanted to drag every sound from you and then some. He pulled his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, and the air that rushed into your lungs felt too sharp, compared to the heat inside your mouth and between your legs.

“Such filthy words again, sugar,” he growled low in his throat, voice rough with restraint as he yanked the hem of your skirt up over your hips, exposing your bare skin to the chill of the air. His palm came down hard and fast — a single slap across the curve of your ass that echoed through the quiet room.

You gasped, head jerking back, but it wasn’t pain that rushed through you, but something dizzying and primal and maddening. You wanted to see him, you needed to see with your own eyes how all of this was driving him insane too.

Your body twisted before you could stop yourself, craning your neck, just to catch a glimpse of the way his jaw was clenched and the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his eyes darkened when they met yours

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear, voice barely more than a breath now. “Go on,” he whispered, every word poured from his mouth like molten heat, “show me what you’ve got.”.

His hand slid up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat while the other resumed its rhythm inside you, deeper now, precise and merciless, curling just right each time he thrust into you, his touch finding that edge inside you with brutal accuracy.

You clung to the desk, body trembling, your knees barely holding as the pressure built and built and broke.

You came with a cry you didn’t recognize as your own, every muscle in your body tensing and shuddering as the wave of it washed through you, and Jungkook’s grip only tightened, one arm wrapped around your waist now, anchoring you as your body collapsed into the high. He held you like he wasn’t done, like he could keep you there for as long as he wanted.

“That’s it,” he breathed against your shoulder, his voice shaking with effort now, his lips grazing your skin. “Just like that…”

Time folded in on itself being slow and suspended, and somehow already gone. And you stood there, your body still humming, thoughts in pieces scattered across the hardwood floor, your heart racing not just from pleasure, but from the terrifying realization that this had actually happened.

You finally turned to face him, heart still thundering in your chest, and you met his drunk gaze. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted like he was still trying to catch his breath, and your eyes instinctively dropped down the line of his chest, lower, where the evidence of just how affected he was strained boldly against the front of his pants.

He was watching you with that look again, the one that made your knees ache, the one that made your thighs press together with anticipation, and the predator in him returned the moment you reached for his belt, fingers curling around the buckle as your lower lip caught between your teeth.

“You want me to help?” you asked with silky voice that was still breathing unsteadily. And you didn’t need to wait for his answer, because you already knew. The heat in your belly roared to life again at just the thought of what could happen next.

But then something shifted.

It was barely perceptible at first: just the flicker in his eyes, the way the fire in them dulled like someone poured water on the flame. And before you could register it fully, he was pulling away from you, untangling from your reach like it had never happened at all.

You blinked, confused, not understanding what just broke the air so violently between you. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he needed to physically shake the moment off.

“Shit,” he muttered with a tight voice, as if trying to clear fog from his mind. “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t know what came over me.”

He turned away completely now, and you felt the unmistakable burn of humiliation rising fast from the pit of your stomach.

“What the fuck?” you said sharply, your tone snapping like a whip through the room. “Are you kidding me, Jungkook?”

You reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward you, needing to see his face. What kind of game this was?

You knew you probably looked like a mess with hair tousled, skirt still bunched around your hips, but you didn’t care. He needed to look at you when he broke you.

“T/N, you’re… fuck, you’re Riri’s little sister.” And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

There it was again. Even now. In this goddamn room, in this city where you had fought so hard to start over, to be someone other than the shadow of the girl your parents praised and the boy you could never have chose.

You laughed but there was nothing funny about the way it felt inside your chest.

“Fuck you, Jungkook,” you spat, throat closing around the words as you saw the guilt beginning to creep over his face. But he had no right.

“Sugar, you have to understand,” he tried, his tone still soft, and maddeningly tender like he hadn’t just shattered the moment. “It’d be…fuck, it’d be weird. Don’t you see how fucking weird this is?”

He reached for you, palm open, voice almost pleading now, but you only scoffed, stepping back like the touch might burn.

“Wow,” you said, laughing without humor, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable. You had your fingers inside me not even five minutes ago, made me come on your hand, and now you remember it would be weird?”

You watched the way your words hit him and it hurt, god. Because he wasn’t wrong, and no matter how far you tried to run, your sister was always ahead of you, always waiting to remind you that there was nowhere on this earth you could be where Jungkook hadn’t already been hers.

“Sugar,” he whispered, voice breaking now. “Please don’t be mad at me. But…”

But he stopped, because he didn’t know what came after “but” .

A single traitorous and cruel tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it, and you wiped it away fast, angry at your own weakness.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jungkook,” you said, your fists clenched at your sides. “And I hate you. Because I begged you back then. Four years ago.”

He looked stunned, like something old and buried was suddenly bleeding to the surface.

“I told you,” you whispered, choking on the memory. “I begged you not to go after her. I told you it would ruin everything. Because I knew that even if you ever realized… even if you ever felt something for me… I’d never be able to be with someone who touched my sister.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said finally, his voice flat and full of disappointment. Maybe it was disappointment in you, in this situation or in the way fate had written your names. You wouldn’t know either way. “I can’t change the past. I can’t erase who I dated and who I thought I loved.”

“Yeah,” you snapped. “Because you’ve always been an idiot.”

And maybe you were, too, for ever believing this could have gone any other way. You weren’t that fifteen-year-old girl anymore, but the wound still opened like it was fresh.

But before either of you could speak again, a sharp knock rattled against the office door, jerking you both out of the moment like a plunge into cold water.

You exchanged a look. He cleared his throat first, tugged down the front of his shirt to hide the tension still visible beneath it, and dropped quickly into his chair.

“Come in,” he called, voice gravelly but steady now, his face slipping back into the mask of authority like nothing had happened at all.

You wiped your tears on the cuff of your shirt, pretending the fabric didn’t tremble under your fingers.

The moment had shattered, but you stood anyway, straightening your shoulders, chin high, just as the office door creaked open behind you.

A young man stepped into the room, his face bright with the flush of hallway wind and something eager beneath his skin. He looked about your age, maybe a year older, and though he opened his mouth to speak, his gaze faltered the second it landed on you. He froze in place, words caught behind parted lips, his eyes trailing down the curve of your figure and then darting upward again in a panic as if he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Professor Jeon…” he managed, voice hesitant and stilted, but his expression was still hooked on you, caught between confusion and awe.

You might have been flattered by that look if the man sitting behind the desk hadn’t just broken your heart for the second time in your life.

The boy kept glancing at you, obviously intrigued.

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Dan,” he said, each syllable clipped and flat, “what do you need?”

Dan flinched slightly, blinking himself back into awareness and tearing his eyes from you.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he said quickly, clearing his throat and looking at Jungkook again. “I wanted to ask about the STEM partnership track. I’m having trouble finding someone for the collaborative project.”

You narrowed your eyes just a little, you had no idea what he was referring to yet, but you were already intrigued. You could feel the familiar stirring of a plan writing itself.

Jungkook waved a hand, visibly irritated now. “Let’s talk about it later,” he said. “Not now.”

But your voice rose before Dan could disappear under pressure of Jungkook’s rising rage.

“No, actually, I’d love to hear more,” you said, your tone far too sweet to be innocent, your smile sharpened at the edges just enough to make Jungkook tense. “Tell me everything, Dan.”

You turned to him fully then, giving him your full attention like a gift, while Jungkook swallowed hard behind you, clearly regretting every second of letting you in this room.

“Oh, I’m Y/N,” you added, with a slow blink and a sly smile, extending your hand before Dan could hesitate.

Dan’s face lit up like a bulb and he reached for your hand, shaking it with more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, looking like he’d just won something by accident.

“Wow. That’s perfect,” he said, clearly trying to stay composed and failing. “I’m looking for a STEM major to co-author a research paper for submission to the International Undergraduate Ethics Review. I’m in International Relations, but I’m working on a project called Capital and Cure, which searches on the Ethics of Commercial Science. I need someone with a biology background to co-analyze the pharmaceutical case data.”

Your lips curled slowly, pleasure unfurling in your chest like silk. For a moment, you just looked at him, relishing how perfectly the universe had decided to reward you the moment it had tried to break you.

This was it. This was fate, pulling you out of Jungkook’s orbit and handing you a new path lined in gold. A co-authored study. A project that could very well secure you the internship at the WHO you had been chasing.

And the best part? It would pull you away from Jungkook entirely.

“Well, Dan,” you purred, tilting your head with a soft laugh. “You might just be the luckiest man alive.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jungkook tense, his fingers curling against the edge of his desk, jaw locked.

“Because I just happen to be exactly the kind of student you need.”

“No,” Jungkook said, and his voice dropped like a stone. You and Dan both turned toward him at once.

“No?” you echoed, raising a single brow, pretending to be confused. “And why exactly not?”

You knew he had no real answer. There was nothing in the rulebook stopping you from joining the project.

His voice lost the edge of command when he answered. “It’s a serious time commitment,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes. “You’re already overloaded. You wouldn’t be able to manage both.”

You laughed at the audacity. How dare he.

“In that case,” you said with a shrug, your tone so casual it bordered on cruel, “I’ll just drop Human Conflict classes”

That made him finally look at you. His eyes widened, and you watched the panic bloom in them as the weight of your words hit him like an avalanche.

Dan was still standing awkwardly to the side, clearly trying to process the tension between you, but you didn’t care.

“Wait,” Jungkook said quickly, his voice low, almost pleading now. “Y/N, don’t make rash decisions just because you’re upset.”

You were already exhausted by his backpedaling. You turned back toward Dan, your smile softening only for him, and your voice honeyed with victory.

“I’m not being rash,” you said. “This class has never been my strength. I was struggling before, and now? Let’s be honest, there’s no saving it. But this project? A published article in a peer-reviewed ethics journal?” You laughed again, almost breathlessly. “That’s what will get me into the WHO program. Not some useless grade in a class I don’t need.”

You watched Jungkook’s face shift, watched him reach for control and come up empty.

He said your name again, softer now, but there was something dangerous behind it.

But you had already turned away. You looked back at Dan, radiant now, almost glowing from the inside, and fluttered your lashes once for good measure.

“So,” you said sweetly, “when do we start?”

Dan beamed, still caught off guard by how quickly this was unfolding, his posture straightening with excitement.“Right now, if you want.”

You nodded and turned toward the door, your spine straight, your shoulders square, your heart still bruised but pulsing with fire instead of heartbreak.

***

Unknown Number: You’ve only missed three weeks of class. You can still come back.

Another message. You let out a long, tired breath as you stared at the notification lighting up your screen, the same kind that had been arriving several times a week, always on the days when his class was scheduled. You had never saved his number as there had never been a need. Your photographic memory, once your greatest weapon, had turned against you this time, because no matter how hard you tried, you had never forgotten Jungkook’s number from four years ago. And he, for some reason, had never seen a reason to change it.

You never open his messages.

Life, for once, was moving forward exactly how you had always hoped it would. There was peace again, the kind of measured quiet that came from knowing you were exactly where you needed to be. The research project with Dan was going smoothly, maybe even too smoothly. Somewhere along the way, things with him had become more…private.

Dan: what are you up to, babe?

The message arrived just as you were thinking about him, and your lips curled before your fingers even moved. You weren’t busy. In fact, you’d been missing his hands, his teasing mouth and the way he made you forget about things like Jungkook and his unread messages begging you to come back. Dan was a perfect distraction, and more importantly, he reminded you that Jungkook didn’t have the power to control your thoughts anymore.

You reached up and unfastened two buttons from your shirt, just enough to reveal the push-up bra you had worn today, the one that lifted your cleavage perfectly, and you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You looked effortlessly sexy, polished but not trying too hard, it would make a photo that wouldn’t even raise eyebrows on your feed, though tonight you didn’t want it seen by anyone except Dan. You hiked your already-short skirt a little higher, tilted your phone above you at just the right angle, and snapped a shot.

You looked it over, smiled in satisfaction, and typed out your message.

You: got any ideas? I’m free tonight ;)

With the photo attached, you hit send and tossed your phone onto the bed, the familiar flicker of confidence warming your skin. Dan would love it. And with any luck, he’d come over within the hour and erase the last remnants of Jungkook from your bloodstream.

But instead silence followed. Which wasn’t like him, normally, he responded within seconds, usually with a string of messages and a location pin. It was odd, but maybe he was busy. What a shame. Tonight's script will need rewriting – a solo performance rather than the duet you'd been anticipating.

When your phone finally comes alive with notifications – once, twice, three times – relief washes over you. There's Dan you know.

The moment you picked up the screen, your heart dropped, then began hammering violently in your chest. Your fingers went cold.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh FUCK.

Unknown number: I don't understand Unknown number: sugar, what is this Unknown number: Wait, fuck, I don't understand, who was this meant for?

Horror dawns you as you open the chat where Jungkook has been delivering his monologues about you returning to his class. The universe has a terrible sense of humor, and you are its punchline.

You clutched your head in disbelief, tossing the phone across the bed like it had burned you. How could you be so stupid?

More notifications came in, and with every buzz, your stomach twisted.

Unknown number: sugar, you better tell me this was for me

You read the words again and again, staring at them as if they'd rearrange themselves into something less possessive. The entitlement bled through each message.And how dare he? After rejecting you (not once, for god’s sake! but twice!) he had the nerve to act like this?

You: I’m not going to lie. It was a mistake, yes. it was meant for Dan.

You hit send with a shaking hand, your pulse drumming in your ears, and you barely had time to exhale before your screen lit up again. This time, it was a call.

You rejected it instantly. Who the hell did he think he was?

You: don’t call me. I don’t want to talk to you. it was accident.

Seconds later, the messages returned, one by one.

Unknown Number: Mercer Street. Apartment 27R. Unknown Number: Come get what you really need. Unknown Number: I’ll make sure Dan never even crosses your mind again.

You stared at the screen, blinking in disbelief. He can’t be serious.

You: fuck you. I’d rather spend the night alone than waste another second on you.

And you meant it as you hit send. And even as the next message slid in like a threat wrapped in velvet, you felt the fury rise to your throat.

Unknown Number: Sugar, don’t piss me off. That never ends well.

You let out a breathless, scornful laugh, half in shock, half in rage, your body burning from the nerve of him. He had no right to speak to you like that. No right to want you back now that someone else had your attention.

Your hands shook as you opened your messages with Dan, determined to make sure that this time, you would not make another mistake.

🖤read part 2 🖤

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an: this was such a hard month, I literally was moving from one country to another while starting a new job but still found time for this, which surprised me too. I wanted to write something like this for so long. I really hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this. Share your feedback 🖤

619 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 16 days ago

Text

Afterimage.

Yan Anaxa x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, and imbalanced power dynamics. Word count: 1k.

Anaxa scoffs at your resolve to prolong this stalemate.

His attempts to get you to stop ignoring him have proven unsuccessful thus far. Nonetheless, for an academic of his caliber, persevering despite numerous setbacks is second nature. His eye devours your being, cataloging every minor reaction as he verbally pokes and prods at you. He’s tested multiple methods to get you talking. Condescension, subtle and not-so-subtle threats, and even negotiation. His methods grow more refined with each subsequent attempt. He’ll discard what didn’t work and expand upon what did.

Through all this, you’ve learned that you may be stubborn, but so is he.

“Your petulance is losing its charm,” Anaxa remarks.

His fingers drum along the fine wood of his desk, a habit he adopts when seriously displeased. You don’t so much as acknowledge him with a glance. Instead, you turn the page of your book, even though the contents are mostly lost on you. It’s scrawled in a foreign script, like many of the tomes in his possession. At least this one has diagrams to look at, even if they instill you with a vague sense of foreboding.

You can hear the frown in his voice when he says your name. Resolute, you act like it was nothing more than the wind.

Your stomach turns inside out at the sound of his chair scraping, indicating that he’s getting up. He approaches in slow, steady steps, his shadow enveloping your form. Curiosity gets the better of you; you’re unable to stop yourself from sneaking a glance. He’s always had a weighty presence. His unbridled thirst for knowledge gives him an air of gravitas, demanding respect even from those who rebuke him. You’re no different. Deep down, you think you’ll always admire his intellect to some extent. It’s a sickness without a cure.

“Shall I take this as an admission of your defeat?” he asks. His provocation has its intended effect; you scrunch up your nose and furrow your eyebrows. “No? It’s the only conclusion I can arrive at. Your vow of silence must be owing to my superiority as a rhetorician; why else would you be so hesitant to contradict me?”

He’s trying to rile you up, you think. Don’t fall for it. For him to stoop to this level, he must be at his wits’ end…

“Come now, apologize, and all will be forgiven. Though you might be acting like one, you’re no fool. Surely you’re aware that there’s nothing to be gained from this stunt.”

You must be getting under his skin. He never talks down to you like this, even when you ask inane questions to get on his nerves. Great professors have an infinite well of patience to draw from. He might not mince his words, but there’s no cruelty behind them, only a desire to see you learn and grow.

You’re veering into uncharted territory.

You pull back from your book, giving the impression that you’re considering his offer. In reality, his condescension has strengthened your determination. It took every ounce of self-control you have not to chuck this ridiculously heavy tome at him during his diatribe. Irritated or not, for him to frame it like he’s doing you a favor by offering ‘forgiveness’ is inconceivable. The room’s tension eases as you feign thoughtfulness. Then, just out of spite, you exaggeratedly flip to the next page, amplifying the sound.

The silence that ensues is deafening.

In a flash, your book is snatched away, putting you face to face with a seething Anaxa.

“Twenty hours, forty minutes and thirty-two seconds,” he practically hisses out. “That’s how long I’ve entertained this folly. No more. I’ve learned my lesson — so shall you.”

The fear written over your countenance is reflected in his burning pupil. Seeing it, he pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighing. Nothing can diminish the affection he holds for you, it seems. You were never grateful for it before, but you’re clinging to it like a lifeline now.

The wrath that struck him like lightning… you never want to witness it again.

“You’ve been keeping track of the time, Prof?” Your voice is slightly hoarse from disuse. His eye widens slightly, then narrows, apparently not finding the comment as amusing as you do. “Are you moonlighting as a clock these days?”

“Brazen beyond belief,” he shakes his head. “Of course, the first words you’d speak would be at my expense.”

“Flattery may have broken me sooner.”

He barks out a ‘hah!’

“I wrote verses for you before. If memory serves, you found creative uses for them.”

You forgot about that. Admittedly, they were well-written and imbued with a cleverness only he could offer. They still ended up serving as fodder for various crafts and machinations. Origami, kindling for a fire, papier-mâché… You clear your throat. He’s still upset with you, bringing up those past endeavors isn’t in your best interest.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you aren’t.”

You shift in your seat, his antagonism making you uncomfortable. You’ve always wondered how far you could push him. It’s gratifying in a way — tormenting your tormentor. There are few outlets for your frustration that work as well. Now, however, you have to admit he was right when he said you stood to gain nothing from this.

You hug yourself and look at the floor. “What now?”

He goes quiet. Eventually, he takes a seat beside you and crosses his legs. Your gaze at his side profile, noting how he’s staring straight ahead instead of maintaining eye contact. That’s unusual. As if sensing your thoughts, he turns to face you, his visage unreadable. All you can discern is a faint pink hue on his cheeks. Has all this conflict gotten him flustered? That doesn’t fit the image you have of him in your head.

“There were nights where our discussions went into the morning,” he says. The yearning in his voice isn’t lost on you. “Heh. Especially when you were determined to prove me wrong about something. I’d refuse to concede, just so I could hear you a while longer.”

You stare at him in disbelief, a faint ache rippling throughout your chest.

“Let’s talk, as we once did.”

"About what?" you ask.

"Anything," he replies without hesitation. “So long as I can hear your voice… anything will suffice.”

#just a short thing for him because he lives in my head rent-free #yandere anaxa x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr x reader #anaxa brainrot #my stuff

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iitslera · 12 days ago

Text

off limits ✶ theo nott

english isn’t my first, Implied Intimacy, Slow Burn Romance, Brother’s Best Friend

── ✦ ──

There were three unspoken rules in the Zabini household:

Firstly: Don’t touch Mum’s wine glasses. Secondly : Don’t ask about the family business. And Thirdly Don’t flirt with Theodore Nott.

That third one…

Was Blaise’s personal commandment. One he gave you when you were fourteen and he caught you staring too long at Theo during a summer party. “Stay away from Nott,” he said sharply. “He’s trouble.”

You believed him. Until Theo started smiling at you like he wanted to be your trouble.

It started small.

He came over during the holidays to see Blaise and greeted you with a “Zabini” that sounded more like temptation than a surname.

At Hogwarts, he passed you in the corridors and whispered things like: “Nice earrings.” “You dropped this… unless it’s mine now.” “You always smell like strawberries. Is that on purpose?”

It was maddening.

The slow burn. The teasing. The fact that he never actually made a move… but made sure you knew he could.

One night, you found him outside the common room. Late. Alone.

You were wearing an oversized Slytherin jumper, hair messy, a book clutched to your chest. “Studying?” he asked, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. You nodded.

“Cute,” he said with a lazy smile. “Didn’t have you pegged as the academic type.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what type do you think I am?”

He tilted his head slightly. “The dangerous kind. The kind I shouldn’t like.” Your stomach flipped. Then he walked away like nothing had happened. You never talked about it.

Not when he sat next to you in the library a week later and read over your shoulder, chin in hand, watching your lips more than the book.

Not when he pulled you into an empty corridor after Charms just to say: “Tell Blaise to stop threatening me. I’m not scared of him.”

Not when you caught him watching you from across the Great Hall like he already imagined what you’d look like undressed.

No, you didn’t talk about it. Because Theodore Nott was your brother’s best friend. And this was reckless.

Then came the party. Slytherin dorms. Loud music. Way too much firewhisky. Blaise had vanished somewhere with Malfoy. And Theo found you alone. “You always hide at parties?” he asked, offering you his drink.

“I’m not hiding,” you replied. “I’m observing.”

He took a sip and handed you the glass. “Poetic.”

You smirked. “Always this persistent?”

He stepped closer. Too close.

“Want me to stop?”

You froze. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t force it.

Just left the question hanging in the air.

You looked at him really looked. Messy dark hair. Sharp jaw. Those unreadable eyes that always seemed to know more than they said.

And you whispered: “No, not really.”

The kiss was inevitable. It wasn’t sweet. It was stolen. Messy. Secret.

His hands held your face like he was trying not to break you. Yours gripped his shirt like you’d waited too long to finally let go.

After that, the world went quiet. Not because you stopped talking. Because you didn’t need words anymore.

It was in the way he looked at you in class. The way his fingers brushed yours for just a second too long. The way he walked behind you in the hallways, hand lightly ghosting the small of your back… just to see you shiver.

And you always did. The party raged on inside. Laughter. Alcohol. Loud music. Some students already asleep on the couches.

But Theo kept you away from it.

Your back was pressed against the stone wall in a dim corridor lit only by flickering torchlight. His body was close. Way too close. And on his face that expression of constant self-control… about to snap.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low and fraying, “how hard it is not to touch you when you’re near me.”

You held your breath. Not because of what he said — but how he said it. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Like he was fighting himself. Blaise. The whole damn world.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His eyes changed. Darkened. Turned hungry.

He didn’t move. You did.

Your fingers brushed the edge of his shirt, fabric soft under your hand just an excuse to close the distance.

And he gave in.The kiss was deeper this time. Slower. Rougher.

His hands slid around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear. Your lips moved with his in soft gasps. Your fingers tangled in his hair.

And for a moment, you forgot everything. Your last name. The rules. Blaise. There was only Theo. And the way his breath hitched as he held you like this.

When he pulled away, his eyes stayed closed, forehead resting against yours. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered like a confession.

“You shouldn’t want to,” you answered.

You both smiled a little broken, a little addicted. Because you both knew this night wasn’t ending here. He took your hand. Not like you were fragile. But like you were dangerous and he liked it.

“Come with me,” he said.

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t care. When you’re falling, the landing doesn’t matter. And with him… you weren’t scared to crash.

The secret became a routine. Sneaking around between classes. Stolen glances disguised as nothing. His hand brushing yours under the Great Hall table. Silent meetings in the Room of Requirement.

Everything carefully hidden. Everything done to make sure Blaise Zabini never found out. And it worked.

Until that night.

It was late. His room became your shared haven again, a soft couch, green curtains like his house colors. Theo had you curled up in his arms.

Kissing. Laughing. Breathing.

“I forget sometimes this isn’t allowed,” you murmured against his chest. He was quiet for a second.

“Sometimes,” he said finally, “I wish Blaise wasn’t my best friend.”

You froze slightly. “And what if he finds out?”

“He won’t take it well.”

Minutes passed. Peaceful. Dangerous.Then a knock. Three sharp bangs on the door. Theo stiffened. You sat up, heart racing. “Don’t open it,” you whispered.

But the door… opened anyway.

The magic of the Room let him in.

Blaise.

Standing in the doorway. In his pajamas. Wand in hand. Face unreadable. Fury. Disbelief. Hurt.

No one spoke.

The silence was louder than any scream. His eyes went from you to Theo. Then back to you. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” was all he said.

Theo stood up slowly. Didn’t hide you. Didn’t run.

“Let me explain—”

“How long?” Blaise asked you directly. Your voice barely made it out.

“A few weeks.”

He laughed. No humor. Just bitterness. “A few weeks,” he repeated, looking at Theo. “And you didn’t say a word. After everything?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Blaise snapped. “A fling? A way to piss me off? Or do you just want to prove you can take everything — even my sister?”

“It’s not a game,” you said firmly. Theo looked at you like you just saved him. Blaise didn’t.

“Of course it’s not. Because you don’t fall for just anyone, do you?

Then Theo broke the silence. “I’m in love with her.”

Your breath caught. Not from shock. But because… he’d never said it out loud before.

Blaise blinked like he’d just been hit with a curse.

“I can’t listen to this,” he muttered. “Not from either of you.”

And he left.

The next day, you found him outside the library. He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just… tired.

“Do you love him?” he asked. Straight to the point.

“Yes,” you said.

“And he loves you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hide it?”

“We were scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of losing you.”

That made him flinch. Because he didn’t expect that answer. Not from you. “You’re the most important person in my life,” you said.

“And you were mine,” he replied.

There was a long silence. Then he said: “If he breaks your heart… he won’t face me as a friend. He’ll face me as your brother. And he won’t recognize me when I’m done with him.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He walked away, hand on the door but paused.

And with his back to you, said quietly: “I always knew if someone could make Nott lose his mind… it’d be you.”

And then he was gone.

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thighsa · 2 months ago

Note

Fuck yes more noncon writers, professor Jihyo getting harassed by her students would be good

Request :

LOOK AT ME

TWICE Jihyo X Students

Warning : Non Con Smut (please don't read if you don't like it, thanks!)

The faint scent of rain lingered in the air as Professor Park Jihyo stepped into the dimly lit classroom, her footsteps echoing off the polished wooden floor. She was a stark contrast to the dullness of the room, her chic black mini dress hugging her curves like a glove, the one-shoulder design revealing a hint of her toned shoulder. The soft rustle of her dress was the only sound in the otherwise silent room as she set down her briefcase and arranged her notes on the podium.

Her eyes scanned the room, noticing the way the male students' eyes lingered on her, their gazes hungry and unabashed. She felt a shiver of discomfort but brushed it off, focusing on the lesson ahead. She was used to the occasional stare, but today felt different—more intense, more predatory. Jihyo took a deep breath and began her lecture, her voice steady and professional, but the energy in the room remained charged.

After an hour of discussing complex theories and historical contexts, she glanced at the clock, relieved to find the class was almost over. The tension grew as the minutes ticked by, the atmosphere thickening like the humidity before a storm. When the bell finally rang, the female students gathered their belongings and filed out quickly, whispering among themselves. Jihyo packed up her notes, ignoring the stares that seemed to burn through her back.

"Professor Park, may I ask you a question about the assignment?" one of the male students called out, his voice a little too eager. She nodded, turning to face him as the last of the female students slipped out the door. His eyes traveled over her body, lingering on her legs, which the sheer tights did little to hide. "It's about the research paper," he said, trying to sound innocent, but his gaze gave away his true intentions.

Jihyo's heart raced as she approached him, her heels clicking with each step. "Certainly," she replied, her voice tight. "What seems to be the issue?" The other male students had gathered around now, their eyes feasting on her figure. She could feel the heat of their stares, and her discomfort grew as the last of the female students disappeared from view.

The student cleared his throat, his eyes never leaving her body. "I just wanted to make sure I understood the criteria correctly," he said, his voice thick with something other than academic concern. "It's about the sources we need to use, and the depth of analysis required." His friends leaned in closer, their expressions predatory.

Jihyo's eyes narrowed slightly, but she maintained her professional demeanor. "The instructions are quite clear," she said, her tone firm. "Use at least five scholarly sources, and your analysis should be critical and insightful." She took another step towards the podium, hoping to put some distance between herself and the encroaching group of men. "Is there something specific you're having trouble with?"

The student took a step closer, his hand brushing against her desk. "Well, I was just wondering if we could go over it together, you know, one-on-one," he suggested, a smarmy smile playing on his lips. The others chuckled, and she felt the first twinge of fear. The room had emptied, leaving only the echo of their muffled laughter.

"I'm sorry, but my office hours are reserved for all students to ask questions," she said, her voice a tad shakier than she'd like. "Now, if you'll all excuse me, I have another class to prepare for." She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, the same student reached out and gently placed a hand on her arm.

"Professor Park," he began, his voice dripping with fake charm, "I really need to discuss this with you privately. It's quite urgent." His grip tightened slightly, and Jihyo felt the beginnings of a panic attack. She glanced around the room, searching for an escape, but the curtains had been drawn, and the door was now blocked by the towering forms of his friends.

"Let go of me," she demanded, her voice a mix of fear and anger. The student's smile never wavered as he leaned in closer. "We're just trying to get to know our professor better, that's all." His breath was hot on her neck, and she could feel the fabric of his sweater brushing against her bare shoulder.

The student chuckled, his eyes darkening. "Come on, Professor, don't be so cold. We're just showing some appreciation for how hard you work." His friends closed in, their smirks widening.

Jihyo's pulse raced, her mind racing even faster. She had to get out of here. She tried to keep her voice steady as she addressed the group, "I think you've misunderstood the situation. This is not appropriate behavior." Her voice was firm, but she couldn't hide the tremble in it.

The leader of the pack, the one holding her arm, leaned in closer, his breath hot on her ear. "You're so pretty when you're flustered, Professor," he whispered, his tone a toxic blend of mockery and lust. His grip tightened, and she felt a shiver of fear run down her spine.

Jihyo's eyes searched the room, desperately looking for a way out. Her heart was racing so fast she could feel it in her throat, but she forced herself to stay calm. "I'm not here for your entertainment," she said firmly, her voice carrying the authority she wished she felt. "Now, let go of me."

The student didn't budge. Instead, he leaned in even closer, his breath hot on her skin. "Oh, but Professor, you're so much more than entertainment." His free hand reached out, tracing the line of her hip before resting on her ass. "You're a role model. A goddess. And we just want to show you how much we appreciate that."

Jihyo felt bile rise in her throat as she jerked away, her eyes flashing with anger. "You're crossing a line," she spat, her voice shaking with restrained fury. "Let go of me right now!"

The student's smile turned into a sneer as he tightened his grip, his friends closing in around her. The room was suffocating, the air thick with their cologne and lust. Jihyo knew she had to act fast before they could overwhelm her. She swung her briefcase, aiming for the closest face, but it was caught by another student, who chuckled as he yanked it out of her grasp.

"Now, now, Professor," the ringleader said, his eyes glinting with excitement. "Don't be like that. We're just showing you how much we admire you." His hand slid up her side, cupping one of her breasts over her dress. She gasped, the material of the dress giving way slightly, and she could feel the coldness of his hand through her bra.

Jihyo's mind was a whirlwind of fear and anger. She had to do something, anything to get out of this situation. She took a step back, trying to put some space between them, but the circle of students only tightened. "You need to stop," she warned, her voice shaking. "This is harassment, and I won't tolerate it."

The students ignored her protests, their eyes gleaming with excitement. One of them stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the sequins on her dress. "It's just a little fun," he said, his voice low and taunting. "You're so beautiful, Professor. We can't help ourselves."

Jihyo's eyes searched the room for an escape, but the path was blocked. She felt a hand slide up her thigh, and she gasped, her skin crawling. "Get your hands off me," she snapped, trying to push the students away. But they only laughed, their grip on her growing stronger.

"What's the matter, Professor?" the ringleader cooed, his thumb circling her nipple through the fabric of her dress. "We're just giving you some extra credit." His friends chuckled, their hands roaming her body with no regard for her boundaries. Jihyo felt a surge of adrenaline, and she knew she had to act.

With a swift move, she brought her knee up, catching the student in the groin. He yelped in pain, his grip on her arm loosening. She used the opportunity to break free, pushing her way through the crowd. But they were too strong, too eager. They grabbed at her dress, her hair, trying to pull her back.

The fabric of her dress began to give way, the seams straining under the pressure of their rough hands. The sound of tearing fabric filled the room, and Jihyo felt a rush of cold air as her dress ripped open, exposing her lacy black lingerie to their leering eyes. She stumbled backward, trying to cover herself with her arms, her cheeks flaming with humiliation.

"Look at her, guys," one of the students sneered, his eyes raking over her exposed body. "Professor Park isn't so high and mighty now, is she?" The others jeered, closing in like a pack of hyenas.

Jihyo's instincts took over as she backed away, her eyes wild with fear. The room seemed to spin, the walls closing in around her. Her hands searched for anything to use as a shield or a weapon, but the desks had been pushed aside, leaving her vulnerable. "I'm warning you," she managed, her voice strained, "I'll call campus security."

The threat had no effect on the students, who only laughed harder, their eyes alight with the thrill of the hunt. As she reached for her bag to grab her phone, the ringleader was faster. He lunged forward, catching her wrist and twisting it painfully. "No need for that, Professor," he said, his grin turning malicious. He yanked the bag away and tossed it aside. "We're going to have a little private tutoring session."

Her eyes widened in panic, and she opened her mouth to scream, but it was already too late. Another student grabbed the torn fabric of her dress and shoved it into her mouth, effectively silencing her protests. She felt the material knot against the back of her throat, making her gag and her eyes water.

With surprising strength, she thrashed and tried to fight back, but the students were too many, their hands too strong. They held her arms behind her back, forcing her against the cold, unforgiving blackboard. The chalk dust tickled her nose, and she struggled to breathe through the fabric that was now a makeshift gag.

Her eyes watered as she watched him approach, the belt in his hand. He smirked, enjoying her fear, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin as he leaned down to whisper, "This will keep you from causing any trouble." With a swift, practiced motion, he secured her wrists, binding them behind her back. She struggled, but the leather held firm, the buckle digging into her flesh.

With a collective grunt, the students hoisted her up, her legs kicking wildly. They swung her once, twice, the world becoming a blur of desks and books, before releasing her. She felt a moment of weightlessness, followed by the harsh impact of the floor. The wind was knocked out of her, and she lay there, gasping for breath, her cheek pressed against the cold tiles.

Her vision cleared in time to see the ringleader undoing his pant, the metal zip echoing through the now-silent room. His eyes never left hers, the malicious grin still etched onto his face as he pulled down his pants, revealing his erect cock. The other students followed suit, their own arousal evident as they stepped closer, their eyes never leaving the vulnerable form of Professor Jihyo.

The sight of them disrobing sent a wave of terror through her. She thrashed and kicked, trying to get away, but their grip was unrelenting. One of them grabbed her ankles, his hands rough on her smooth skin as he held her legs apart. Another pulled at her tights, the delicate fabric giving way with a sickening rip, exposing her to their hungry gazes.

The ringleader knelt down between her legs, his hands gripping her thighs as he pushed them wider apart. Jihyo's breath hitched in her throat as his thumb found her clit through the damp fabric of her panties. He began to rub it in slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving hers. The sensation was unwelcome, the intimacy of the touch repulsive, but she couldn't help the way her body reacted, the way the fear and disgust melded with a begrudging arousal.

The other students had formed a tight circle around her, their erections bobbing in time with their racing hearts. They watched with greedy eyes as their leader touched her, their hands moving to their own crotches to start stroking themselves. The sight of their pleasure was like a knife to her soul, a reminder of how utterly powerless she was in this situation.

Jihyo's eyes filled with tears as the ringleader's thumb continued to work her clit, his touch a cruel parody of the gentle caresses she craved from a partner who truly cared for her. She could feel the fabric of her lingerie growing damp, the heat building between her legs despite the horror of what was happening. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight of her tormentors, but their heavy breathing and the sound of their hands on their cocks only served to heighten the sensations.

Her body betrayed her, responding to the unwelcome touch despite her mind's protests. She could feel the tension in her abdomen, the familiar ache of arousal that she despised in this moment. The ringleader leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "You're going to be our cumdump, enjoy it Professor Park." The words were like a slap, sending a wave of disgust through her.

The other students had formed a tight semi-circle around her, their erections jutting out like weapons of war. They began to stroke themselves in time with the ringleader's movements, their eyes glued to the show before them. Jihyo's body was their plaything, a toy to be used for their pleasure. She felt their gazes like a thousand tiny needles piercing her soul, each stroke of their hands a violation.

Her eyes searched the floor, looking for anything that could help her. But all she saw was the cold, unforgiving reality of her situation. Her body was responding, her breath coming in quick gasps. She bit down on the fabric of her dress, trying to muffle the noises she didn't want to make, the noises that would only spur them on.

The ringleader's thumb increased its pace, his eyes never leaving hers. She could see the excitement in his pupils, the thrill of having her, their professor, at his mercy. His other hand reached down to slip inside her panties, and she felt the coldness of his skin against her wetness. She whimpered, the sound muffled by the makeshift gag.

Jihyo's thoughts raced. She couldn't let this happen. She had to do something, anything, to escape. With a surge of strength fueled by desperation, she bucked her hips, trying to dislodge him. But he was too strong, too determined. He chuckled darkly, his thumb pressing harder against her clit, the pain and pleasure melding together into a toxic cocktail that made her stomach churn.

Forcefully, he shoved two of his thick fingers inside her cunt, the roughness of his skin scraping against her sensitive walls. She couldn't hold back the cry of pain and humiliation that tore from her throat, the sound muffled by the fabric. He didn't stop there. He began to pump his fingers in and out of her, the rhythm growing faster and more brutal with each thrust. His other hand curled around the plump flesh of her ass, and with a sadistic smirk, he raised it to deliver a hard smack.

The impact made her whole body jolt, the pain shooting through her like a bolt of lightning. Her ass cheek burned, and she could feel the imprint of his hand as if it was branded onto her skin. But he wasn't satisfied with just one. He continued to spank her, his hand landing with a series of sharp smacks that grew in intensity until her skin was swollen and red. She could feel the heat radiating from the spot, and she knew that if she could see herself, she'd be horrified at the sight of her own body.

Her eyes locked onto the ring of students surrounding her, their own arousal palpable. One of them had stepped closer, his eyes glued to her bouncing breasts. He reached out tentatively, as if afraid she might bite, and brushed the pad of his thumb over her nipple. It hardened beneath his touch, and she felt a bolt of unwanted pleasure shoot through her body.

The student's eyes grew wide as he watched her reaction, and then he grinned, emboldened by her body's betrayal. He leaned in, his breath hot against her chest, and Jihyo felt a surge of revulsion. He reached behind her and with one swift move, unclasped her bra, letting her heavy breasts spill out into his eager hands. He took one in his hand, squeezing it like it was a squishy ball, his eyes never leaving hers as he enjoyed her unwilling display of vulnerability.

Another student stepped forward, his hand shaking with excitement as he reached out to touch her. He traced the line of her neck with his index finger, his eyes glued to the soft mounds of her breasts. He leaned in, his nose mere inches from her cleavage, and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her arousal. She felt his hot breath against her skin and had to fight the urge to gag.

With a grin that sent chills down her spine, he stepped back, unzipping his own pants. He pulled out his cock, already thick and engorged. Jihyo's eyes widened in horror as he began to stroke himself, his eyes never leaving hers. The sound of his hand moving up and down the shaft filled the room, a sickening soundtrack to her nightmare.

"Look at me, Professor," he demanded, his voice low and commanding. Jihyo's eyes flicked up, unable to look away from the obscene display. His strokes grew quicker, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close, she could tell, and she braced herself for what was to come.

The student leaned over her, his cock just an inch from her nose. His hand moved with a feverish intensity, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. The scent of his arousal filled her nostrils, and she wanted to gag. The room was spinning, the world narrowing down to this one, horrific moment.

And then it happened. With a grunt, the student came, spurting his hot seed onto her face. The salty warmth splattered across her cheek, her forehead, and into her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, but not before catching a glimpse of his triumphant grin. The others cheered, their excitement only growing. The sticky fluid trickled down her face, a degrading reminder of her powerlessness.

As the ringleader's minion stepped back, another took his place, his phone out and ready to capture every humiliating second. His thumb hovered over the record button, his eyes gleaming with excitement. The coldness of the screen pressed against her skin as he positioned it to get the best angle. Jihyo's heart sank. This wasn't just a moment of horror to be endured and forgotten. This would be a permanent record, a digital trophy for these monsters to share and revel in.

The camera rolled, the red light a silent, mocking eye that bore into her soul. She could feel the lens zoom in on her face, capturing the fear, the pain, and the betrayal that swirled in her eyes. The sound of the recording filled the room, a cold digital click that seemed to amplify every ragged breath she took. The ringleader chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers as he watched the scene unfold from the screen.

One by one, the students approached, their cocks hard and eager. They took turns, their hands trembling with excitement as they painted her body with their sticky, white fluid. Each time, she felt a fresh wave of humiliation crash over her, the reality of her situation becoming more and more unbearable. The first spurted onto her chest, the second onto her face, the third onto her breasts. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the sight, but she could feel the warmth spreading across her skin, a brand of their conquest.

The fourth and fifth students aimed for her thighs, the coolness of their cum a stark contrast to the heat of their lust. The sensation was like a thousand tiny pinpricks, each one a reminder of her helplessness. She could feel the stickiness of it seep into her high stockings, the fabric that are clinging to her skin. The sixth and seventh focused on her ass, the wetness of their cum sliding down her cheeks and pooling around the waistband of her torn panties.

Jihyo's eyes remained tightly shut, but she couldn't escape the sounds of their pleasure, the wet smacks of flesh meeting flesh, the grunts and gasps that filled the room. She could feel the warmth of their semen on her skin, the sticky mess that was slowly spreading across her body. The eighth student took his time, stroking himself as he stared at her sexy tight lingerie. He leaned in, whispering obscenities into her ear, his breath hot and wet. And when he finally came, it was with a roar that sent shivers down her spine, the first ropes of cum splattering onto her inner thighs.

The last student, the ringleader, stepped forward, his cock rock hard. He grabbed the fabric still stuffed in her mouth and yanked it out with a cruel smirk. She coughed and gagged, her mouth open in shock and horror. Without a moment's hesitation, he shoved his dick inside, choking her as he began to fuck her mouth. She tried to resist, to push him away, but his grip on her neck was like iron, cutting off her air supply. She could feel the veins in her throat bulging as she struggled to breathe.

Jihyo's eyes watered, her vision blurring as she fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. His cock was thick and unyielding, filling her mouth completely, the taste of him making her want to retch. She could feel the pulse of his arousal against her tongue, the way he enjoyed her pain, her fear. The pressure grew, the room spinning around her, and she realized with a sickening clarity that she might pass out if he didn't release her soon.

Her hands were bound behind her back, so she couldn't push him away. Her legs were spread, her body on full display for the other students, who watched with a mix of horror and fascination. She could hear the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth, the slap of his balls against her chin. Her jaw grew sore from the relentless pounding, and she could feel her mouth stretching to accommodate his size.

The ringleader's grip on her throat tightened, and she felt the first spark of true panic. She couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but take the abuse. The room was spinning, and dark spots danced before her eyes. Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he pulled out, a line of saliva connecting his cock to her mouth. She gasped for air, choking and coughing, the taste of him still strong on her tongue.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming with malicious pleasure. Then, without warning, he slapped her face hard, the sound echoing in the room like a gunshot. Jihyo's head snapped to the side, pain blooming on her cheek. Before she could react, he slapped her again, and again, the sharp sting of his palm against her skin sending shockwaves through her body.

Her eyes watered, and she felt a warm trickle of blood seep from the corner of her mouth. The ringleader leaned in, his cock still slick with her saliva. He slapped her face once more, but this time with the full length of his erection. The pain was exquisite, a mix of agony and degradation that made her want to weep. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

With a sadistic smirk, he slapped her again, his dick hitting her cheek with a wet smack that made her stomach heave. And again, his movements growing more and more forceful, as if he was trying to imprint his dominance onto her very soul. Jihyo's eyes remained locked with his, a silent scream trapped behind her gag, her body trembling with fear and anger.

The ringleader's friends watched with a mix of excitement and unease, their own orgasms forgotten as they awaited the grand finale of their twisted spectacle. The anticipation was palpable, a thick tension that seemed to coil around her throat, choking her. And then, with a final brutal thrust, he pushed his cock back into her mouth, so deep she felt the head hit the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering as she struggled to breathe, her tongue pinned against the roof of her mouth.

The pressure built, and she knew what was coming. With a triumphant grunt, he came, his warm cum flooding her mouth. She couldn't help but swallow, the salty taste filling her senses, making her stomach churn. He held her head in place, forcing her to take every last drop, his eyes never leaving hers, drinking in her humiliation. When he was finished, he pulled out with a wet pop, a strand of cum connecting his cock to her swollen lips.

With a smirk, he wiped his cock clean on her cheek before tucking it back into his pants. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Jihyo felt a cold dread fill her as she watched him tap out a message, his grin growing wider by the second. And then, with a cruel flourish, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, "You're going to be famous, Professor."

The ringleader snapped a photo, capturing her in her most degrading and vulnerable state. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, her makeup smeared by the cum and tears. Her dress was torn, her breasts spilling out of her ruined lingerie, and her legs were still splayed open, revealing her wet pussy. The picture was a testament to their power over her, a trophy of their depravity.

With a wicked grin, he opened the student group chat on his phone and added her to the conversation. He watched as her phone vibrated with the notification, the screen lighting up with the message. Jihyo's eyes followed his movements, understanding what he was doing. The realization of what was to come only served to heighten her panic.

He held up his phone, the picture of her displayed proudly for all to see. "Everyone," he announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction, "meet our newest member, Professor Jihyo." He posted the image, and she watched in horror as it uploaded, the spinning wheel of doom sealing her fate. The chat exploded with messages, a cacophony of emojis and lewd comments from the members that made her want to vomit.

"Remember, Professor," he continued, his hand stroking the length of her cheek with the same hand that had just moments ago been wrapped around his cock, "everytime we want you, you have to come, like a dog." His words were a vile promise, a declaration of ownership that sent a chill down her spine. "And if you don't," he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear, "you'll be a famous star, not just in this college, but online."

The threat was clear, the implication terrifying. Jihyo's heart hammered in her chest as she took in the leering faces of her tormentors. The room was a haze of lust and malice, and she knew she was fighting a battle she could not win.

THE END

#anon ask #qna time #kpop gg #kpop gg smut #kpop girl group smut #kpop girl noncon #kpop noncon #kpop noncon smut #twice #twice smut #twice jihyo #jihyo #park jihyo #jihyo smut #jihyo x reader

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syrecjh · 23 days ago

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(A request: Project Partner Katsuki x reader)

You never meant to assume anything. Truly. You were the type to keep your head down, finish your notes, follow the rules (well, most of them), and definitely not fall into the trap of thinking a boy like Katsuki Bakugo could be watching you from across the classroom like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t solve.

But it was hard not to notice.

Like how he always managed to snag the seat next to you during lectures — even when Kaminari pouted and Kirishima tried to tug him into their usual row. Or the way he passed you the last pen when Aizawa asked for note-taking volunteers, his fingers brushing yours too slowly for it to be by accident.

And those eyes — sharp, crimson, relentless — you’d caught them on you more than once. Not just glancing. Watching. Like you were a question on the board he was quietly solving.

So when group pairings were assigned for the final project and your name was read aloud alongside his, your stomach did that traitorous flip — the one it did every time he said your name without looking at anyone else.

And now here you were. In your dorm room. At midnight. With him.

You told yourself it was because the common areas were packed — people sprawled across the couches and kitchen tables, yelling over each other and chugging instant coffee like it was oxygen. You told yourself it was strictly academic, strictly business. And yet.

Bakugo sat on your floor, elbows resting on his knees, leaning back just enough that his shirt tugged up at the hem. His notes were neat. His answers quick. But he wasn’t reading the textbook.

He was staring at you again.

You tried to ignore it. You really did. But the tension between you was a livewire — flickering at the edges of every silence, every time you passed him a book or clicked your pens in unison.

“Did you write down the—” you began, and that’s when you felt it.

His gaze.

Heavy. Hot. Real.

“What?” you blinked, meeting his eyes.

He was already looking at you like he was deciding something dangerous.

And then he muttered it — almost absent, like a thought that slipped past his guard.

“You’re pretty when you’re focused.”

Your heart thudded. “What?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in, elbows on his knees now, closer. The quiet hum of your desk lamp caught on the scar at the corner of his mouth.

“I said you’re pretty.” His voice was low, gravel dipped in certainty. “And it’s distracting.”

You froze. “Bakugo—”

“I’ve been tryin’ to study,” he cut you off, now crawling just a bit closer, voice going lower, “but all I’m thinking about is how close I am to kissin’ you.”

You blinked. “W-what?”

And before you could breathe, he was there — hands on either side of your chair, eyes locked on yours. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just hovered like a storm on the verge of breaking.

“Can I?” he asked.

You didn’t know what possessed you, whether it was his voice or the way your heart felt like it was cracking open — but you nodded.

So he kissed you.

And it was every bit the explosion he kept caged behind his scowl. Fierce, warm, tender in the way only Katsuki Bakugo could be when the whole world wasn’t watching.

When he pulled away, his breath was still on your lips.

“Be my girlfriend,” he said, like he was stating a fact. Not asking. Just finally saying it.

You blinked again, dazed. “What the hell?”

“I’ve been waitin’,” he muttered. “You knew. You always knew.”

Your cheeks were burning. “You could’ve—I don’t know—said something?”

He grunted. “I’m sayin’ it now.”

And in that moment — half your textbooks forgotten, your cheeks warm, your heartbeat sprinting — you could only laugh, breathless.

“You’re gonna have to work for it, Katsuki.”

He smirked, leaning in again. “Then I guess I’ll start now.”

And he kissed you again — softer this time, slower, like a promise.

Outside, someone knocked on the door. Probably Iida yelling about curfew. But for once, you didn’t care.

Because Bakugo had finally said it.

And you?

You’d been waiting too.

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mahmoudalmasrifund · 11 months ago

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Story

I am Mahmoud Al-Masri, I'm 21 years old, living at the Gaza Strip, an academic student majoring in Graphic Design.

I am here to ask for your support to complete my university education, the Israeli occupation destroyed universities and colleges in the Gaza Strip and destroyed education facilities, youth support institutions and training spaces that aim to provide training for all disciplines and then provide job opportunities for young people, most of which were destroyed.

We used to have a beautiful life, despite the siege on Gaza and the wars on it. We used to have a house and now we live in a tent "displaced", we used to have dreams and we pursued them and still do, we used to go to the sea which is the only breathing space for the people of the Gaza Strip, we used to live peacefully despite all the siege. We here in Gaza have brilliant and innovative minds that learn medicine, technology, professional specialties, agriculture, industry, trade and all specialties, we just need someone to support us, appreciate what we do and motivate us to keep going.

Help me

October 7, 2023 is a date that I will never forget, we were displaced about 8 times and lived through terror and destruction and are still living it, we saw death with our own eyes and survived death several times, our features changed, we became young people instead of worrying about our future, we became tired of securing water and food for our family and carrying water from a distant place to the tent is very tiring, our bodies are tired of the weights we carry daily and the diseases that spread and we don't know what's next.

I decided to pay back my knowledge and the information I gained from study, search, and workshops by share it on social media. I will answer on everyone's questions, and make webinars as my teachers do with us.

These ideas will help educational community to grows.

My goal in launching my campaign is to raise funds to complete my university studies outside my city, to cover the costs of travel, housing, food, the costs of the university I will attend, and I am currently looking for a distinguished university in the field of graphic design. I asked my friends who attended universities in Europe to suggest some universities, and among my goals after studying is to provide a safe and stable place to live with my family.

I would be very grateful for your support for me and my educational journey.

I wish you a life full of happiness and prosperity

@el-shab-hussein @ibtisams @nabulsi @90-ghost @tamamita @apollos-olives

@wayneradiotv @anyonghalimaw @zigcarnivorous @aleciosun @fluoresensitivearchived @khizuo @schoolhater @timogsilangan

@appsa @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriad-o @palestinegenocide @sar-soor @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist

@tortiefrancis @feluka @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @visenyasdragon @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @kordeliiius @brutaliakent @raelyn-dreams

@troythecatfish @theropoda @tamarrud @northgazaupdates2 @queerstudiesnatural @4ft10tvlandfangirl @skatezophrenic

@awetistic-things @camgirlpanopticon @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabuo @sygutka @junglejim4322 @heritageposts

@chososhairbuns @palistani @dlxxv-vetted-donations @imjustheretotrytohelp @mnty-bubblegmyum

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dreamersparacosm · 3 months ago

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jeon jungkook - off the record (part one)

part one ; breaking news and breaking points

warnings ; none!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; okay. hi. hello. me again! this authors note is going to be delirious because it is quite literally 2am as i edit this and i am shot. regardless — welcome to off the record! this is my baby. my child. my toddler who can’t walk or speak yet but the concept is there

let’s get one thing straight: i am NOT a politician. i do not work in politics, i do not enjoy american politics and i most certainly am no expert. i almost failed government in high school. i’m not sure of the accuracy of White House journalism but i do know one thing. i tried my very best!! so gold star for ang <3

anyway! welcome to the disaster. this is a rom-com, emphasis on the com because these two idiots are so deep in denial. we’re talking enemies-to-lovers, but in the “we’ve been rivals since college and now sit two rows apart at white house briefings” kind of way. grab some tea. snuggle your cat. scream into a pillow. idk, whatever works for you

playlist here

series masterlist here

The thing about White House press briefings is, if you don’t speak fast, Jungkook Jeon will.

And then you’ll have to watch his stupid little smirk on the screens in the newsroom all night while your editor asks why you didn’t ask the damn question.

You raise your hand, nearly leap out of your seat to deliver the inquiry you scribbled messily in the margins of your notepad. It’s something about a new federal rollout; dry on paper, but a minefield of public and private backdoor deals if you phrase it right. The question is halfway out of your mouth before—

“Secretary Thompson,” comes a voice from three rows back, “can you clarify whether the administration still plans to partner with private sector organizations despite last quarter’s concerns?”

Goddamnit.

You slump in your chair. Of course he gets there first.

It’s a clean question. Sharp. Subtle accusation wrapped in neutral intonation. The kind of question that makes cabinet members pause and choose their words very carefully, which Secretary Thompson now does, leaning forward and clearing her throat, visibly recalibrating.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the damn room. The entire Metro ride spent rehearsing that question, complete with dramatic pauses practiced between stops, has been hijacked by someone who waited until your mouth formed the first syllable before swooping in.

You turn slowly, against your better judgement. The muscles on your face achieve that special brand of neutrality that actually translates to: I'm mentally signing you up for a lifetime subscription to minor inconveniences. May your phone forever hover at 1% battery and may your socks perpetually slip down inside your shoes.

Three rows behind sits the human embodiment of your nightmares, looking like he just won a gold medal in the sport of Question Sniping, expression carrying a level of smugness you want to smack right off his face. And like, yeah, it’s fine that he beat you to the punch but you’re oddly impressed by how effortlessly he did it.

He’s sporting a black suit with no tie. Because heaven forbid he follow even the most basic protocols of professionalism. Elbow slung across the chair next to him like this is a casual Monday coffee run and not a federal media gauntlet. He’s already relaxing in his seat like he didn’t just outflank you in broad daylight.

He grins at you from across the pressroom, a perfect display of professionally whitened teeth that makes you contemplate the legality of throwing your pen across the room.

Disgusting.

You whip your head back to the front before you commit a felony in front of a sitting cabinet member. Immediately, you’re pulling your phone out of your back pocket, opening up iMessage.

Okay, count to ten. One, two, three…

Mentally, you’re trying to imagine your therapist's voice saying something about "workplace appropriate responses to colleagues” (although your therapist has never met Jeon Jungkook and is therefore woefully unprepared to provide relevant advice in this situation.)

Physically, your jaw tightens with the force of some unspoken comeback.

He always does this.

And the worst part isn't just that his strategy works consistently, or that Secretary Thompson is now giving a rehearsed answer that will yield exactly one (1) usable quote for his article; it's that microscopic part of you that recognizes the brilliance of his approach.

You learned this the hard way four years ago, during your very first White House press briefing fresh out of Columbia University, notepad filled with questions you’d rewritten five different times, trying not to sweat through your blouse because Jungkook was five seats away.

You hadn’t seen him since graduation. Not since he walked off that stage behind you; second in your class, already being courted by every network with a pulse. You’d hoped that being hired at competing outlets might mean distance. Space to build your career without having to look over your shoulder every time you submitted a story.

No such luck.

He was already there when you entered the briefing room for the first time. Already seated, sporting that annoying smile when he spotted you in the doorway.

You still remember the way his voice cut through the room like it belonged there. Just the right amount of bite to make the congressman answering the question squirm. It wasn’t even a bad question, but it was sharp enough to make everyone sit up, and that was the point when playing with American politics.

One doesn’t need to be liked. They need to be remembered.

You’d raised your hand right after. You were so determined not to let him win the room that you misread the energy entirely. And when the mic came to you, you fumbled. It wasn’t with the content — you’d done your research, you always did — but with the delivery. You were trying so hard to seem composed, to prove you deserved to be there, that your voice went flat. You didn’t breathe between sentences or really pace the question.

And the congressman, an older man with a short temper and a penchant for being rattled, cut you off mid-sentence. He waved a hand like you were a mosquito buzzing too close to his ear.

“Get to the point please,” He’d said, clearly annoyed.

You had, but the damage was done.

And Jungkook? He didn't even need to smirk — a restraint that somehow made his victory all the more infuriating. He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, lips pressed in a neutral line. But you knew him well enough to spot the amusement hiding in his eyes. He didn't look directly at you because that would've been too obvious, too much like admitting that this little press room dance of yours is his favorite form of foreplay, which is precisely the kind of vulnerability neither of you would ever confess to even under the influence of truth serum.

Either way, Jungkook never needs to gloat out loud. He just waits for you to see that he saw.

That’s how it started. The silent, deadly, professional tug-of-war that is probably so entertaining for onlookers that the White House should start selling tickets.

Four years later and nothing’s changed — except now you’ve learned how to play the game too. How to keep your voice calm, how to pace your brain, how to smile like a threat. You studied your opponents playbook until the pages wore thin.

So you sit there, pen poised, chin high, and let Secretary Thompson drone on for another minute while the reporters around you settle. Jungkook is probably lounging in the back like the cocky bastard he is, no doubt smiling like a motherfucker.

When the next lull in her sentence comes, you speak.

“Madam Secretary, given the administration’s recent walkback on infrastructure spending and the pivot toward incentivizing private sector, can you clarify what measures are in place for companies receiving federal subsidies, especially those with prior violations?”

The room stills like a sitcom freeze frame, where some narrator would quip "it was at this moment they knew..." as your question hangs in the air.

Thompson blinks twice. And then, to everyone’s surprise including your own, she smiles; it’s a genuine reaction, not the wide campaign-trail grin but the subtle acknowledgment that screams, finally, a real question from someone who did their homework instead of skimming the briefing notes.

She answers in detail. All lengthy and thoughtful and some political jargon you’re jotting in your notepad like a madman. Meanwhile your chest burns with the sweet, silent glow of victory, something your overachieving soul has been chasing since you color-coded your first set of flash cards in elementary school.

You know it’s there before you see it — Jungkook’s gaze.

There will be no swiveling of your neck to face him because turning would mean acknowledging, and acknowledging would mean giving away a fraction of this perfect moment; you don't need visual confirmation when you can practically feel him watching, probably chewing the inside of his cheek with that nervous habit he thinks nobody notices, calculating how he missed this angle while the room leans forward collectively, listening harder now than they were during his question.

God, it is tempting, though.

Just one glance. One raised brow. Maybe even a middle finger held discreetly under your notepad.

But you’re better than that.

…Mostly.

Still, the corner of your mouth twitches microscopically.

Game on, Jeon. Let’s see who wins this round.

The next thirty minutes go by just like this:

You raise your hand to try and get another question in, he mirrors you half a second later.

You jot down a quote, he glances up like he’s writing the same one faster.

You whisper something to the correspondent next to you, and he makes a point to become the world’s friendliest man.

By the time the briefing wraps, your notepad is full, your recorder has thirty solid minutes of good material, and your blood pressure is only slightly elevated — which you’re going to count as a win. Secretary Thompson gives her usual nod, the press secretary calls it and the room begins to scatter in that chaotic shuffle unique to people who have five minutes to rewrite a headline before someone else beats them to it.

You pack up, shoving pens and postits and a mildly passive-aggressive question list into your leather tote. It’s not like you’re in a rush. You’ve got what you need. Jenna — your editor, manager, queen of never being impressed — will actually be pleased for once. Last week she told you your questions were “good, not great” which you’ve translated to mean “where’s the political bloodshed?” But today, you’ve got enough edge to headline the next two cycles.

You’re halfway to the exit, steps quick against the marble floor, when you hear it—

Shoes.

Nice ones. Expensive, but already too broken-in to be new.

And they’re moving quickly like the fire alarm just went off.

Your eyes don’t have to spare a look. Your spine already knows who it is.

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, and keep walking. If you ignore him long enough, he might combust from the lack of attention.

“Smooth question.”

You blink up at the hallway ahead of you. What was that counting trick you were doing earlier? Oh, right.. four, five, six....

A sigh heaves from the depths of your lungs. Quite loudly it echoes off the walls.

“Jungkook.” you begin, not slowing your pace, “If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask the intern to print it out and shred it for recycling.”

He laughs at that amusedly.

“Come on,” he retorts, falling into step beside you now, “You stole my topic and framed it better. That was… mildly impressive.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He’s got his press badge tucked half into his blazer pocket like it’s too cool to wear properly, and the top button of his shirt is now undone.

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “Mildly impressive? Should I frame that statement and hang it next to my degree? My… valedictorian degree, perhaps?”

He leans in, a little too close for comfort. “Don’t worry. Mine’s right behind yours.”

You bite back a smile that threatens to show face. “And don’t you forget it.”

“You know, you’re lucky I didn’t ask a second question just to steal the narrative out from under you,” Jungkook sticks his hands in his pockets, pulling out a packet of gum.

Your eyes roll back into your frontal lobe, “Oh, I’m counting on it. Watching you try to top yourself is half the fun.”

Your feet betray you before you have a chance to stop them, and they stop walking, finally turn to face him. “Are you like this with everyone? I’m starting to get a little flattered.”

He looks at you for a second longer than you like. No smirk this time, just that stillness he gets when he’s thinking. Or, worse… he’s about to be really, really honest.

He shrugs, pops the gum in his mouth, smile creeping back into place like it never left. “Nah,” he’s already walking backwards toward the exit. “You’re the only one who bites back.”

His body disappears into the hallway crowd as if he knows exactly when to exit a scene, melting into the Washington ecosystem of power suits, security earpieces, and polished shoes on marble.

Jeon Jungkook is an insufferable bastard — one of the best-of-breed kind of bastards, possibly the best one you’ve ever had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on the angle) of going to school with. Decidedly not bad on the eyes, which is unfortunate. Counterproductive, really. Because it’s hard to maintain a healthy level of hatred toward someone when their jawline could headline a fashion campaign and their smirks come pre-loaded with cinematic timing.

And yet, somehow, you manage.

Ever since freshman year when he walked into your public policy seminar and had the audacity to sit in the front row — the seat you always took, the one closest to the professor, the one with the best lighting for scribbling down notes. He didn’t even glance at you when he took it.

You clashed immediately. Over literally everything. Theories and tone and comma placement. Who should’ve been chosen to moderate the midterm debate and who had more credible citations in their annotated bibliography. You can’t even remember the first real argument anymore; all you know is it escalated quickly, something about a poorly formatted slide deck and a long-winded tangent on federalism that he thought was charming and you thought were grounds for expulsion.

To your luck, that turned into this.

Into years of mutual loathing, thinly veiled behind professional respect that makes your coworkers say things like “you two should interview a senator together!” while you fantasize about pushing him down a flight of stairs and then writing his obituary out of spite.

You can’t describe your relationship with Jungkook without sounding emotionally unstable. It’s not just because he got that one A+ in International Relations. It’s not some awkward sexual tension. It’s whatever exists in that middle ground between admiration and provocation.

Listen, you recognize his intelligence. He definitely recognizes your ambition. He’s just always been naturally, effortlessly good. Jungkook doesn’t have to rehearse or over-prepare or go through mental flowcharts in the mirror before a press event.

And the only thing worse than someone who always competes with you is someone who doesn’t have to.

That’s what always gets you. You’ve spent your entire career building scaffolding around every step forward and you are nothing if not methodical. And then he waltzes in with gel in his hair and throws out a line you write down immediately to send to Jenna.

You push the briefing room door open with your hip and walk in, tote clutched tightly.

Emma doesn’t look up. Her fingers are flying over her laptop, nails clacking against keys in short bursts of aggression. Brows furrowed, glasses slipping slightly down her nose, and her tongue is poking between her teeth the way it always does.

“Any luck?” you ask, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl that you’re 98% sure was only restocked because Emma guilt-tripped the White House kitchen staff with that one story she wrote about USDA budget cuts and “the symbolic death of the American apple.”

She grunts in response, closing her laptop quickly and swiveling to face you in her chair.

You bite into the apple, placing your heavy bag down on the floor beside your desk, which is conveniently always placed next to hers.

“How was Jungkook today?” She asks casually as if it’s not one of the most emotionally loaded questions a person can be asked. It’s a routine part of your dynamic at this point. Morning coffee, afternoon sarcasm, and one post-briefing debrief where Emma asks you how Jungkook was, and you pretend he wasn’t Jungkook.

“Obnoxious,” you shrug instantly. “Duh.”

Emma snorts while you continue on, rotating your apple to take another bite. “He was wearing this stupid smile today. I lowkey feel like he was more smug than normal.“

Emma hums knowingly. “That’s your favorite one.”

You ignore that. Just Emma being Emma.

“And of course,” you exhale, “he asked my question.”

That gets her attention.

She scoots her chair toward you slowly, like she’s gearing up for the best tea of her life. “Wait. The question? The one about partnering with private sector organizations?”

“The very one,” You sigh dramatically.

Emma gasps, places a hand over her chest. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, but he did,” you say, taking another bite of your apple, chewing long enough to build suspense. “Fell for it and beat me to it by two seconds.“

She clutches her heart like she’s just witnessed a murder. “War criminal. Both you and him.”

“It’s fine,” you snicker to yourself. “Took the bait like always. Already texted it to Jenna.“

So… there’s this minor (major) thing you do that if anyone finds out, you’re absolutely getting the boot off the Hill. You leave notes around the newsrooms with concepts that you plan to ask at the press briefings and your initials on the paper, and when Jungkook inevitably picks one up and asks them, you send the answer to Jenna. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Emma groans and throws her head back, dark brown hair cascading down her shoulders. “God, how do you come up with this? It’s diabolical.”

“I know.”

“You’re evil.”

“I know.”

She looks at you, tilts her neck, considers. “One of these days I’m gonna get it out of you… why you hate him so much. I swear to god, if the White House ever releases security cam footage, it’s over for you.”

You scoff, leaning against your desk. “Because he’s annoying.. and arrogant and—”

There’s a pause while your narrow your eyes like you’re compiling a legal case. “He’s allergic to shirts that fit.”

Emma just blinks at you.

“It’s not complicated,” You wave her off.

“Mmm,” she says unconvinced, already spinning back toward her laptop. “Sure. Not complicated. That’s exactly what people say before saying something really complicated.”

You flip her off.

She blows you a kiss, raising her watered-down iced latte as a toast, “I wish you a very get well soon.”

It’s nice having Emma. Someone who gets it. She was the only one who didn’t blink when you got hired straight out of school, the only one who didn’t second guess it when you worked your way into every White House event rotation. She never asks why you work late or why your standards are too high.

Emma’s seen you at your most terrifying and your most tired and knows they’re usually the same thing.

You finish your apple, toss the core into the bin, and stretch your neck. You’ve got a headline to punch up, an editor to impress, and a man to destroy.

Before you even have a chance to settle into your uncomfortable chair, Jenna, woman of the hour, bursts into the room like she’s just outrun a breaking news alert.

She’s breathless, auburn hair slightly windblown like she sprinted down the hall, which she probably did — Jenna’s never walked a day in her life. She’s powered exclusively by the adrenaline of publishing scoops before Politico can even spellcheck theirs.

“There you are!” she gasps, practically skidding to a stop beside your desk. Almost like you’ve been playing hide-and-seek instead of sitting where you’re supposed to be.

Emma startles, half-spilling her iced latte.

You don’t even look up from computer that you just rebooted on to life. “Hello to you too, Jenna. Everything okay?”

“Better than okay.” She’s already tossing her phone onto the nearest desk, face alight with manic glee that usually only happens when your publication beats everyone else to the punch. “We published first. That question you texted me. I’m already having it run the evening slot with a featured quote box and a goddamn infographic. Do you know how rare infographics are on pieces like this?”

Emma perks up immediately. “Infographics?”

“Motion animated ones. And it’s outperforming by like 400%. Who fed him that question? I know that was you. Don’t lie to me, you little minx.” Jenna’s eyes are sparkling, hazel flecks in her eyes popping out more than normal.

You blink at her, expression calm, the exact opposite of the excitement living beneath your ribs. “Hm. Was it me?”

“Was it?” Jenna nearly falls over the desk. “You literally texted it to me two seconds after he opened his mouth so I have my suspicions. I watched the tapes back.”

You shrug, sipping from your water bottle. “What can I say? Quick fingers. Predictable men.”

Jenna stares at you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, I have noticed… if I leave a well-worded, question lying within reach, he’ll take it. Should I be reporting him?” Your degree was in Political Science, but right now, it’s sounding a lot more like Lying.

Emma coughs on her coffee. “Oh my god.”

“He delivers it perfectly. He never even changes the phrasing!! Almost like he wants me to know he found it,” You mimic a toddler who got pushed on the playground, all false petulance.

Jenna groans, facepalming. “Jesus, that’s terrifying. Worse than finding out you’re doing it on purpose.”

Emma gapes and plays along with it, your trusty sidekick. “He’s using you like a human press puppet.”

You smile. “Whatever. I got the best answer out of Secretary Thompson today anyway.”

You’re not wrong. Not entirely. In fact, you’re opening up Google Docs as you speak to start typing before any person beats you to the punch.

“Well,” Jenna begins, “Great job today.”

Mission accomplished.

Despite everything, you’re pretty pleased with yourself. Emma’s shoulders sag a little with those three words, though you hardly notice.

You sit back in your chair, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

Another question, another quote, another game won.

It’s not cheating. It’s journalism, baby.

Later that night, the building hums like it’s finally exhaled after holding its breath all day, kind of peaceful in the way only Capitol Hill can be when it’s past five and most of the egos have gone home. The usual bustle has evaporated into a familiar sound of click-clacking keyboards and the hum of vending machines that will forever only take singles.

You’re probably the only person left. Well. You and Jenna. But Jenna doesn’t really count — you swear to god she pays rent here.

She exists in this windowless purgatory like it’s her personal loft. Her desk is still lit, hair up in a claw clip. There’s a cold coffee sweating beside her keyboard and an unopened granola bar that’s been sitting there since at least noon. Her coat is slung over the back of her chair in a way that implies she might leave. News flash: she won’t.

Meanwhile you’re cross-referencing quote attributions for the day’s coverage when it hits.

Ping.

You barely register it at first. Just another email in the never-ending trickle of nonsense from Washington’s most noisy inbox.

But the subject line awakens something in you, jolts you back onto earth after being a zombie for the past three hours.

From: [email protected]

Subject: URGENT — CONFIRMED LEAK: Rep. Monroe / Rep. Delgado

Your heart skips and then sprints to catch up. You open the email, trepidation bleeding into your every movement like it might bite. Skimming it at first glance, you see a bunch of buzz words: late night, caught, office, intern.

And then you're up out of your chair like you spotted free coffee in the break room before anyone else, your demeanor shattered by what's glowing on your screen.

“Jenna.”

No answer comes from your editor, who's apparently developed selective hearing after years of people bringing her stories that are "definitely going to change everything."

“Jenna!”

Her chair swivels, eyes already squinting. “What.” she says, less a question and more a verbal eyeroll.

You motion her over. She groans, wheels her chair two feet, and reads over your shoulder.

She doesn’t speak for a full five seconds, a silence so profound you’re starting to think you misinterpreted the email.

“Holy shit.”

Your head bobs up and down once. “Yeah.”

Both of you stand. Stare at the screen like the text might dissolve if you blink. The email is brief but pretty brutal. Something about a late-night vote hold, a closed-door committee session, and Monroe being seen leaving Delgado’s office at 1:43 a.m. by a very chatty intern with no understanding of political discretion. It’s like the equivalent of catching Romeo leaving Juliet’s balcony.

“Please tell me we’re already writing this,” Jenna breathes, pulling her phone out and typing. “Tell me we’re not about to get scooped.”

You’re already closing your laptop. “We’re not. I just got this a minute ago.”

“Crap, okay,” she undoes her claw clip, runs a hand through her tangled locks. “You think NBC and Fox got word too?”

“Probably,” You tuck your laptop into your bag. “But… we can figure out what the other teams are saying. If you’re game for it.”

There’s a knowing look you two share, an unspoken understanding that comes from years of working in close quarters.

Just like that, with only a few words shared, you’re both gone — shoulders brushing in the hallway, shoes scuffing in sync as you pass the security desk and head toward the press rooms. Tiny, overcrowded hives filled with correspondents from neighboring organizations who all know something but never enough, all refreshing Twitter, all waiting for the official statement that will inevitably say nothing and everything at once.

You pass two staffers whispering near the elevator, some dude pretending not to be texting frantically in the corner, and a communications intern standing so still you’re not sure if he’s waiting for an answer or just buffering.

Walk faster, you repeat to yourself. No shot you’re losing this battle.

This is it. Every correspondent’s wet dream. The moment when instinct meets information. When knowing the right people and knowing how to read them becomes everything.

Fortunately, you’re good at this. Like, really good at this.

Jenna tugs on your arm as you turn a corner.

“Remember what I said in March?” she mutters. “I told you, these senators get more scandalous by the second.”

“Well, yeah, but that was about the comms director’s divorce and a broken espresso machine,” You remind her.

“Still counts.”

A grin is suppressed from your face. Technically, it is true. In this building, nothing stays quiet for long. Rumors and gossip spread quicker than a high school hallway.

Even though CNN is the top news source in the world — objectively, indisputably, and according to your network’s annual conference PowerPoint — your rivals over at Fox, NBC, and a handful of other outlets you don’t care to name are often your best sources.

Everyone loves to talk and you adore talkers.

The Hill is built on whispers, and your favorite kind of people are the ones who don’t know how to keep secrets in the same breath they use to ask for anonymity. There’s something about long hours and winding hallways that makes people careless with information. Or maybe it’s the sense of power, that euphoric high of having access to things you shouldn’t, stories that haven’t broken yet.

Right now, you’re chasing one of them.

You and Jenna waltz into the Fox press room like you own it (which you don’t, but that’s never stopped you before.)

It’s mostly empty, except for a few people quietly panicking over the situation in that journalist way where they sit very still while their eyes scream.

It’s a solemn few feet of space, lit by flickering fluorescents and decorated with the same kind of soul-crushing government chairs that squeak if you so much as fart. Someone left a takeout container open on one of the desks and you do your best not to inhale near it.

A quick glance of the room tells you all you need to know and then, to your dismay — you see him.

Jungkook.

Hunched over his laptop at the far end of the room like he’s doing important work but probably just rereading something you published earlier to find holes in it. His blazer from the briefing is gone, slung somewhere out of sight, white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, sleeves creased and casual and — God help you — revealing the tattoos on his right arm.

You’ve only seen it a handful of times. Most people on the Hill haven’t seen it at all. It’s not exactly Capitol dress code.

But he’s Jeon Jungkook so rules were always more like suggestions when it came to him.

Whatever. Not what you came here for. You focus on his colleague, Sana. She’s sharp as hell, desk always covered in four phones and three half-charged battery packs.

Most of the time, you like her. She’s blunt. She doesn’t pretend to like you more than she does, and she gives enough if you know how to ask.

“Sana,” You say, all business-like, sliding into her personal space like this is a casual catch-up and not an intel sweep. Jenna lingers behind you like a henchwoman.

Sana glances up and sighs. “What now?”

“Looking for background on Monroe and Delgado,” You busy yourself with your nail beds, pretending to be focused on the fact that your polish is chipping slightly.

“I know that’s not true,” she says, still typing. “You never ask for background. You ask for the stuff that makes our lawyers sweat.”

You smile, full canines on display. “Come on. You know I’d never get you sued. Fired, maybe.”

“Not funny.”

“A little funny.”

Sana rolls her eyes. “What do you want?”

You’re about to lean in with the next carefully worded ask when he speaks.

“You could just ask me, you know,” comes Jungkook’s voice from the corner of the room.

You don’t dare turn around.

Begrudgingly, you sigh, loud enough for him to hear. “Didn’t realize you were qualified to speak on matters you didn’t fabricate.”

Behind you, Jenna snorts.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat.

“You wound me,” he fires back. You can smell the sarcasm in his voice. “Especially after I gifted you that question earlier.”

You spin your body slowly to glance at him. He’s already looking at you, fingers paused over his keyboard, head tilted, one brow raised like he’s genuinely curious how you’ll respond.

Sometimes he does this. Pretends you’re having a conversation when you’re in the middle of ignoring him. Like he’s the main character and you’re just the supporting plot that hasn’t fallen for his clown act yet.

“I’d say thank you,” you retort, “but I think you’re confusing mediocrity for generosity.”

His mouth twitches, doesn't quite reach his eyes but manages to rattle something in your chest like a perfectly aimed pebble against a window, making noise without breaking glass.

“Well,” he stretches slightly in his chair, ink on his arm catching the overhead light, “I guess we’re both useful to each other, aren’t we?”

Verbally, there’s no response you can come up with. Almost like you’re trying to capture a complex emotion with an emoji.

He refuses to look away from you. All you can muster up is meeting his gaze, forcing your eyes not to back down from his own deep brown ones.

Which is stupid and arrogant of him.

And deeply, profoundly annoying.

One day, you’ll create a PowerPoint presentation documenting all the reasons he should be knocked down several pegs.

But, also, he’s kind of—

No.

No, not going there.

You turn back to Sana, who’s watching the whole exchange with the vaguely interested expression of someone who’s seen this movie before.

“Anyway,” you say, tone firm, “back to the real work.”

Jungkook chuckles under his breath sadistically.

Sana raises a brow. She adjusts her posture, closes out of whatever she was doing, and gives you that look. Sneaky one, might you add.

Jenna settles into the empty seat next to Sana with a soft thunk, all amusement and quiet observation, as if she’s pulled up to a live podcast and knows better than to interrupt the good part.

You lean in just a little, palms firmly planted down on her desk.

“You’ve always had great instincts,” you begin sweetly, “Way better than that guy over at NBC who thinks ‘no comment’ is an acceptable answer. And honestly? You’re usually two steps ahead of everyone in this room, including me.”

Sana’s face falls flat. “Flattery’s not free.”

“I’m just stating facts,” you reply, twirling your hair around your finger. “But if you happened to know anything about where Monroe actually was during the vote delay, and with who, and if that info happened to fall into my lap by accident…”

She taps her desk once.

You pause for dramatic effect. Jenna says nothing.

You know it’s working. Cross your heart and hope to die, Sana’s resolve is softening enough to consider it. This is the rhythm you’ve lived and died by for the past four years: collect the whispers, push at the edges, find the person who wants to feel a little important, and let them talk.

You hear the chair scrape before the words follow.

“Okay, you’re scalping her,” Jungkook says flatly, rising from his area like he’s decided to intervene on moral grounds — which is rich, considering he spent last week casually rephrasing your own coverage on-air without blinking.

You don’t even bat an eyelash in his direction.

“Boohoo,” you briefly flip through your mental Rolodex of dismissive expressions, “call the ethics board, Jeon.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s walking over like someone about to cut the red wire, like this is a bomb he’s been called in to defuse.

“Seriously,” he now stands a few feet away, arms crossed, that infuriatingly amused expression plastered across his stupidly symmetrical face. “You’ve got her in a journalistic chokehold. It’s not even subtle.”

You peer over at him and flutter your lashes innocently. “You’d prefer subtle? That’s funny, coming from the guy who once baited a senator with free Red Bull to confirm a time stamp.”

“That was different.”

“That was illegal.”

“It was unofficial.”

You scoff. “Right. Just like your fact-checking process.”

Jenna leans her chin on her fist and sighs. “Hereeee we go.”

Sana barely spares a look up. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to break a government scandal before midnight.”

Your lips are formed tightly in a line. “I’m so sorry. He just follows me everywhere.”

“This is literally the Fox pressroom.” Jungkook spits out automatically.

“And yet somehow I’m more valuable here than you are.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

You turn fully now, squaring your shoulders like this is war and he just stepped onto your side of the trench. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne — something citrusy and woodsy that makes your thoughts inconveniently disorganized. Jaw set in that infuriating way it does when he thinks he’s being reasonable.

“You know,” he tilts his head slightly, “at some point, you’re gonna run out of tricks.”

“Jungkook, you still fall for all of them.”

Sana mutters something about noise levels.

There’s a smile on your face you do not mean. Jungkook’s watching you intently now, clearly waiting for the moment you lose your cool, which you won’t. You don’t lose your cool. That’s your thing. Your signature move. You’re composed, unbothered if you will.

If the others are tired of it? Too damn bad.

Both of you will continue to respectfully decline to flinch first.

“You’re exhausting,” he says, half-laughing, which would be charming if it weren’t directed at you.

“Good,” you snap, “I hope it costs you sleep.”

“I’ve started taking a higher dose of melatonin to account for that.”

Luckily, before you can retaliate with something that will absolutely haunt you in the shower later, Jenna cuts in, phone screen brightly illuminating her face. “Guys…?”

Neither of you turn. You’re in this weird standoff. First one to look away loses.

She’s louder this time. “Um. Guys?”

“What?” You and Jungkook say in unison, like children caught throwing hands in the sandbox.

She blinks at her iPhone once, then twice, and stands slowly, holding her phone out like it might spontaneously detonate.

“I just got the alert,” she swallows deeply. “CNN got invited to a press pool.”

The room stills. Nothing has technically changed, yet somehow everything feels different, like the universe just rearranged its furniture while no one was looking.

You snatch the phone from her hand without a second thought, scanning the email with speed, stomach already dropping because you know what this means.

Fox. NBC. CNN. Wall Street Journal. Pool assignment. Limited access. Confidential source briefings. Strict cooperation protocol.

Jungkook steps closer to read over your shoulder, and you can feel his body heat like a threat. You edge away out of pure spite.

Sana exhales, “Oh, that’s gonna be fun.”

“No,” you murmur, half to her and half to God, “it’s not.”

Jenna sits back down, hand outstretched waiting for her phone back, probably mentally forwarding the email to your entire team with ten exclamation points and the subject line ‘URGENT: PRESS POOL.’

But all your brain can focus on is the last line of the memo: PRESS POOL ASSIGNMENTS WILL BE FINALIZED BY MORNING.

You swallow, jaw setting in place. Currently, you’re trying not to imagine the absolute hell of being locked into a room with Jungkook and being expected to collaborate. Or even worse, share credit.

Press pools are the bane of your entire existence. It’s lazy reporting dressed up in exclusivity, a dog and pony show where no one’s allowed to ask real questions, just “coordinate coverage” and “represent their outlet professionally,” which basically means sit down, shut up, and don’t make your network look like a dick.

It also may have a tiny, minuscule detail to it that you deject everytime; it’s always you and Jungkook they send. The two best damn correspondents on the Hill, which everyone knows, even if they pretend they don’t. You’re the ones they trust to get the job done. To ask the things no one else will.

And that would be flattering — if it didn’t mean getting locked in a room with him, breathing the same recirculated air, trading quotes and knowing exactly which angle he’s going to try and spin. It’s not a compliment anymore. It’s a punishment dressed up in prestige.

Now — if you’ve read that email right (and you have, because you always do) — you’re going to have to share that twenty minute slot with the one man on Earth who treats interviews and policy like some sick game.

You lower the phone slowly, handing it back to Jenna in a daze.

Jenna looks at you, eyes gleaming. “If it makes you feel better, this is gonna be amazing for us.”

“Who’s us?”

You’re already praying for divine intervention. Or a natural disaster. Or a scheduling conflict. Or a press badge malfunction. Literally anything but this.

Really, there should be no surprise when Jenna is showcasing a small smile on her face, the words already forming on the tip of her lip-glossed tongue.

You beat her to it. “Let me guess. You’re going to ask me to go.”

She blinks, then nods sweetly, too sweetly for your liking.

“I mean,” she says, clasping her hands, “you’re the sharpest we’ve got. You’re strategic. Respected on both sides of the aisle—”

“C’mon, I’ve gone to every single one. Can you please send Emma?” You may as well get on your knees and beg at this point.

Jenna disregards that completely.

“I want you to own the scandal,” she corrects, beaming now. “Control the narrative. Just, you know… professionally.“

You roll your eyes so hard you see your own childhood trauma. Turning to Sana, you’re already half-defeated.

“Thanks for your help,” you sigh, giving her a nod. “And for not actively reporting me to HR during that conversation.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “It was close.”

You’re halfway out the door, already planning what stress snack you’re going to inhale before opening a shared Google Doc with 45 other correspondents when it happens.

“See you Thursday, then. Three o’clock.”

You freeze. Actually, scratch that. You malfunction.

Your body halts so fast you nearly swing into the doorframe. You swivel on your heel, well aware of how the universe personally loves to torment you.

Jungkook Jeon is smiling, cheek to cheek.

He’s leaned back in his own chair now, one leg crossed over the other like he’s settling into a fireside chat, phone lifted lazily in the air, Gmail open and illuminating.

You can only assume his own boss forwarded the press pool email to him. God isn’t exactly subtle when he wants you to suffer.

“They letting just anybody in now?” You muster up the insult.

He shakes his head. “Didn’t even have to ask. Must be fate.”

No part of you falters. You stare at him. “Or a curse. It’s also not even confirmed yet, dimwit.”

“I don’t make the rules,” He raises his hands in mock defeat, and somehow you know that’s a lie. You’re almost certain he knew this was coming and bribed someone.

Jenna pats you on the back as she walks past. “Think of it as a growth opportunity.”

You glance at her like she just told you to do trust falls into oncoming traffic. “I don’t want a growth opportunity. I want a restraining order.”

Jungkook hums solemnly. “You’ll miss me.”

“Like a migraine,” You quip.

You step into the hallway and exhale, followed by a brief intermission where you regret every life decision that led you here.

A few distant feet away, Jungkook calls out all bright and cheerful, like this is a fun little reunion instead of your personal hell, “Should I bring the talking points or are we winging it like last time?”

Not a fiber in your body stops. You just keep walking, steps fast, fury simmering beneath the surface like a pot that’s about to boil over.

Of course you’ll be stuck sharing air and quotes and probably a goddamn printer with him.

Like you said, press pools… bane of your entire existence.

masterlist + ask

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