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pearlymel · 10 months ago

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A baby ?!

Summery: his departure always bugs you, and surprise, it was just your lil hormones messing with you.

Wc: 3.4k

Warnings: Fem!reader, sfw because we decided to be sweet, pregnancy, reader is pregnant, there are some suggestive comments but that's all. Happy ending because i love yall.

Part one and two if you missed it my loves.

Notes: welcome to part 3 which i believe is the last part. I am kindly asking not to ask for a part 4 because i have run out of ideas. If i ever decided to write for capitano again, it wouldn't be part of this series, it would be like headcanons instead, you could imagine the reader being the same, apologies for spelling errors and thank you. :)

Credits: the art of the left panel is by @/reaperpie

Fall was slowly approaching in Snezhnaya, and you had already expected it to be colder than the normal autumn. Which to your bad luck, it was not a suitable place for your picnic’s.

Your husband has continuesly rejected your date ideas, but you expected that anyway, you knew he couldn’t. He had duties to attend to, responsibilities to the Fatui, to the Tsaritsa, to the world. He couldn’t stay, as much as you—he wanted to.

It's not fair, You think while pouting as you stare outside the window with your chin resting on the palm of your hand, looking like a princess in need to be rescued from the tower. Your thumb toying with the diamond ring resting around your ring finger.

“Ugh, it's unfair baby.” You slump back on the bed, while your little fur baby only meowed at you in return, the orange cat jumping on the bed to make itself warm on your lap. “meow back if he doesn't love me.”

You're met with silence, only happy purrs reach your ears, and you grin, “obviously he loves me, obsessed even.” Your hand reaches to slowly pat the kitty.

“I miss him.” You sigh dreamily, deciding to stand up while carrying kitty with you so it doesn't feel left out. You make your way towards the desk in the corner, pulling the seat to take your place before pushing yourself closer to the desk.

You rest the kitten on your lap again—who quickly adjusts like nothing happened, looking as sleepy as ever.

You open the drawers to take an envelope, some wax, a stamp, a paper, and a quill.

Yeah, you're going to write him a letter, he said he didn't mind recieving even hundreds of letters from you.

How romantic.

“Dear, husband.” You start, dipping the quill in ink to brush it along the neat surface of the paper.

“i miss you.” you narrow your eyes at the empty page, saying that you miss him felt too boring.

“i utterly miss being next to you.” Hm, it lacks excitement.

“Please come back soon or i will run away.” Huh, you could already imagine the army's he would send to search for you.

“i want you inside—” okay, now you're being desperate.

You rest your arms on the desk, leaning your head on them while sighing.

—

“Do you know when will he return?” You politely ask one of the guards in front of the estate’s gate. Your hands together behind your back.

A leaf flew by in front of the guards with still no answer from them, and you narrow your eyes, wondering if they even heard you in the first place.

Finally, one of them shook their head and you only sigh in resignation, “thank you.” You mumble before heading your way back inside the estate.

It has been more than two weeks since he left, and he would sometimes send you neat letters to inform you about his well being, but the last letter you received was about a week ago, it was worrying you.

“My lady, are you okay?” Your personal maid, Marina, asked out of concern, watching you put an apron with a frown plastered on your face.

“Just hungry.” You take the glassy bowl, eggs, flour, butter, and sugar. Then you set them on the table. “I can help you.” Marina stands next to you, taking the butter to melt it.

“you want to make cookies, correct?” She asks, and you nod with a small smile. With the butter fully melted, you begin mixing in the sugar, beating the mixture until it becomes light and fluffy. The repetitive motion of stirring is almost meditative, and for a brief moment. “Baking is rather calming, i should've tried it before.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, a knowing smile on her face. "Yes, baking can be quite therapeutic," she stated, watching as you mixed the sugar and butter together. "I've found that working with your hands, especially when it involves creating something good to eat, is a great way to clear your mind," she continued, adding chocolate to the bowl.

You had both finished combining the ingredients, and the room was now filled with the warm, comforting fragrance of cookie dough. Marina stood beside you, watching as you shaped the dough into small balls and placed them on a baking tray. As you finished placing the last cookie onto the tray, you and Marina stood together, admiring the array of small, round cookies waiting to be baked in the oven.

The sounds of the gates opening is what catches your attention next, making you stand up from your chair to immediately abandon the kitchen and rush towards the entrance, your eyes searches him when you reach the front door, and surely enough, your husband has arrived.

He looked almost disheveled, tired, yet he still held a straight posture.

Capitano's weary eyes widened behind his helmet as you rushed into his arms, his body stiffening as if caught off guard by your sudden affection. But the tension in his form swiftly melted away as he wrapped his strong arms around you. His grip was tight, as he pulled you against his body. He was silent for a moment, his chin resting on the top of your head, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he held you.

“I…” you want to break the silence, you want to tell him how much you missed him. “I missed you.”

Capitano's grip intensified as your voice reached his ears, he was more than relieved to hear those words. To know that somone dear is waiting for him, someone as precious as you that he's willing to risk his life for.

He exhaled deeply, "I missed you too," he whispered, making sure the words only reached your ears. He pulled back slightly to look down at you, his gaze raking over you as if to confirm you were real and not a trick of his tired mind.

Capitano allowed you to lead him inside afterwards, his hand careful to be gentle when holding yours. The weariness in his body was evident as he stumbled a bit as you pulled him along. However, he matched your pace as best he could, following obediently as you guided him to your chambers.

Being greeted by the familiar room before him made his shoulders relax, the only place where he can be himself.

"How was is it? Being away from your wife for more than two weeks?" You ask while your hands started working on helping him out of the thick layers of his heavy, dirty clothing. Each layer you removed revealed more of his muscular, battle-worn physique, the scars and marks on his body a testament to the dangers he had faced.

He paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he noticed your pout. He reached out a calloused hand and gently tugged at your lip, "It was a long two weeks," he admitted gruffly. "I have missed you sorely.”

“I'm sure you did,” you hummed, walking towards the closest to grab a sweater for him. "Don't pout like that," he chided gently, "You're making me feel guilty.”

You try hiding your smile when you hand him his new warm clothes, your arms crossing next, “as you should.”

"I've missed that pout," his lowers his voice, "but I don't miss your little attitude.”

You shrug, “i don't know what you're talking about.” Capitano's gaze held yours unflinchingly, his eyes studying your expression. He knew you were baiting him, daring him to guess your reason for being upset.

"Let me see.." he started, his voice taking on a tone of mock contemplation. "Perhaps it's the fact that I was gone for more than two weeks and left you here all alone. That's a start, is it not?”

“maybe.”

"Or perhaps it's the fact that I didn't send you a letter everyday and left you wondering about whether I was alright or not. Hmm, that could be it, couldn't it?”

“Go on.” your raise your eyebrow while tapping your feet impatiently.

"Or maybe," he stepped closer, taking a few strands of your hair in between his fingers, "It's because I didn't come home and ravish you as soon as I returned, instead letting you pout and sulk and complain like a spoiled little thing.”

He could see right through you; the way you suddenly straightened your stance and tried to act nonchalant only confirmed his suspicions.

You gasp, ”whaaaat? Nonsense.”

"Is that so?" he drawled, his hands now taking your upper arms, his thumb thumbs rubbing circles around your skin "i will make it up to you, my wife.”

Despite his promise that you could do later, you wanted him to rest more than anything, so you make him sit down on the bed while you leave to get the cookies you baked together with Marina.

“You have to tell me your opinion.” you hand him one of the chocolate chip cookies. Capitano let the taste of the chocolate chips and the buttery cookie dough settle on his tongue for a moment. He swallowed, his gaze still fixed on you, before giving his verdict.

"They're good," he admitted, "Better than good, actually. Well done.”

Praise kink goes crazy huh? Your smile widens, and it makes you feel all giddy, as you took a bite of the cookies as well.

He leaned back against the plush bedding of the bed, his strong arms resting on his lap as he observed you. "You've been busy while I was away, hm?"

“Not really, more bored than busy.”

“… i am sorry. I do not mean to leave you alone.”

You scoot closer to him once you see how guilty he looks, you sit next to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “When do you have to leave again?”

Capitano's silence spoke volumes, pausing before answering, "My duties are unpredictable, and there's no telling when the Tsaritsa will call for me again. I cannot give you an exact timeline, and that is the reality of what I do. I am a warrior first, a husband second.”

Ouch, that's fine. Totally fine.

You knew what you were getting into when you married him, after all. Still, a part of you couldn't help but wish for more. The thought kind of makes you sick… quite literally.

“I think the cookies had too much sugar.” You put the dessert back on the plate before standing up from the bed. “Shall i go get you wate—”

“no, thank you. I can do it.”

—

You were rotting in bed. From the morning, and now it's afternoon. It makes you feel useless since you barely did anything.

Capitano left before you woke up, even though he promised to return later today.

You felt miserable, your body weak and your spirits low. It was a mixture of loneliness, hormones, and the unease bubbling in your stomach. Capitano's absence only made it worse, adding to the feeling of helplessness that had settled upon you.

You tossed and turned in the bed, the plush sheets tangling up around you as you tried to find a comfortable position. But no matter how much you shifted, the discomfort in your stomach remained, persistent and nagging.

“Make the pain go please, I'll take any disgusting medicine,” you tell Marina weakly as you look up at her while she sat on the wooden stool next to you.

"I can give you some ginger root. It might help soothe your stomach.” she offered gently, handing you the ginger root she prepared just for you.

“… i lied i can't take anything disgusting.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, "I thought so," she said, setting aside the ginger root. “Have you considered telling Lord Capitano?”

You shake your head, “not that he's here. It's not that important.” you cover half of your face with the blanket, “why though? Isn't it just a normal cold from the change of weather?”

It was clear that you were trying to downplay the severity of your symptoms, perhaps not wanting to worry anyone or admit that something might be seriously wrong.

"Dearest, it's not just a cold," she chided gently, "the symptoms you're describing are not typical of a mere cold.”

You frown, “is it not?”

She shook her head, her voice soft but serious. "No, it's not. The nausea, the fatigue, the changes in appetite...these are all common symptoms of something else." Shee paused for a moment, "my lady, have you considered the possibility that you might be... Pregnant?”

You immediately rise from the bed, sitting down with eyes wide to stare at her, "what? Pregnant?” you ask in shock.

"I shall ask for a healer right away, my lady.”

—

You stare outside the window at the dark skies, although your eyes fixated on the gates opening, indicating his arrival.

You almost flinch when he dashes inside your shared chambers, taking his helmet off but not bothering to take the rest off before he's gently grabbing you by your arms.

“where?” He asks urgently, “where are you injured? Who did it? Do not hesitate to tell me.” He says in a dangerously sharp tone, his eyes searching for even a single scratch on your body.

“what… are you talking about?” You raise an eyebrow, and your unbothered state made him confused. “the healers were here, yet you're not injured?” he blinked before sighing, his hands caressing your arms instead, “then why? Are you sick?”

“Sick… no not sick.” You tell him, your hands ever so gentle taking a hold of his face, “… but pregnant. I'm pregnant.”

You both stare at eachother, both of you holding your breaths. You have never seen him so distracted, like he didn't hear you the first time.

Does he hate it? You never thought of the possibility.

“Capit—” before you could continue, he's down in one knee and you're bewildered, unsure of what to do.

“you're carrying our child.” he utters out so softly that you think you might tear up—and you really are in the verge of tears. He takes your hand, he's held your hand many times, but this time it feels different, he holds you like you're glass, he's so careful with it.

“I swear to protect you both, and put you both first. Should anyone hurt you, i will not hesitate to draw my sword, if i ever hurt you… then you should not hesitate to draw your sword on me.” his words hung in the air like a sacred vow.

You tried to speak, to respond, but only a soft gasp escaped your lips. Tears welled in your eyes, and you could only stare at him, utterly overwhelmed.

Capitano's gaze softened even more as he saw the tears falling down your face. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his hand still holding yours in a gentle but firm grip, he reached out with the other hand, his large palm cupping your cheek to brush your tears away. “Don't cry, I'm here.”

His embrace, so warm, so protective around you that it eases every single thought in your head.

Everything is going to be okay. With him, it will.

—

Months passed in a blur of morning sickness, cravings, and blossoming excitement for the new life growing inside you. Capitano, as promised, was by your side through it all and he went away for more than a week.

He attended to your every need, from getting up in the middle of the night to find the most ridiculous late-night snack, to comforting you on days when you felt overwhelmed by the changes happening to your body.

You rest back against the bed’s headboard while tracing random shapes on the skin of your swollen belly, a hum of some sort of song followed after. You stop once you hear the sound of slow footsteps, catching your husband freeze.

“I'm sorry, i didn't mean to stalk you like that—”

“you're so silly. Come here, honey.” You pat on your empty side with a smile, inviting him to share this moment you.

Capitano took his place next to you then continued watching as you gently caressed your belly, tracing over the stretch marks with your fingers.

“They're beautiful, you know.” he speaks first, as if sensing what you were about to say. “Beautiful?” You repeat. He lifted your hand to his lips, gently pressing a kiss on your knuckles before he replied, his voice a soft murmur. "Yes, beautiful. They're a sign of life growing within you. A sign of strength. Of creation. That's beautiful.” he continues his trail of kisses to your arm up to your shoulder, “I want to kiss every inch of you, stretch mark or not.”

You've come so far with him that it feels surreal, it feels right, “i love you.” You whisper to him, turning your attention to him again. “I love you.” he doesn't hesitate to say it back, the declaration coming out of his tongue smoothly like it was meant to be.

His hand then moved to your growing bump, "and I love this," he added. “This?” You giggle.

"Mhm," Capitano confirmed, his hand now rubbing your belly in slow, soothing circles. "This. Our baby." His eyes flickered up to yours, "We created this," he continued, his voice with pride and awe. "Our love made this.”

Love.

—

Were toddlers always this fast? Because one second he keeps an eye on her then the next he looks around before she's gone right from infront of him.

He was supposed to play tea party, but a little butterfly flying creature must've caught her attention.

Capitano, despite his size and strength, found himself struggling to keep up with your energetic three-year-old daughter.

He chuckled as he chased her around the garden, his large frame a stark contrast to her small, fleeting form. As she ran past you, you couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight of your husband's face, "almost got her," he panted out, his hand on his knee as he attempted to catch his breath.

“You got this old man!” You decide to tease him from behind, laughing endlessly from the sight. Though he shot you a mock glare through his labored breaths, “old man, huh?" he grumbled, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. "You think I'm old now, do you?" he continued, raising an eyebrow playfully. "I'll show you 'old,' darling." With that, he took a step further to sweep you off your feet, carrying you effortlessly in his arms, and your smile only widens.

“Me!” Your little girl raises both of her arms at her father, and he kneels down to carry her in his other arm. Now carrying you both in each arm.

“Oh, how strong.” You tease, poking at his bicep and he shakes his head almost shyly, “papa, butterfly.” Your daughter proceeds to show you both the butterfly she caught, the little creature doesn't seem scared of her as it rests on her tiny fingers.

“Looks pretty,” Capitano smiled, his expression amused as your daughter leaned toward the butterfly, attempting to kiss it. "Careful now," he warned gently. "Don't scare it away." He watched as the butterfly fluttered its delicate wings at her attempt and she giggles.

"You have to be gentle," he told her, his voice soft. "Just like how you handle the kittens.”

She gasps, suddenly remembering the cat that's half asleep on the grass with the three of you. “Kitty!” She shouts at the cat, jumping off Capitano’s arm so suddenly that it makes him gasp, worried that she might’ve injured herself.

“she's fine.” You pat your husband's chest and just like that, he's relaxed again. “i think our cat is tired of her sometimes.” You get down as well, watching how your daughter carried the lazy cat in her arms to run in circles with her. The cat that grew within these years, from a mere kitten to a big cat now.

"I think we should just be glad the cat hasn't hissed at her or swatted her yet," he sighed, and you hum in reply, “i don't think it ever will. That cat has been clinging to my belly ever since i was pregnant. Kept me warm i must admit.”

You grin when your daughter runs back to both of you, carrying the cat in the air, it's eyes almost closed, unbothered, "meow."

Tags: @duchessofherself @itsjustnikkixoxo @erasme143 @yvesswoo @mooshbb @bigboygoose

#il capitano x reader #capitano #capitano x reader #il capitano #genshin impact #genshin impact capitano #genshin impact x reader #genshin #capitano x you #il capitano x you #fatui harbingers #fatui harbingers x reader #genshin impact fatui #genshin impact fluff #capitano genshin impact

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mooningningg · 3 days ago

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Extra Credit - Megumi F. (1)

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 02

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 9.98K

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Reader is bitchy, shameless, and borderline evil, Power dynamics, teasing, and manipulation (played for fun), Academic tutoring meets sexual awakening, Dirty talk, suggestive dialogue, and tension, Enemies-to-situationship vibes, Peer drama, rejection, and fake confidence, Strong language & mature themes. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. gettt ready for... nothing. okay loosen up guys this is the first part, ts gonna get real freaky soon.

You’ve spent years building this life. This persona. This untouchable version of yourself that walks through crowded halls like she owns the oxygen, like she invented stilettos and secrets and made everyone swear allegiance to both. You bled for this throne—painted your face with warpaint, walked over corpses of friendships that couldn’t survive your rise, and kissed boys you didn’t even like just to prove you could.

So no, you don’t believe in letting anyone ruin you. Not backstabbing bitches with double-tap apologies. Not fake friends who can’t wait to see you fall. And especially not men who think with their fucking dicks. Satan himself could knock on your locker and offer a deal, and you’d slam it in his face.

But there was a time—god, there was a time—you let your guard down. You let him in. Let him press kisses into the hollow of your throat and pretend that counted as love. You let him ruin you, suck the life out of you like he was starving and you were it. You let yourself feel something close to... what? Affection? Love? Whatever your twisted definition of it is. You loved him. You did.

And you hated yourself for it.

The fights. The screaming matches over nothing. The breaks that were never clean. The makeup sex that felt like war disguised as worship. The cold silences and the games and the passive-aggressive posts you’d both pretend weren’t about each other.

You were still a nasty bitch through it all. Always would be. But he cracked your armor—and that made you hate him just a little more than you hated yourself.

Now, he’s out of the picture. Again. This time, for real, you tell yourself.

But this new disaster? This one stares up at you from your desk, from a blood-red pen and cheap printer ink like it wants to eat you alive.

A big, bold, ugly F stamped on the top of your statistics exam. It practically sneers at you, all caps and no mercy. You stare at it, half in shock, half in rage.

Fuck, fuck math, fuck grades.

“Grades don’t define you,” the posters say. Yeah, tell that to the colleges watching your GPA swan-dive off a cliff.

You fold the paper like it's diseased and shove it in your designer bag like that'll make it go away. The bell rings. Perfect. You shoot out of your seat so fast it squeals, heels clicking, ready to spill this tragic, taboo mess of a moment to your best friend. Maybe you’ll even laugh about it later, like—

“Y/N?”

Oh god. No. Please no.

You freeze.

You know that voice. Sugary-sweet and smug, that’s the voice of a man who knows your secrets before you do.

You turn slowly. Sensei Gojo stands at the front, still obnoxiously pretty and smug with his stupid blindfold pushed up like he’s doing you a favor just looking at you.

“Can you stay for a moment? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Your stomach drops. The class starts filing out. A few turn to look at you. Pity in their eyes. You hate pity. You’d rather they loathe you.

You don’t say anything. You just nod, flip your hair, and sit back down like you own the room. Because you do. Even if you’re on academic death row.

He waits until the last student’s out, then leans back against the desk like he’s the cool substitute in some coming-of-age movie.

“Y/N, your scores in statistics are…” He pauses, searching for a polite way to say atrocious. “Let’s just say they’re not great.”

No shit, Sherlock.

“You’re dangerously close to failing this class.”

You stare at him, mascaraed lashes batting once, twice.

“Like, final warning close. Close to not walking the stage close.” His tone softens, but it doesn't help. It makes it worse. It makes it real.

“And it’s not just the grades. You’re late half the time, and the other half you don’t show up at all.”

Oh, here we go.

You cross your legs. Press your lips together. In your head, you’re screaming.

You think I want to be here?

You want to yell it. But you don't.

Because you don’t explain yourself. Not to teachers. Not to boys. Not to anyone.

So instead, you just smile. That same, sweet, fake smile you’ve weaponized since seventh grade.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is a pattern, Y/N. One you can’t afford anymore.”

He doesn’t say what’s next, not yet.

But something’s coming.

Something you’re definitely not going to like.

And unfortunately for you?

This was just the beginning.

You hated feeling small.

And this? This made you feel so fucking small.

You stared at Gojo, arms crossed over your chest like armor, nails digging into your skin just to keep you grounded. You knew you were failing. You weren’t delusional. But who really cared? It’s not like the world was ending.

Apparently, Gojo did.

“I’ve spoken to your other teachers,” he said, like he was delivering news of a death in the family. “And they told me the same thing. Same pattern. Same concerns.”

Of course they did. Fucking rats.

“So, we’ve agreed. Even talked to Principal Yaga about it.”

You felt it. That tightening in your chest, like the air was suddenly thick and suffocating. Like someone had cracked your ribs open and poured cement inside.

Why not just let me fail? you wanted to scream. It’d be easier. Cleaner. Less humiliating.

But you didn’t even have time to spit that thought out before Gojo said it—

“We’re assigning you a tutor. To help you.”

Boom. Just like that. A landmine in a sentence.

You blinked at him. “Real fucking original,” you muttered, voice flat. “This school, I swear to God.”

Gojo just smiled like your attitude was cute. Like he knew you were seconds away from losing it.

You tried to argue, of course you did. Told him you’d figure it out yourself. That you didn’t need anyone. That you'd pull it together on your own terms.

But it was bullshit and you both knew it.

Because the truth was, you hated needing help. Hated the thought of someone seeing you like that—confused, stuck, stupid.

You weren't supposed to be the girl who got tutored. You were the one who made heads turn in the hallway, not hand in extensions with shaky half-done answers. You were her—the fantasy, the flame, the problem.

Not someone’s fucking charity case.

Gojo kept talking like he didn’t even hear you.

“We already have a student recommended for you. Smart, responsible—top of their class. It’s perfect.”

“No,” you snapped, shaking your head. “Don’t tell me. I swear to God—”

“Megumi Fushiguro,” he said like it was a blessing, not a curse.

You froze.

There it was.

No fucking way.

This wasn’t real. This was a fever dream. A prank. You were going to wake up in your bed with a hangover and a selfie from last night where you still looked hot.

Megumi. Fucking. Fushiguro.

Top of every class. Straight As. Probably dreams in binary and eats plain rice for fun. Always quiet, always grumpy. Wears those dark wire-frame glasses like he’s an anime character no one asked for. Barely talks to anyone unless he’s forced to. Walks around campus like he’s allergic to human interaction.

You were pretty sure he was a virgin.

Okay, no—you were positive he was a virgin.

You’d die before being seen with him. Dead. Bury-you-in-your-Prada dead.

“There has to be someone else,” you said, practically begging now. “Anyone else. Please.”

Gojo looked amused, which made you want to punch a wall.

“There’s Miko,” you offered quickly, almost desperately. “She’s fine. Smart. She’s sweet. I could work with her.”

You could tolerate Miko. Miko was normal. Miko was a girl. Miko wouldn’t make people talk.

But Gojo just tilted his head, smile still in place like he was enjoying every second of your downfall.

“Well Miko only excels in a few subjects and, well... you need a person that excels in all of them,” he said.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you just sat there, stunned, imagining every way this could go wrong.

And knowing deep down?

This was about to be your worst nightmare.

Dressed in black. Wearing glasses. With a stick up his ass. And your GPA in his hands.

Being seen with Megumi Fushiguro was basically social suicide.

Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic—but not by your standards.

For you, drama was reality. Perception was everything. The throne you sat on in this school wasn’t built on kindness or GPA or showing up to class—it was built on looks, fear, attention, and the ability to control a room with a glance. So yeah, walking around with him?

It’d be like showing up to a party in crocs and a Walmart hoodie.

No one really gave a fuck about Megumi Fushiguro except to mutter, “Oh yeah, he’s the smart one, right?” And then immediately forget he existed. You were 90% sure he didn’t even have friends. Like, actual ones. No rumors, no hookups, no drama. Just… nothing. The guy existed in grayscale while the rest of the world lived in high definition.

Seriously, does he even have a life?

You were still mentally spiraling when you crossed your arms and stared Gojo down. “Well,” you said, voice tight with forced patience, “when are we going to start?”

Gojo blinked, like you just asked what time your public execution was scheduled for.

“Well…” he started, dragging the word out like he didn’t want to say the rest.

Your stomach sank. “Well what?”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “You’re going to have to ask him to tutor you.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Gojo chuckled under his breath. “I’m not. This has to come from you.”

“No way. No way in hell am I going to let him tutor me, let alone walk up to him and actually ask him. Like some desperate, clueless loser? Are you serious?”

He looked completely unbothered, which only made it worse. “You said you’d do it yourself. So do it.”

You scoffed, stepping back from his desk like it was toxic. “I thought you assigned someone? That’s what you said."

"This isn’t Megumi’s responsibility. He has nothing to do with this.” He simply says before dragging a hand on his face.

Gojo raised an eyebrow, still too calm for your liking. “Y/L/N,” he said, suddenly sounding like an actual teacher, “you’re missing the point. I recommended him for you. There’s nothing on record making him do this. He’s a student. He doesn’t have to help unless he wants to.”

Your jaw clenched.

“So… you’re telling me I have to go up to him. In public. With witnesses. And ask him if he could tutor me?”

“That’s right.”

You swore you saw stars. Like the universe itself was laughing.

“This is a violation of my rights.”

Gojo ignored you. “If you ask me, this’ll help you in a way.”

You turned your full glare on him. “In a way?”

He had the audacity to smile. “In a way.”

That’s it. He was joking. He had to be joking. There was no other explanation.

This was humiliation dressed up as academic concern.

You didn’t care how smart Megumi was. He was a weirdo. An antisocial, overly-serious, no-style, probably-listens-to-podcast-during-lunch type of guy. He barely spoke in class. Walked around like he hated everyone and wanted no part of this high school circus. And now you were supposed to be linked to him?

People would talk. They always did.

And the thing was—you could handle scandal. Cheating rumors, fights, breakups, even getting caught sneaking out of school. That was your brand.

But being pitied? Looked at like you were failing, falling, needing help?

That wasn’t part of the story you’d built.

So you stood there, fuming silently while Gojo tapped his pen and gave you that lazy, I’ve-already-won smirk.

“Your move,” he said.

And for the first time in a long time… you didn’t know what the hell to do.

You hated this.

The sterile smell of books. The too-quiet atmosphere. The pretentious posters about "reading being a journey" plastered on the walls like propaganda. You didn’t even remember the last time you stepped into this godforsaken library. You probably passed it once last semester on your way to the vending machines. That’s how irrelevant it was to your life.

Yet here you were.

In hell. In flats. In daylight.

Nobara walked beside you, phone clutched in one hand, chewing her gum like it was the only thing keeping her alive. You’d already told her everything—the F, the mandatory tutoring, the name.

“Wait, you’re really going up to emo boy?” she asked, eyebrows arched so high they nearly left her face.

You rolled your eyes, hugging your bag tighter against your ribs. “Well, I don’t seem like I have a fucking choice now, do I?”

Nobara laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that said, you poor, pretty, dumb bitch. “I mean… maybe it won’t be that bad.”

You snorted. “Nobara. Be serious.”

She chewed her gum thoughtfully. “Okay. Yeah. No, it’s bad.”

Exactly.

Because Megumi Fushiguro wasn’t just some average dork you could manipulate into writing your assignments. No. He was worse. He was the quiet kind of weird. The doesn’t-talk-in-class, always-has-his-uniform-perfect, looks-like-he-wants-to-die-in-peace kind of weird. The type you couldn’t bribe with a smile or a rumor or a favor. He was immune.

Social leprosy in boy form.

And yet, somehow, the school’s salvation for your stats grade.

You spotted him at the far table, tucked between shelves, back to the wall like some brooding vampire fresh off a CW casting call. His glasses slid low on the bridge of his nose as he scanned whatever thick-ass textbook he was reading for fun.

Of course.

Of fucking course he wore the full uniform like it was sacred. Top button fastened. Tie actually straight. Hair neat, but still messy enough to look like he didn’t try. He looked—

You blinked.

No. No way.

You were not thinking that. You refused to think that.

Sure, he looked… kind of—

“Y/N,” you hissed at yourself in your head. “You stupid bitch. Stop it. Stop right there.”

You’d seen hotter guys take shots off your stomach at parties. You’d dumped guys with jawlines that could slice diamonds. You had absolutely no business finding this antisocial human embodiment of grayscale remotely tolerable-looking.

Still… he had that whole tortured-genius-in-a-dark-academia-novel thing going on. The kind of quiet that made you wonder what his voice sounded like in a whisper. His fingers were long, delicate-looking—but they gripped that pen like he was solving world hunger.

Oh my god. You were going to die in here.

“This is it,” you muttered. “This is where I die. The library. How fucking poetic.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Okay, drama queen. Relax. You’re not marrying him. You’re asking for help.”

You glared. “Which is worse.”

She nudged your shoulder. “It’s going to be fine. Maybe he won’t even say yes. Maybe he’ll look at you, realize who you are, and throw himself out a window.”

That did cheer you up a little.

Still, it wasn’t enough to slow your pulse. Your heartbeat thudded in your ears like war drums. You couldn’t believe this was your life now. That you, Y/N fucking L/N—who had boys wrapped around her finger and girls hating her for sport—was about to walk up to some academically elite, socially invisible nerd and ask him for help like you were starring in some cliché high school drama about “character growth.”

Fuck that.

You straightened your back. Tossed your hair over your shoulder. No more second-guessing. No more bitching. You’d survived worse.

This wasn’t fear. This was pride swallowing itself whole.

“I’ve had enough,” you snapped, mostly to yourself. “No one—no one—intimidates me. Definitely not some little nerd emo boy who hasn’t touched a girl since birth.”

You took one final breath. Braced yourself.

Nobara squeezed your wrist, whispering, “Godspeed, slut.”

You didn’t reply.

You just sighed—loud and dramatic, like the universe owed you for this humiliation—and started walking toward Megumi Fushiguro like the floor wasn’t crumbling beneath you with every step.

You had Nobara stationed like a soldier, standing guard near the library doors, eyes on full fool lookout in case anyone saw you committing social treason.

God bless this woman.

Thank you for this, friend. Lord.

The library was quiet—too quiet. Every step felt like it echoed, like the universe wanted to make sure everyone heard you approaching rock bottom.

But before you even made it halfway to his table, Megumi stood up. Closed his book with surgical precision and walked straight into the shelves, disappearing like some silent cryptid in the woods.

You groaned, turning to Nobara, giving her a this bitch is running away from me? look.

She grinned, raised both brows, and mouthed: Do it, pussy.

You wanted to strangle her and kiss her at the same time.

Whatever. You’d gotten with hotter guys. Smarter ones. Dumber ones. Richer. Poorer. Emotionally unavailable. Emotionally obsessed. Guys with girlfriends. Guys who thought they had a chance.

And every single one of them turned to putty in your hands.

So what made him different?

You squared your shoulders, spun around, and stormed into the stacks.

There he was. Back turned, arm reaching up to slide a book back into place like he lived here. Like he belonged among dusty spines and math equations.

You grabbed the nearest book—didn’t even look at the title—and fake-coughed as you stepped closer.

Megumi turned.

Surprised, yes. But not flustered.

His stare was cold. Flat. That same fucking look he always had—like the world bored him, and you were just another mild inconvenience.

God, what a jerk.

“Um,” you started, lifting the book like it wasn’t upside down. “Can you help me with this?”

You could feel Nobara mentally cheering you on from the sidelines. Get him, Y/N.

Megumi looked at the cover. Then at you. Then back to the book.

He blinked once.

“Do you want me to read it to you?”

You blinked back, momentarily stunned.

Was he being smart with you?

No one was ever smart with you. Not unless they wanted something. Not unless they were flirting. Not unless they were desperate for attention.

But Megumi just looked… unimpressed.

You felt your pride snap a little.

You sighed and shoved the book back somewhere—probably in the wrong section. Probably next to something tragic and depressing.

“Look,” you muttered, arms crossed tight over your chest. “I need your help.”

Even saying that word felt like sandpaper in your throat.

Help. Ugh.

Megumi didn’t react. Just stood there. Silent.

“I’m failing,” you continued. “Not just in one class. In like… a lot. And Gojo-sensei—” you swallowed the irritation in your tone “—he recommended you to tutor me.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Not even a flicker of amusement or interest.

Just cold. Calm. Bored.

He stared at you for a full second before delivering it:

“No.”

Plain. Simple. Sharp.

Like a guillotine to your ego.

You blinked.

“What?”

“No.”

You stared at him, jaw slightly slack.

“No?” you repeated, as if your ears had betrayed you.

“Yeah,” he said, already turning back to shelve another book. “No.”

You stood there, floored. Like you’d just been slapped with a hardcover.

The absolute audacity. You were you. You didn’t get told no. but apparently, Megumi Fushiguro didn’t give a single fuck.

There were moments—very rare moments—when someone told you no.

Like, a real, firm, cold-blooded no. No explanation. No softened tone. No excuses or maybes or little breadcrumbs to give you hope.

Just: No.

And for a second, you couldn’t even move. Couldn’t even process it.

You’d had teachers fold when you cried. Boys stutter when you glared. You could fake a smile, flutter your lashes, and make people bend. That was the point. That was you.

So who the fuck did Megumi Fushiguro think he was?

You stormed out from between the shelves, steps sharp and fast like your heels were carving a path straight through the earth. You spotted Nobara instantly—arms crossed, eyes wide, already sensing the smoke behind your eyes.

“How’d it go?” she asked, leaning off the wall.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

She took one look at your face and winced. “So I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”

You stopped beside her, practically shaking. “He said no. Like—just no. No reason. No ‘sorry.’ No nothing. Just—” you mimicked his monotone—“no.”

Nobara blinked. “Wow. That’s kind of iconic.”

You glared at her.

“Okay, okay,” she laughed, holding up her hands. “I’m sorry. That’s messed up. But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise? Like… maybe you weren’t meant to suffer like this. I mean, Miko is still up for it. She said she’d be down to help.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw god. “Miko’s off the table.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “Why? She’s tolerable.”

“Sure, tolerable. But she’s not smart-smart. Like, she can help me with basic history or whatever, but I’m not failing basic history, Nobara. I’m failing everything that sounds like a war crime. Calculus? Bio? Stats? Physics? I might as well be trying to read fucking ancient Sumerian.”

Nobara winced. “That’s… yeah, that’s real.”

You ran your hands down your face, groaning. “I should’ve said please or something. Or flirted. Or lied. I don’t know—threatened to cry.”

She smirked. “You? Say please? That would’ve been a show.”

You ignored her. “How the hell am I supposed to go back and tell Gojo? He already thinks I’m a mess.”

“Maybe he’ll finally cut you some slack.”

You scoffed. “Oh no. Knowing Gojo? He’ll double down. Say it’s ‘a challenge for my personal growth’ or some other inspirational TED Talk shit.”

You leaned back against the wall, tilting your head up like the ceiling would give you answers.

You were running out of options. Miko wasn’t cutting it. Fushiguro was being a little emo wall of nope. And Gojo was going to be so smug when he found out you failed asking for help too.

Creative. You had to get creative.

Begging was off the table.

Manipulating was… iffy. He didn’t seem the type to care if you blinked slow or whispered his name.

Bribing?

No. He’d probably think you were trying to poison him.

What the fuck kind of guy says no to Y/N L/N without blinking?

You stared at the library door like it had betrayed you personally.

You’d have to tell Gojo. Eventually.

Maybe if you just… delayed it long enough. Came up with a new plan. Or wore sunglasses and faked a sore throat for a week. Or transferred to another school. Another continent.

You sighed again, dramatic as hell, flipping your hair back like it would physically toss the stress off your body.

Nobara patted your arm. “Want to go get iced coffee and pretend this never happened?”

“I want to go back in time and kill whoever invented the grading system.”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

The next day at school was torture.

You still hadn’t told Gojo about the whole Megumi situation—refused to, actually. There was no point. Not yet. Not when there was still a sliver of a chance to salvage this your way.

There was always a way.

Men were predictable. The trick was knowing which button to press. Some needed a little pity. Others needed attention. Flattery. A brush of your fingers. A well-placed laugh. You’d played this game before—and won.

Megumi Fushiguro wouldn’t be any different. He couldn’t be.

You just… needed a new approach.

Maybe you hadn’t smiled enough. Maybe your tone was too sharp. Maybe you needed to soften the edges, play the part you always avoided—sweet, helpless, tragic little thing with wide eyes and nowhere else to turn.

It made your skin crawl just thinking about it, but you’d do it. For the grade. For your ego. For the fantasy of walking the stage with your head held high while every girl who talked shit about you had to watch.

But still…

Why did he say no?

Why would he of all people—grumpy, quiet, socially-inept Megumi Fushiguro—reject you like that? It wasn’t even a thoughtful rejection. No hesitance. No pause.

Just: no.

A voice crept up your spine like rot, soft and cruel:

Because you’re a horrible person.

You slammed your locker shut, hard enough that it echoed through the hall and turned a few heads.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, to yourself, to your thoughts, to everything.

And then you saw him.

Megumi. Walking down the hallway. Book in hand. Head down. Shoulders slouched. Hair slightly messy, like he didn’t even care how he looked, and somehow that just made him more annoyingly intriguing.

You inhaled. One more time. That’s all you needed. A second chance. A different angle. You could do this.

You adjusted your skirt. Checked your reflection in the locker mirror. This time, you’d go softer. Smarter. Better.

But before you could even make it two steps, someone stepped into your path like a fucking disease.

“Aiko,” you spat before she could even open her mouth.

Certified bitch. Musty-ass personality. Face like it belonged in a “before” photo.

She wore a fake-ass smile, one that curled like spoiled milk. “I heard you and Kamo broke up,” she said sweetly, her voice dipped in syrup and cyanide. “Ugh, I feel so sorry for you.”

There it was.

His name. Again.

You’d been doing fine—perfectly fine—without hearing it.

Kamo this. Kamo that. The school’s “it couple.” That stupid title people loved to throw around like you were a soap opera they subscribed to.

You let yourself fall apart in front of him. But you’d never, ever let yourself break in front of them.

“You’re in my way,” you said through clenched teeth.

Aiko blinked like she was shocked. Like she hadn’t come over here specifically to dig a knife into your ribs.

“Oh, am I?” she cooed. “Relax, Y/N. I’m not trying to fight. Just… you know. Grieving. For the tragedy of it all. I mean, the it couple breaking up? So sudden.”

You stepped closer, eyes burning into hers.

“I said,” you hissed, “you’re in my fucking way, cunt.”

The smile slid off her face like smeared lipstick.

She didn’t say another word.

Didn’t even try to bite back.

She just moved.

And you walked past her like she was dust on your heels.

Oh, you fucking hated her face so much.

If you weren’t so focused on Megumi’s fading figure at the end of the hall, you would’ve turned back and said more. Burned her down like you used to. But not today. You had other things to ruin, and Megumi Fushiguro? He was next.

The thing about corner-turning is you never expect the universe to kick you in the face right when you're adjusting your bag strap.

You were walking with purpose, the kind that made your heels click a little louder than usual—an entrance in motion. You were ready. Composed. Lip gloss freshly reapplied after third period. Your expression was neutral but just sharp enough to slice. You had a mission, and it had a name: Megumi Fushiguro.

But then you heard it.

Soft voices. Quiet. Way too quiet.

You stopped cold just before turning the hallway corner, your body going still like a predator scenting something interesting in the air. Not danger. Something better.

Opportunity.

You leaned slightly against the wall, the cool concrete pressing against your arm, heart slowing to a patient rhythm.

“…This isn’t what you think it is, is it?”

The voice was unmistakable. Low. Soft-spoken. Familiar. Mgumi, and not the annoyed, gruff, “please leave me alone” tone he used with you.

This voice was nervous. Hopeful.

You blinked, stunned for a moment. He was talking to someone—someone else. That alone was rare. You’d never seen him willingly seek out a conversation that didn’t involve quadratic equations or existential dread.

“So, um…” A pause. Oh my God he’s going to do it. Your pulse quickened, like you were watching a drama unfold on live TV.

“…Will you go out with me?” Holy shit.

Your mouth fell open slightly. Megumi Fushiguro was asking someone out.

Of all the unexpected plot twists. You weren’t sure what floored you more—the fact that he had feelings, or the fact that he was actually brave enough to express them. The guy walked around like he hated everyone except maybe cats and his own thoughts.

But there he was. Vulnerable. Soft-spoken. Kinda pitiful.

You peeked carefully—so carefully—around the corner. Your eyes landed on her. Miwa Kasumi. Of course. Sweet, inoffensive Miwa. Soft voice. Polite tone. Never stepped on toes, never raised her voice, never walked down a hallway like she owned it.

The complete opposite of you. She even looked gentle when she rejected him.

“That’s really sweet, Megumi,” she said, and you swore she said it like she was afraid of breaking him. “But I don’t think we’re compatible.” Oof. That hurt, and it wasn’t even aimed at you.

“It’s not a secret that you’re… well… new and inexperienced to this kind of stuff,” she added. “And I like someone—” But he cut her off.

“Yeah, I get it.” His voice was flat again. Hollow. There it was. The door closing. No theatrics. No drama.

“Maybe soon, though?” he offered, like it was a question, like he still had a little hope curled in his chest, waiting to be crushed.

“Um… okay.” And that was the end, silence.

You stayed frozen in place, your breath held like the scene might collapse if you moved too fast. Megumi turned, and for a second he looked younger, like he’d peeled off a layer of himself and left it on the floor between them.

And then he walked away. Alonem, you blinked slowly, brain sparking. It started as a single thought, a flicker, a whisper.

Oh, weren’t you just the smartest fucking person in the building?

"You really think this is going to work?"

Nobara’s voice broke through the trance of your reflection, half-mirrored in the hallway’s cracked window, your lip gloss catching the light like a tactical weapon.

You gave her a sideways glance, one perfectly sculpted brow raised, all smug and smugger. “Of course it’s going to work,” you said, like it was the dumbest question you’d ever been asked in your entire perfect life. “Please. It’s me.”

You had already told her everything—the plan, the hallway rejection you’d witnessed, the way Megumi looked like a kicked puppy when Miwa gave him the sweet-girl brush off—and now it was game time. You were the puppeteer, baby, and the stage was set. He just didn’t know he was dangling from your strings yet.

Honestly, you had no idea what people meant when they said "knowledge is power" unless they were talking about you. Because you? You were a damn encyclopedia of everything boys wanted, and everything girls wished they could do. You knew every damn nerve ending worth teasing, every expression worth mimicking, every little “accidental” touch that turned even the coldest guy into a stuttering, red-eared wreck. You knew how to arch your back just enough without looking desperate. You knew how to keep your voice low, not sultry but curious, like they were a mystery you were so bored of but still entertained for sport.

You weren’t some hopeless virgin clinging to a copy of Cosmo in your locker. No. You had done your time. You had experience. You’d had boys beg for a kiss. Had them swear they’d never look at another girl again. You could describe, in horrifyingly accurate detail, what made every one of your past flings tick—and more importantly, what made them snap. You’d seen stars on the ceiling of cars, been pinned against too many lockers to count, had your name moaned into sweaty pillows and shower tiles.

So, yes. You were qualified.

You? You were the reason boys wrote sad songs and cried into hoodies they never washed again. You were a walking masterclass in confidence, sin, and silk, and if Megumi Fushiguro needed a little help navigating the mess that was dating and desire and rejection?

Well, you were feeling generous. Nobara, for her part, wasn’t fully sold. But she didn’t argue. She just sighed, then elbowed you, subtly nodding toward the other end of the hall. “Look. There he goes. Mr. Emo himself.”

You turned, the ends of your perfectly curled hair whipping across your shoulder as your eyes locked onto him. There he was.

Same as yesterday. Same slouched posture. Same dark hair falling over the rims of his glasses like he was the protagonist of a sad indie movie no one finished watching.His uniform was annoyingly neat. His expression was unreadable, but not in a mysterious way—more in a fuck-off-and-die kind of way. Still, it didn’t scare you. That bored, dead-eyed glare didn’t do a thing to your confidence.

You turned back to Nobara and handed her your iced coffee like a sword. “Cover for me.”

Before she could even roll her eyes, you were already following him. Gracefully. Casually. Like it was just a coincidence that your heels clicked down the hall in rhythm with his steps.

He stopped at his locker, fiddling with the lock, clearly unaware of the incoming storm.

You leaned on the locker next to his, one shoulder against the cool metal, your voice coated in the sweetest tone you could muster.

“Hey.”

He turned his head slightly.

The look he gave you was the same exact one he wore that day in the library.

Cold. Blank. So utterly unimpressed you could practically hear him sigh internally.

“Which part of no didn’t you understand?”

You blinked. Your smile didn’t even falter. Internally, you did want to punt him across the hallway, but you held it together.

You scoffed, caught off guard for a second before giving yourself a mental slap across the face. Act nice, you reminded yourself. Be fucking likable for once.

“So,” you started, crossing one leg over the other casually, “Gumi’s got a little crush, huh?”

That got his attention.

He turned to face you fully, the minimal expression on his face twisting—just slightly—into something more shocked. Or was it offended?

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide what repulsed him more: the nickname or the fact you knew.

“I told Miwa not to tell anyone.”

You gave a dramatic little shrug, lips pursed, eyelashes fluttering like you were born to cause heart attacks. “Well, it’s me. I know everything.”

And then, you smiled.

Slow and cunning and full of teeth.

You let out a low whistle, like you were impressed. “Inexperienced, huh? That’s what she said?”

You tilted your head, trailing a manicured nail along the edge of the locker next to you. “See, that’s where I come in.”

He looked like he wanted to walk into traffic.

You stepped closer.

“I’m offering a little deal,” you said, voice sweet as sin. “You tutor me in, you know, math and stats and all that shit I don’t care about—” you waved a hand like the words physically bored you, “—and I tutor you in…” your lips curled again, “...sex.”

There was a beat. A long, awkward, horrifying beat.

And then his expression shifted.

Not to shock. Not to curiosity.

To absolute, undisguised disgust.

“That’s disgusting.”

Your eyes snapped open wider. “Excuse me?”

He was already pulling books out of his locker like he couldn’t be bothered to finish this interaction with eye contact.

“You should be veryyy appreciative I even offered,” you huffed. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime, you know. So many people would kill for—”

He shut his locker.

“—what I just gave you.”

He turned to you, expression still deadpan but lined with something sharper now. You didn’t know what it was at first, until he opened his mouth.

“What you are,” he said calmly, “is someone who is so full of herself it’s amazing you haven’t choked on your own ego.”

Your mouth parted. Stung, just slightly.

He leaned in just enough for you to catch the low drop of his voice.

“I said it before. And I’ll say it again—”

He stepped back.

“No.”

And just like that, he walked away, you stood there for a second. Stunned. Speechless. Flabbergasted, like a slap you hadn’t expected. Like someone had the audacity to be immune to your charm.

You blinked, and then you inhaled deeply.

You're fucked.

“He fucking rejected me, Nobara.”

You stood in the middle of the girls’ restroom, hands braced on the sink counter like the porcelain could steady your fucking soul, head low, eyes wide like you were still trying to process the words coming out of your own mouth.

“Me. Rejected.”

It physically hurt to say that. Like it scorched your throat. Like it gave you indigestion. Like you were going to throw up and sob and file a complaint to God all in one breath.

You groaned, dragging your perfectly manicured hands down your face, smudging your highlighter in the process. “Oh my fucking god, I can’t—what the actual fuck did I do to deserve this?”

Nobara, loyal to the bitter end, was already next to you, arms crossed, scowling on your behalf like a good friend should.

“He’s a little shit, okay?” she snapped. “He’s a little emotionally constipated virgin who wouldn’t know a good thing if it slapped him across the face with thigh-highs and a personality.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” you practically shouted, flailing your arms. “Like, are we even sure he jerks off? Like I’m ninety-nine percent sure he does it sad and slow with one hand and zero imagination while staring at the ceiling like he’s mourning his life choices.”

Nobara cracked a smile.

“No, seriously, that boy probably comes with his fucking soul still intact. I bet he cries afterward.”

You paced, running your hands through your hair, completely distraught. “I just—I don’t understand. What the fuck did I do wrong? Was it the way I said it? Was I too aggressive? Too hot? Oh my god, was it my face? Is it my face, Nobara?”

She blinked, half-concerned. “What? No.”

“Oh my god I had something in my teeth, didn’t I?” you said, voice climbing in panic. “I had something in my fucking teeth and now Megumi Fushiguro thinks I’m a feral beast who doesn’t know how to use dental floss. This is a fucking nightmare.”

“Okay, chill—”

“No, I won’t chill!” you snapped, turning to face the mirror again, leaning in close to inspect your smile like you were about to cry over a popcorn kernel from lunch. “Do you know what this means?!”

Nobara exhaled. “That he’s an idiot?”

“That he’s a fucking idiot! A disrespectful, emotionally stunted, sexually repressed little emo bitch-boy who probably gets hard from calculus and the idea of stability! I’m sorry, but—no one says no to me. No one. Not the captain of the basketball team, not my ex who literally tattooed my initials on his ribs, not even that teacher who pretended to not notice when I flirted for extra credit. But Megumi Fushiguro?”

You threw your hands up. “This is psychological warfare.”

You slumped down onto the bathroom bench like the life had been drained from your body, one leg kicked over the other in pure tragic defeat. You were exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Hornily.

“This cannot be fucking happening. I’m hot. I’m smart-ish. I’m the reason half the student body needs therapy. Like what the actual fuck is this timeline?!”

Nobara sat next to you, patting your thigh like she was dealing with someone in mourning. “He probably just—like—panicked. Or has a weird purity complex. Or maybe he just wants to be a fucking sad monk. I don’t know. Point is, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Did I smell weird?” you asked suddenly. “Did I wear too much perfume? I knew I shouldn’t have layered Vanilla 28 with that fucking cherry one, I smell like a dessert menu.”

“You smell fine,” she said.

“I should’ve worn the other top,” you muttered, flopping your head back dramatically. “The one with the little lace thing on the chest. That one says ‘I read books and have daddy issues’ in a cute way. This one just says ‘please rail me and leave.’”

“I mean… is that not the vibe you were going for?”

“Not when I’m trying to manipulate him nicely!”

Silence settled for a moment, filled only by the distant echo of a bell ringing somewhere down the hallway. You stared at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you got here. How the fuck Megumi Fushiguro, of all people, had the iron balls to shut you down twice with the emotional grace of a cactus.

You had people on waiting lists to get with you. DMs that required sifting through like spam mail. You didn’t chase. You didn’t ask. And you sure as hell didn’t beg.

But you’d offered, and he’d looked at you like you were the one who should be ashamed.

You groaned again, louder this time, burying your face into your hands. “He’s going to haunt me. I’m going to see his stupid grumpy face every time I close my eyes.”

Nobara was trying not to laugh. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

You knew what Miko was?

An absolute fucking shitty tutor.

Like, garbage-tier. Like should be arrested for educational malpractice level.

You weren’t even being dramatic—okay, maybe a little—but fuck, this was pain.

No one told you she was a mouth-breather, and now you couldn’t unhear it. Every inhale was like someone trying to suck soup through a straw. She sounded like a fish gasping for air. Like a dying background character in an anime. And she had the nerve to be confused when you glared at her every five seconds.

You’d been at it for over an hour. One full fucking hour. In Gojo’s empty classroom, no one else around, just the two of you and a whiteboard full of useless numbers that looked more like cursed marks than actual math.

And nothing. No fucking information had entered your brain.

None.

Nada.

Zilch.

“This is sooo not fucking working,” you groaned, throwing your pen across the desk like it had personally offended you. It bounced off your notebook and hit the floor with a pathetic little click. “I swear to God I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Miko flinched a little, fingers fiddling with the edges of her worksheet like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to speak.

“Did I… um… did I do something wrong?” she asked softly.

You stared at her for a full three seconds.

Then sighed.

“No,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Just stop breathing out of your fucking mouth. It’s bothering me.”

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Sorry…”

You leaned back in your chair, legs spread slightly like a guy in a rap video, looking utterly defeated. Your pencil was somewhere on the floor. Your motivation had died about thirty minutes ago. You didn’t even care anymore.

This was going nowhere.

You weren’t learning shit. You still couldn’t tell the difference between slope and circumference or whatever the hell this was. Miko was nice and sweet and fucking useless. She didn’t challenge you, didn’t pressure you, didn’t even talk like a real person. Just kept pointing to the same equation like repetition was going to beat intelligence into your skull.

You needed something. Something real. Something to snap you out of this shitty mood. A release. A reset. A fucking cigarette or a decent distraction or a goddamn lobotomy at this point.

So you did the thing that always gave you a temporary hit of serotonin and brain rot.

You pulled out your phone.

Flipped open Instagram like it owed you rent.

And there he was.

Fucking Kamo.

Kamo Noritoshi. Tall. Clean. Smart. Moody in the right ways. Your ex, your enemy, your favorite mistake all rolled into one tight package with a stick up its ass. You hadn’t seen him in the halls lately—thank god—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t lurking. Of course he was. He always was.

Your thumb hovered over his story, hesitation curling in your gut like smoke. You tapped it anyway.

The first frame? A photo of some overpriced matcha drink and a quote that probably wasn’t deep but sounded smart if you didn’t think too hard. Typical. The second? His face. His fucking face. Jaw clenched, hair perfect, dead-eyed stare into the camera like he invented the concept of being mysterious.

You exhaled through your nose, annoyed by how fast your stomach flipped.

You missed the bastard. Just a little. Not like—you know—romantically. But there was a rhythm with him. A pull. You two were always circling each other. Orbiting. Drunk texts. Fights in parking lots. Apologies in back seats. It was fucked up, but at least it was something.

You always came back to each other.

Always.

“Y/N?”

You looked up.

Miko, right, still here.

“Are you listening?”

You blinked. “No. And I think we’re fucking done here.”

You stood, grabbed your bag, and started shoving your stuff inside with the same energy people use when flipping off the universe.

“Wait—but we didn’t go over the last—”

“Nope,” you snapped. “Not doing this anymore. I can’t. I’m gonna bash my fucking skull into a wall if I sit here and listen to you explain the fucking Pythagorean theorem one more time like it’s gonna click.”

Miko shrank back slightly, eyes wide. “I was just trying—”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re not helping. You’re not even… like… contributing. I don’t need someone to read to me, I need someone to make it make sense. And I sure as shit don’t need a human humidifier huffing beside me while I have a breakdown.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder, face stone cold.

“This was a waste of my fucking time.”

You didn’t look back as you walked out, heels loud, spine straight, fingers clenched around your phone.

It wasn’t just the tutoring that sucked.

It was everything.

Megumi. Your grades. Your goddamn pride. All of it turning into this sticky, suffocating mess around you. And you were so fucking tired of trying to fix it the nice way.

You needed a win.

And someone was going to give it to you.

Even if you had to rip it out of their pretty little hands.

“I am so not getting into college.”

The words left your mouth like venom, dripping with caffeine and despair as you slouched deeper into the patio chair, legs crossed dramatically like you were mourning the death of your academic future. The sun was too bright. Your coffee tasted like anxiety. The fake succulents on the café table were judging you. Everything was awful.

“Miko is basically a finished fucking case,” you added, scoffing. “Like, finished. Done. Burnt. Expired. That bitch is a walking expired carton of soy milk.”

Nobara slurped loudly on her overpriced iced coffee beside you, clearly unfazed by your suffering. “It can’t be that bad.”

You turned to her, full body, like you needed to make direct eye contact so she could feel the full depth of your academic anguish.

“No, Nobara. That’s the point. It is that bad. Because—she breathes through her mouth.”

Nobara winced. “Damn. Not the mouth breathing…”

“She pants, Nobara,” you whispered, scandalized. “Like a goddamn pug in the summertime. I’m trying to memorize formulas and she’s over there sounding like she’s running a marathon in her fucking head.”

She tried not to laugh, failing spectacularly.

You rolled your eyes, leaned back, and stared at the sky like it held answers. “I’m doomed. I’m gonna be twenty-two working at some shitty chain café pretending it’s temporary while crying in the walk-in freezer. This is it. This is where my villain origin story begins.”

“Okay, admit it,” Nobara said, nudging you. “You need Megumi.”

You sat up straight so fast you nearly spilled your drink.

“No, I fucking do not.”

“You totally do.”

“I do not need that emotionally vacant little broomstick of a man!” you hissed. “He’s a boring-ass bitch with no serotonin, no social skills, and no dick game. Megumi Fushiguro is the human equivalent of a wet Wednesday. I’m not handing over my academic life to him.”

“Sure.”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh-huh.”

You glared at her like your eyes could kill. “Why can’t you tutor me, huh?”

Nobara snorted into her straw, choking slightly. “Girl. Let’s be fucking real. We wouldn’t learn shit with me tutoring you. Not a single thing. You’d start flirting with me out of boredom, I’d tell you to fuck off, and we’d end up on TikTok filming a thirst trap instead of learning calculus.”

You groaned again, flopping over the table dramatically, cheek pressed against the wood like you were seconds from sobbing.

“I hate this,” you mumbled. “I hate all of this. Whatever.”

Nobara took another sip before casually dropping the question like it was nothing: “So… how’s everything with Kamo?”

Your ears twitched.

You sat up a little too fast, adjusting your sunglasses like a defense mechanism.

“Great,” you said, voice a little too chipper. “Fucking fantastic. Let’s just forget about him.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

You waved your hand like you were swatting away the ghost of your past. “It’s whatever. He’s probably somewhere grooming his eyebrows and pretending he’s deep.”

She smirked. “You still miss him, huh?”

You scoffed. “No. But I do need to get laid.”

That made her laugh. “Why not just use your fingers?”

You made a face like she’d suggested licking a subway pole. “That never works for me.”

“Feels fine to me,” she shrugged, all smug and unbothered, like she had her shit together.

You stared at her in disbelief. “Ugh. I hate it, Nobara. I really fucking do. I wanna die. I wanna die a slow and painful death under a pile of unsatisfying orgasms and student loan rejection letters.”

She laughed so hard she nearly spit her drink. “Jesus. It’s just—babe, you’ve never had good dick before.”

You gasped, offended on principle. “Excuse me! I’ve had plenty of—”

“No, you’ve had plenty of dick, not good ones.”

You opened your mouth to argue, then slowly closed it.

“Yeah, okay. Fair.”

She grinned. “Loosen up. You’ll get back up. Maybe Miko won’t be so bad after all.”

You gave her a look like she’d just said you should start dating your cousin.

“Miko? Babe. I would rather rawdog my way through the SATs blindfolded and high than let that girl breathe on me for another hour.”

“Dramatic,” she said.

“Realistic,” you corrected.

But even you knew you were running out of options.

And unfortunately?

That annoying, grumpy little weirdo with glasses might just be your only real shot at saving your GPA from rotting in hell.

Fuck.

This wasn’t getting any fucking better.

You were on the verge of a breakdown. Again. There was no plan, no spark of genius, no magical solution waiting in your locker like a fucking lifeline. Just you, stuck with Miko and her dumbass worksheets, wasting precious hours of your life learning absolutely fucking nothing. It was like trying to study with a talking rice cracker—bland, breakable, and boring.

You slammed your locker shut with a groan, fixing your hair out of pure muscle memory, fingers combing through strands like a ritual. At this point, you were doing anything to feel in control—of yourself, your grades, your life.

And then you heard it.

Voices. Loud. Male. Laughing.

The kind of laughter that never meant anything good.

You turned your head lazily, fully expecting to see the usual suspects being the dumb little testosterone goblins they always were—but something about the tone, the taunting edge in their voices, pulled your attention in completely.

Three guys.

One target.

And that target?

Megumi Fushiguro.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You didn’t intervene. Just stayed leaned up against the lockers, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like it was a play written for your amusement.

Megumi stood there, same blank expression, glasses off, arms still at his sides like he’d decided resisting was a waste of effort. His hair was slightly messier than usual, and there was a scuff on his uniform jacket. But otherwise? Stone cold.

“You serious, bro?” one of the jackasses laughed. “You actually did it? Like, for real? You asked Miwa out?”

Megumi didn’t reply.

“Oh, nah,” the other one grinned. “It’s true. Miwa told Yuko, who told Keita, who told me. She said it was—wait—what’d she call it again?”

The third guy chimed in with a fake high-pitched voice. “‘Kinda sweet but really sad.’”

“Sad, bro!” the first guy repeated, cracking up. “She said it like he was a puppy getting put down or something.”

The second leaned in, barely holding back laughter. “So you went up to her, all serious like, and just—what? Laid it all out? ‘Hi, I like you, please validate my existence?’”

They howled with laughter, slapping each other like it was the funniest shit they’d ever heard.

And Megumi?

Nothing.

Just standing there. Staring ahead. Eyes cold. Distant. Detached.

“Bro, I bet he’s never even kissed a girl,” one of them muttered under his breath.

“Or touched a tit.”

“Dude probably gets hard from holding hands.”

“And you just knew Miwa wasn’t into you, right? Like, c’mon—look at you, man. You read voluntarily. You sit in the front. You don’t even talk. You’re like the human version of a fucking traffic cone. Just there.”

More laughter.

And still, Megumi didn’t flinch.

Didn’t bite.

Didn’t move.

It was... eerie. Uncomfortable, even.

You didn’t know why you stayed there, watching. You weren’t even defending him in your head—at least, that’s what you told yourself. You were just observing. That was all.

But your jaw clenched.

Not because you liked him. Not because you cared. God, no.

It was just—there was something infuriating about it. The way they said it. The way they laughed. The way they tossed around the word virgin like it was a fucking insult, like being someone who hadn’t fumbled their way through mediocre high school sex made you worthless.

Like they were better than him.

Like they knew him.

You didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but your nails dug into your palm as they walked off with one final hit.

“Better luck next time, Fushiguro. Maybe try a mirror first, get some practice in.”

And then they were gone. The sea of students swallowed them up. Their voices faded into the noise. The hallway shifted back into its usual blur, and suddenly it was just Megumi again—alone, hunched slightly as he bent down to pick up his glasses, quiet as ever.

You glanced around.

No one else had seen it.

No one else cared.

And maybe you didn’t either.

But something in you twitched. Shifted. Buzzed, like a static charge in your chest that refused to settle.

Your feet moved before your mouth did.

Megumi was quiet, still brushing dust off his pants like the last five minutes hadn’t just been a public fucking execution.

You leaned your shoulder against the lockers, casual, like you weren’t completely invested in the conversation you were about to initiate.

“So that’s just it, huh?” you said, tone light. “You let them chew you up and spit you out like that?”

He didn’t look up. “It’s not worth the energy.”

“No, it’s just pathetic,” you replied bluntly, crossing your arms. “There’s a difference.”

That got his attention. Slowly, his gaze slid over to you, cold and flat and unimpressed like always. He looked you dead in the eye — dead — like he was trying to freeze you with the sheer weight of his judgment.

“Why are you even here?”

You let out a dramatic sigh, like he was exhausting and cute for not realizing it. “Look, what they did was uncalled for. Stupid fucking pussies, you know?”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like those guys hadn’t just called him virgin boy to his face in front of half the school.

“They’re kind of right in a sense,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“They’re right. I am a loser.” You kind of are, you thought. But inside voices, babe. You weren’t a monster.

You just blinked, shifted your weight, and said, “No. I just think you’re different.”

That made him laugh. Like actually laugh. A scoff-laugh hybrid with a healthy dose of bitterness.

“Yeah. Perfect little popular girl saying that to me, huh?”

You tilted your head, lips quirking. “I’m serious.”

There was a pause. You could feel the weight of it settle between you. And then, like you were unlocking some deep lore plotline, you spoke.

“But there’s one thing they’re right about.”

His brow raised slightly.

“Miwa likes guys with experience. And those boys?” You leaned in, voice dipping lower. “They’d fuck a pillow if it could moan.”

He blinked at you, like he wasn’t sure if you were serious.

“You think what I’m offering benefits only me?” you continued, smile syrupy. “But this could totally be it for you.”

Megumi sighed. The long-suffering kind. “That was a very stupid idea.”

“No it wasn’t.” You straightened. “You like Miwa, right?”

He looked away. Quiet for a second.

“…Since kindergarten.”

Damn. That was… pathetic. But kind of cute? Whatever. You wouldn’t say it.

“You want those jackasses to leave you alone?”

He shrugged again. “I guess.”

“What if you proved them wrong?” you said slowly, voice laced with that venomous charm you’d perfected since birth. “What if you beat them at their own game? Because you fuck so good, you steal their girls?”

He blinked. Twice.

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“What if I told you that you can?” you said, all teeth and temptation now. “My offer from last time—I want you to remember it.”

His brows furrowed. “No. Absolutely not.”

You gave him the most dramatic sigh you could conjure without actually collapsing to the floor. “Come on. This is a big benefit for you. I can help you get Miwa. Think about it. Knowing how to fuck so good, Gumi—”

The twitch in his jaw. Oh, it was so satisfying. That damn nickname. He hates it. You’re using it forever now.

“I don’t understand the concept,” he muttered, like it physically hurt to admit.

“GOD,” you muttered, flinging your hands a little. “You tutor me in school. I tutor you in sex.”

“That sounds stupid.”

You stepped closer. Just a little. Just enough to make him uncomfortable.

“You could kiss those idiots goodbye,” you whispered. “And Miwa? She’d come crawling the second she hears how good you are with your hands.”

He looked at you. Seriously looked. Like he was searching for some punchline that didn’t exist.

“If I do this,” he said slowly, “could it really work?”

You smiled. Big. Cocky. Like you had a secret and the entire world was about to burn for it.

“Gumi, do you know who I am?”

There was a pause. He rolled his eyes. But he answered anyway.

“…Of fucking course.”

You held out your hand.

He didn’t shake it.

But he didn’t walk away either.

“Okay then,” you said sweetly, “we have a deal.”

part. chapter 02

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