#project management assignment writing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enhaflixer · 4 months ago

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campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused.

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

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casuallyanidiot · 24 days ago

Text

Group Participation!

Group project for a class where everyone hates each other, but they somehow fall in love with you???

Yandere! m Academic Rival! x gn! Reader x Yandere! m Nerd!

Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI! Tw. Noncon, Yandere, Dubcon, Oral, Voyeurism, semi-public sex, recording

1.7k words

When you got your assigned partners for the assignment, you actually considered just dropping out entirely. The two names on the paper were of the two people that had made your academic career an absolute nightmare.

Yandere Academic Rival is pissed that he has to work with you for once.

It’s not like you guys are nearly on the same level, so Elias just knows he’s going to have to be on your ass to make sure that you’re not going to manage to fuck this up for everyone. His normal opportunity to try and show you up has been dashed, and now he’s passive aggressively adding notes on to literally anything you write.

“I just feel like this is taking too much space. We can cut down on the word count much more if we remove this part.”

“Dude, that's literally just our hypothesis”

“As I said. You should let me write this part. It will be much better.”

He’s so set on taking over bits of your project, but then he whines about how much he has to do. He spends hours nitpicking everything your group does, but he seems to love focusing on you in particular.

“Come on. You should at least come with me to dinner. I’m staying here after hours to try and fix your mistakes."

“What the- no one asked you to do that???”

“Well, we might as well punch in the failing grade ourselves if I don’t. Sit down. You’re not going anywhere until I can thoroughly check what you’re up to.”

Yandere Nerd isn’t much better.

You had hoped that Marcus would tamper down on his creepiness now that there was someone else present when you interacted with him, but you had no such luck.

He’s a lot more brazen in his advances now. His hand tries to worm its way between your clenched thighs under the table, prodding at your crotch with a mischievous grin like you weren’t sweating bullets. He likes to insert your nudes into the shared draft at ungodly hours at night, making you constantly have to be on the lookout to remove it before Elias would see.

Now, Marcus is smart. Smarter than both you and Elias. Getting him on this project was a guaranteed first class mark in the bag, but it was a goddamn headache making him do anything. You literally had to get on your hands and knees to beg him to do his paragraph on the introduction page. He took a photo, grinned, and finished it flawlessly in less than an hour. You shuddered to think what he would ask of you next.

It wasn’t just him, either. You had been doing your best to manage them both, but it was getting out of hand. Not to mention, but Elias was getting more and more needy.

“You’re working with me today. Not him.” He would scoff in disdain, grabbing your wrist and tugging you off to crowd you against some cafe booth while he tried to get you to drink a coffee you could barely afford. It was hard to keep up with his insults when Marcus would be firing off texts saying “Bby where r u? :(“ followed by a photo of his weeping cockhead. For whatever reason, your so-called rival kept wanting to dig through your phone to see what could possibly be taking up so much of your time. You had to appease him by sneaking off together to the bathroom so you could suck him off so he would drop it.

“God you’re so filthy. I bet you would do this for anyone, wouldn’t you?” He’d hiss between moans. As much as he acted like he was above you, he couldn’t stop the whimpers pouring from his lips as he came down your throat. He couldn’t stop the little admission of love when he thought you were too busy swallowing, either.

Your days were filled with a delicate balance of trying to finish your work, corralling the two of them into actually making progress, and staving off their demands for more and more time with you by trying to make them cum in random spots around campus. A hand job here, and thigh job there, and you were nearly finished with this stupid ass assignment. You’d done a pretty damn good job stopping them from finding out about each other too. Their whispered threats about what would happen if they caught you with anyone else rang cold in your ears every time they tried to ask for more.

It all came crashing down when Elias snapped one day. You were sitting in a study room that had been booked so you could actually try and edit this damn thing properly and just be done. Your fingers flew across your keyboard, the noise filling the otherwise silent space between you. You didn’t notice when he stopped, but you did notice when he was suddenly right next to you, his shadow looming over the words on screen. You paused, sweat forming on the back of your neck.

It was a blur after that. His hands were tugging at your clothes, bending you over the desk as papers and pens scattered to the ground. “You’re so fucking annoying,” he panted in you ear as his hips snapped against yours. The sound of skin on skin replaced the ambience of a productive workflow, and you were left scrambling and stifling your moans.

“Always going around, looking at me like I mean nothing. You think you're better than me? You think you don't need me?” He was rambling, his hand on the back of your throat as he held you in place. He was angry, but there was a desperation to his words. It was like he needed you to affirm his words, to tell him everything he'd been hoping that would tumble from your lips for weeks at this point. You were no stranger to getting pounded at this point, but there was an urgency to the way you tried to plead with him to stop.

“N-ngh~! Elias you gotta hah, y-you gotta stop. Marcus is on his-” He shut you up with a kiss, his lips sliding against yours as he cradled your face.

“Shut the fuck up,” he demanded, his voice ragged as he squeezed your neck in slight warning. “Don't mention that asshole. You're… you're always with him. Do you like him more than me? Tell me. Tell me right now or I'll make it so you can't sit for a whole week,” he demanded, and you could practically hear the insecurity dripping from his tongue. He didn't even give you time to answer. He just shoved you against the table again, your chest flush with the wooden surface.

From the corner of your eye, you could see your face down phone lighting up. The vibrating notifications were sporadic at first, but the longer you didn't answer, the more frequent they became. Your stifled pleas for mercy were only met with grunts, and it wasn’t before long before your toes were curling and a heat in your belly grew more and more prevalent. But before you or Elias could finish, the door opened.

Marcus just stood there for a moment, a genuinely shocked look on his face. You could have sworn Elias smiled, like it was some kind of victory to show how you were on the brink of orgasm to the guy he’d been quietly jealous of this entire time. But then, Marcus just grinned. It wasn’t genuine. You knew him well enough to know that.

“Oh? What do we have here?”

You’d never known his voice to be that smooth, that controlled. Marcus locked the door behind him, his face unreadable as he walked in and pulled out his phone. Elias moved to cover you now that he was done showing off, but the other man put out his hand to stop him silently. You trembled beneath him.

“Oh please, there’s no need to stop for me,” he smirked, practically shoving his screen in your so-called rival’s face to show off a video of you sobbing and moaning while stuffed full of a cock that was certainly not the one currently inside of you right now. “ I’ve already seen it all,” he practically sneered. Elias’s grip tightened painful on your hip, and you panted as you craned your head to see his expression. He went pale before his face flashed with fury.

“You fucking asshole-!”

“Please, like you’re not doing the same thing right now. I should’ve known to keep them on a tighter leash,” Marcus sighed and brushed his hair back as he fixed his glasses and approached the other side of the table you were currently bent over. He wordlessly undid his belt and pants, his dick slapping you across the face as he fisted your hair far harsher than he normally would. You barely got a word in, trying to argue for your innocence before you were choking on his length. You coughed loudly, but they ignored your struggling to stay locked on each other.

“There’s no point in arguing,” Yandere Nerd’s voice was sharp and cold as his hands worked your head. “We might as well work together until we can figure out how to deal with this,” he sighed, frustration simmering under the surface.

Elias looked genuinely taken aback, but he gritted his teeth as he started up the effort of fucking into you once again. Your eyes widened as you tried to get out of being fucked from both ends. Every time you tried to moan or cry out, Marcus’s tip could shove deep into your throat, causing you to gag. Your toes curled, and your back arched as you spasmed.

“Fuck you,” he snapped between groans, his breath hitching as he switched between lovingly stroking your lower back and nearly breaking the table. “Fine. We’ll have to keep them in line. I didn’t know they’d be running around getting fucked like some low class- ngh!” He cut off his rambling as he leaned in and suddenly started pressing kisses and bites to your shoulders.

“Maybe a- shit yeah breath baby. Maybe a tracker for good measure,” Marcus suggested between snarls. “We can split the costs.”

Your stomach sank as they started to discuss the logistics about how to keep you quiet and pliant between the two of you while they kept thrusting into you like you weren’t even there. You sobbed, the sound muffled pitifully. Who knew that, this whole time, they’d actually been able to work together just fine?

#yandere x reader #yandere #tw yandere #my writing #yandere male #x reader #yandere x you #yandere concept #male yandere #yandere boy #yandere nerd #yandere academic rival #yandere rival #yandere bully #dead dove fic #yandere smut #yandere scenarios

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woninggg · 4 months ago

Note

girll i crave, I CRAVEEE opposites attract, rival coworkers enemies to lovers typa smut with cheol and i think you are only one who can write this. i love your work and live for your work. thank you sooo muchhh for decide to write here💖

🐇:ahhh ty so much my love this made my day also this was so fun yet so hard to write(since English is not my first language) but I kinda love the result hehe

bite back~ 崔胜澈 Rival!Coworker!Choi Seungcheol × Rival!Coworker!Reader

Warnings: office AU, smut, degradation, dom cheol, desk sex, unprotected sex, minor choking, and mutual obsession disguised as hatred.

ᶻᶻ..more content under the cut┈✦

The worst thing about Choi Seungcheol wasn’t that he was good at his job.

No, that wasn’t it. If anything, you would have respected him for that. You didn’t mind competition—in fact, you thrived on it. But Seungcheol was a different breed of competitor. He wasn’t just good, he was arrogant about it. A smug, self centered, insufferable bastard who made sure you knew exactly where he stood in the company hierarchy.

And unfortunately, that spot was right next to yours.

The rivalry started the moment you joined. He had been the golden boy of the company, the one everyone looked up to, until you showed up. You weren’t intimidated by his reputation, nor were you interested in playing second to anyone. And from the moment you went head-to-head in your first project, you knew neither of you would back down.

It wasn’t just competition. It was war.

You challenged every one of his ideas. He shot down every one of yours. You undercut his suggestions in meetings, he made sure to find flaws in every pitch you presented. He stole deals right out from under you, and you made sure to return the favor.

And somehow, despite your mutual hatred, the company refused to separate you.

“You two work well together” your boss had said once, completely ignoring the way you and Seungcheol were glaring daggers at each other across the conference table.

Work well together. Right. If by “well” he meant in the same way oil and water did, then sure.

And tonight was no different.

You were stuck in the office well past midnight, both of you hunched over your respective desks, working on a last minute client proposal. Management had assigned it to both of you, because of course they had—insisting that your “combined talents” would deliver the best results.

You could barely focus with him in the room. every time he shifted, every time he sighed, every time his damn pen scratched against the paper, it grated on your nerves.

“Can you stop breathing so loud?” you snapped, eyes shooting daggers at him.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize my existence was such a burden on you.” Seungcheol’s voice dripped with sarcasm, not bothering to look up from his own paperwork.

Your eyes narrowed at the sound of his voice, your grip on your pen tightening until you feared it might snap.

“Don’t call me that,” you spat back. The last thing you needed was for him to think he could get under your skin. But it was already too late.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound irritatingly deep. “You’re really in a mood tonight, huh? What’s wrong, project not turning out the way you wanted?”

You gritted your teeth. “My project is fine.”

“Mm. Sure about that?” He finally looked up from his laptop, leaning back in his chair with that signature smirk you wanted to slap off his face. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re struggling.”

Your eye twitched. You had never hit a coworker before, but tonight might be the night.

“For fuck’s sake” you muttered, shoving your chair back and standing abruptly. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

He mirrored your movement, standing as well, and you hated that he was taller, and that he could look down at you like he was amused.

“I don’t know” he mused, taking a slow step closer. “Do you ever get tired of trying to prove you’re better than me?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t have to prove anything. I am better than you.”

His smirk widened, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

The way he said 'sweetheart' was like nails on a chalkboard, and it made something snap inside you.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the way the tension between you had been building for so long, thick and suffocating.

Or maybe it was just him.

The unbearable way he looked at you, like he was daring you to break first.

So you did.

You shoved him—both hands pressed against his chest, pushing with all your strength.

He barely stumbled.

Instead, he grabbed your wrists before you could pull away, spinning you around and pressing your back against your desk.

“What the hell are you—”

“You’ve been waiting to do that, haven’t you?” he murmured, voice low.

You refused to back down. Your chin lifted defiantly. “What, shove you? Yeah. Since the day I met you.”

His fingers tightened around your wrists. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

The air grew thick with something you hadn’t noticed before—or maybe you had, but had ignored it because acknowledging it would mean admitting that you felt something other than pure hatred for him.

“You hate me, right?” he murmured, pressing in closer, his thigh sliding between yours. “So tell me to stop.”

Your nails dug into his wrists, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “Fuck you.”

His lips curled. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could protest, his mouth was on yours. His hand moved, fingers wrapping around your jaw, grip just tight enough to make you suck in a breath.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was violent, all teeth and dominance and raw frustration.

His hands slid down, gripping your hips so tight it hurt, lifting you onto the desk as his body slotted between your legs. You yanked at his shirt, pulling him even closer, biting down on his lip just to make him groan.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you panted against his mouth.

He laughed darkly, his fingers already working the buttons of your blouse. “Of course not.”

And yet, the way he dragged his hands down your body like he needed to memorize every inch, told a different story.

Your skirt was shoved up, your underwear pushed aside, and then— a sharp gasp left your lips as his fingers slid inside you, finding you embarrassingly wet.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “Fuck. This whole ? You’ve been this soaked, and you’ve been acting like you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but he wasn’t having it.

“Tell me,” he murmured, curling his fingers, dragging a moan from you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

You shook your head, breathless, defiant. “You don’t get to win.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I already won the moment you let me touch you.”

Your cheeks burned with fury, and you bucked your hips, trying to dislodge his hand. But it was too late. His thumb found your clit, circling it in a way that made your knees tremble.

You wanted to slap the smug grin off his face, to wipe the victory from his eyes. But as he continued to kiss you, all thought of anything other than the heat between you disappeared. Your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. You didn’t want this, you told yourself, but your body had other ideas.

Seungcheol’s other hand reached up his thumb brushing against the swell of your breast, making your breath hitch. The friction of his trousers against your thighs was agonizing, the fabric rough against your sensitive skin. You could feel his erection pressing into your stomach, demanding attention.

“Say you hate me again,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and tickling. “Say it while you’re dripping all over my fingers.”

You bit back a moan, hating how much his words affected you. But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing how much you craved this.

So, you spat out the words with all the venom you had left. “I fucking hate you, Choi Seungcheol.”

His eyes darkened, his smile turning feral. “Keep saying it” he murmured, his thumb moving faster on your clit. “Let’s see if you can convince either of us.”

Your body betrayed you, arching into his touch, a whimper escaping your throat. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—”

Seungcheol’s eyes burned into yours, he cut you off by sliding another finger inside you, stretching you out, as you felt the beginnings of a climax building.

His pace was brutal, pumping his fingers into you with no hesitation, curling them just right until your legs threatened to give out.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Bet you touch yourself thinking about me.”

You swallowed down the moan rising in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut. You clenched around his fingers, making him chuckle. “That’s what I thought.”

You were so close, so fucking close, but you’d be damned if you gave him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Fucking asshole,” you bit out, even as your body begged for release.

His fingers pulled out of you instantly, leaving you empty, and you were about to curse at him until he grabbed your hips, yanking you back against him roughly.

“You want it rough?” he taunted, the sound of his belt unbuckling making your stomach tighten with anticipation. You didn’t answer, your breathing ragged.

You hated him for making you feel like this, for reducing you to this quivering mess of need. You hated him, hated the way his hands felt on you, hated how badly you wanted more. God, you despised Choi Seungcheol, and yet here you were, letting him do whatever he wanted to your body.

He slammed into you, all at once, stretching you open so suddenly that all you could do was gasp. The words died on your tongue, your nails digging into his arms, and his low groan against your ear sent a shiver down your spine.

“Look at you” he murmured, as he pulled out just enough to thrust back in, the force pushing you further up the desk. “So fucking cocky in the office, but now? You’re letting me fuck you open without a fight?”

You smirked, breathless. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t fight.”

And just to prove your point, you lifted your leg, wrapping it around his waist and rolling your hips deliberately. He cursed, his fingers flexing against your skin before he retaliated, grabbing the back of your knee and pushing your leg higher, forcing you open even more.

“You really wanna test me right now?” he growled, punctuating the words with a brutal thrust that had your head falling back against the desk.

Your moan echoed through the quiet office, and you knew the moment he heard it that you’d lost the upper hand.

"That’s more like it,” he muttered, dragging his lips along your jaw before biting down just enough to leave a mark. “All that attitude, but at the end of the day, this is what you really wanted, isn’t it?”

You refused to give him that satisfaction. “Fuck you.”

“You are.”

Your glare was half-hearted at best, especially when he pulled back just to watch himself sink into you again, a low groan slipping past his lips. “Shit. You’re squeezing me so tight. You sure you hate me?”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, but the way your body responded to him told the truth.

Seungcheol knew it. And he was eating it up.

“I could make you cum just like this, couldn’t I?” he murmured against your ear, rolling his hips in a way that had you gasping. “Just from my cock stretching you open, fucking you deep, making you feel exactly how you’re supposed to?”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, your pride hanging by a thread. You couldn’t let him win. But then he moved his hand from your thigh to your throat, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

His grip wasn’t tight—just enough pressure to keep you grounded, and make your head spin with something you didn’t want to name.

“Say it.” His voice was a low command, rough and dripping with dominance. “Say you need me to make you cum.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing against his palm. Suddenly his other hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease.

Your entire body jolted at the contact, a choked moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The overstimulation of his cock driving into you, his hand wrapped around your throat, and now his fingers rubbing slow, deliberate circles—it was too much.

“Seungcheol—”

“Say it.” His lips brushed against your jaw. “Or should I stop?”

You gasped, shaking your head immediately. “Don’t.”

He smirked against your skin, but his movements slowed, teasing. “Then say it.”

Your pride was shattered, as your body trembled with need. You couldn’t hold out anymore, not when the pleasure was coiling so tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

“Fuck—I need you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Seungcheol groaned, his cock twitching inside you, but it wasn’t enough. “Louder.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, your face burning“I need you to make me cum.”

The satisfaction in his chuckle made you want to slap him, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Because the moment the words left your mouth, he was relentless. His thrusts turned brutal, his fingers pressing harder against your clit, his grip on your throat tightening just slightly.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, possessive and smug.

The way he said it sent you spiraling, making the pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your entire body tensed, your walls fluttering around him as your orgasm hit you like a truck. You were barely aware of the sounds you were making—half moan, half desperate cry, until you felt him groan against your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he whined, his rhythm faltering. “Look at you—fuck—so pretty when you cum for me.”

His hips stuttered, his hands gripping you even tighter as he thrust deep one last time, his own release hitting him with a guttural groan. You felt, the warmth, and the way he pulsed inside you—and fuck, you shouldn’t have liked it as much as you did.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath, the only sound in the room the ragged inhales and exhales of two people who had just crossed a line they could never uncross.

Then, slowly, Seungcheol leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath still uneven.

“Still think you don’t need me?” he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Your glare was weak, your limbs too spent to push him away. “Shut up.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through your chest, “So, are we going to pretend like this never happened or...?”

his fingers brushed along your thigh almost absentmindedly as he pulled out, leaving you feeling cold and exposed. You reached down to fix your skirt, your cheeks still flushed with the intensity of your orgasm.

And that’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t the end.

This was just the beginning.

more.┈✦

2K notes · View notes

pedgito · 2 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec

summary | Joel notices you've been overworking yourself and frankly, he won't allow it.

author's note | this is a request fill! thank you to 'non for sending this in, it's been nice to write some softer, fluffier fics <3

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson!joel, established dynamic, unrequited feelings toward one another, reader working two jobs in jackson, mentions of injuries, reader is exhausted and overworked but compartmentalizing it, protective!joel, fluff, joel being the sweetest man, shower smut and a much needed orgasm

word count — 6k

Joel’s got a gift.

He knows things—most of the time.

It was a sense, a lay of the land, he liked to call it.

But, you had managed to slip under his radar for too long.

He sought you out often, knowing you were reliable.

If he needed something fixed in a pinch? You had it.

A project to build in a day or two? You’d work twice as hard.

Forcing himself to work into the night on his own? You were always there to offer support.

It didn’t go unnoticed, but Joel had let you slip by the wayside lately.

Because, when you were around him, you were happy.

Bright, full of a life he couldn’t ever manage to encompass, admiring how people fed off of your energy, always laughing and smiling in your presence.

Joel didn’t deserve that—so often, he kept his distance.

Though, that didn’t stop him from late night conversations and drinking to wrap up a build when you often helped him finish up projects that would easily have taken him through the night, getting it done before dawn just so Joel could catch himself a few hours of sleep.

If he wasn’t talking about the work that needed to be done around town, he’d listen to you talk about nonsense that neither of you would remember come morning. He liked to talk to you about Ellie, knowing little about their relationship other than it being complicated, albeit Joel seemed to have a distinct care for it.

For her.

He could be more of himself when it was just you two, alone.

No watchful eyes to scrutinize you or him—as lovely as Jackson was, gossip and conversation was all most people could cling to outside of their daily jobs within the walls.

Summer in Jackson meant that there would be a swell of projects during the short three month window—but that also meant more of a workload to take on when you weren’t on the job with Joel.

The primary seamstress in Jackson had been backed up for months and you offered to share some of the stress, working dutifully on your days and hours off, even into the dark and quiet hours of the night where everything seemed to draw still.

Your hands ached for a number of reasons, but the pricks and pokes from sewing and twisting and holding your fingers in one position for an extended period of time had proved your body wasn’t handling the overload of work in a healthy manner.

And it didn’t help that often woke up with a distinct heat in your back, a sharp pain that tugged when you kneeled down to far or overexerted yourself with carrying around supplies, hiding the grimace in your face when Joel was around as you buried your head and trudged past.

But, Joel takes notice one particular morning.

Usually you’re good at hiding it, but with the amount of men who were showing up to your doorstep with rips in their jeans and shirts tattered to hell, you had been trying your best to keep yourself afloat.

“We’ve got six builds that need to be finished by the end of the week,” Joel begins as he leans against his desk, flipping through a thin stack of papers as he lists off what projects were taking priority and who would be assigned where.

Joel is habitual, making sure that every one of you makes eye contact with him as he explains what he expects of the day, going down the line until he lands on you, realizing that your eyes had drifted shut and your head rested against your fist.

Quietly, he waves everyone out to start the day before he approaches you quietly, twisting up the paper into a thin cylinder before he taps it against your cheek, his opposite hand resting against his hip.

You wake with a sudden startle, glancing tiredly around the room to find it empty.

Except for Joel.

Joel, who was staring down at you with a mix of amusement and worry, mouth downturned but his eyes soft, slowly morphing into a kind smile as your eyes landed on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say without him speaking, suddenly sleeping as you tuck your hands between your legs and Joel notices the bandages wrapped around your fingers, sparsely throughout but still enough that he takes notice, “I’m sorry, really,”

“You sleepin’ alright?” Joel asks curiously, tilting his head further to look at you as you nod, only managing to look at him briefly before your chin dips, massaging the inside of your palm with the fingers of your opposite hand.

You notice Joel’s hand extend as he tosses the papers on his desk, a movement that you don’t immediately react to, but as you glance up to look at Joel, his lips are pulled tight, repeating the motion with his fingers as he silently asks for your hand.

Reluctantly, you offer one hand and his other palm opens, accepting the other.

Joel notices the healing cuts on the inside of your palm, some fresher than others, and the white cloth wrapped tight around suspected wounds of a similar nature, some tinged with a faint pink and Joel sighs, a harsh breath through his nose.

“You know, I’m not a masochist,” Joel explains, and you look at him with a raised brow of disbelief, one that he responds with a faint tug of a smile as he turns his head away to answer as he scrunches his nose to wash away twitch of his lips, “I’m not gonna hate you for askin’ for a day off—two, if you need it,”

“These aren’t—” you quickly tug your hands away, “they’re not from building or anything,”

Joel raises his eyebrows in curiosity, silently asking you to elaborate.

“I dunno, you know how I am,” you begin to ramble softly, the couch dipping with weight as Joel comes to sit by you, elbows resting on his knees as he listens, “I get restless, I need to keep myself busy—I thought I could help out Elaine with fixing up clothes, stuff is precious, you know?”

“When do you have the time?” Joel asks, well aware of your schedule as you rarely left time for yourself outside of work and mandatory town meetings once a week.

“When I’m off,” you shrug, admitting more quietly, “usually at night or mornings when I can’t sleep, sometimes I’ll try to fit it in during a lunch break or something,”

“Or something,” Joel echoes, nodding as he laughs softly, “well—you just earned yourself a vacation then,”

“No, I’m fine,” you assure him, “a cup of coffee and I’ll be on my feet just fine. I’ve got insomnia, I’m a little worn down, but I don’t need special treatment,”

You try to match his rhythm as he stands, refusing to be bossed around but the pain in your back comes back tenfold and you wince through clenched teeth as Joel’s hand hovers out of instinct, looking up at him with a subtle annoyance he had become very familiar with.

“Special treatment my ass,” Joel retorts, “I’m lookin’ out for you like I would any of the others,”

Somehow, you find that to be untrue.

He can see it on your face, too.

“I’m your boss,” Joel argues, “you really wanna argue with me?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Alright, three days off” Joel challenges and you sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.

“Fine, I’ll take a couple days off,” you agree, though obviously reluctant.

Joel walkies Tommy a moment later, explaining the situation vaguely as he gives his younger brother the rundown for the day, seeming to pass off his own responsibilities too.

“You’re good at that,” Tommy comments as Joel grabs his mug from the edge of his desk, “pissin’ him off without tryin’—ain’t as good as me, but—”

“Tommy,” Joel warns with a dismissive roll of his eyes before he nods for you to follow him, his hand hovering behind your back with a presence that overwhelms you, feeling the heat of his hand so near but not quite touching.

You look over to find his face pensive, but aware of your gaze, his face softening at your own expression, feeling your own attempt at a lack of emotion slip as you chew at the inside of your cheek, a moment of understanding seeming to string you together.

Joel wasn’t going down without a fight, but neither were you.

–

His initial instinct is to walk you to your own home—comfort in your own environment and all, but the moment he steps through the door, he’s bombarded.

He trips over a stack of clothes labeled SETH and narrowly avoids another pile labeled JOHN, looking around at several stacks of clothes assigned to various people in Jackson.

At least thirty, if not forty.

You flinch as he grabs for the door handle, swinging it open to keep balance as he turns to you, the guilt washing over your face almost instantly, cheeks heated with embarrassment.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” you start, eyes flitting around without any real target, pointedly avoiding him, “...it’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Oh, darlin’,” he sighs, tenderly cupping the side of your head, his fingers scratching gently behind your ear—it shouldn’t make you feel small, but it does.

Joel rarely touched you and it was always friendly.

“You guys’ve done so much for me,” you explain, “I was near dead when you and Tommy found me, I’m just tryin’ to do my share, seeing as you both saved my life. I kinda owe it to you, the town, y’know?”

“Not if it takes you runnin’ yourself ragged to do it,” Joel argues, his hand pulling away as it curls into a fist—you can’t see it, but Joel does it out of reflex.

As physical as he could be—you’ve seen him loud, defensive, in the face of some young, spry individual that was a little too cocky than he should’ve been, begging to be knocked down a peg. You’ve seen him attack to protect his own, but when it came to something simpler, softer, it just felt…wrong.

“I promise I’ll relax,” you tell him, a half-truth that Joel can see straight through.

“Ain’t good enough for me,” Joel admits, moving his fingers in a circular motion for you to turn, “you’re gonna rest up at mine, ‘least ‘til I’m satisfied.”

Your shoulders sag, but you turn, Joel’s footsteps lingering behind as he shut your door.

“Is that alright?” Joel asks suddenly, approaching at your side.

“Do I have a choice?” you ask curiously, though your voice is laced with a tinge of frustration and pain.

“Yeah,” Joel tells you, his eyes earnest, “but I’d be checkin’ on you constantly if you stayed home, I might even send Ellie to keep you company, I’m sure she’d love to—”

“You like getting your way,” you shake your head, a quiet laugh tumbling from your lips.

“Guess you could say that,” Joel replies with a hint of smirk, turning over your shoulder to confirm your suspicion, “you’re one of my best workers, y’know?”

“I’m also the only person that wants to listen to you ramble about the different types of wood we’re using for different projects,” you retort, “and the only person who’ll stay up all night working with you, even though you get real grumpy right after eight o’clock,”

Joel opens his mouth to speak but you interrupt him.

“I’d blame it on the old age but I think you’re just like that,” Joel rolls his eyes as he silently guides you onto the sidewalk that led to his house—it was only a block away from yours, “bet you’d hate for people to know you’re also just a big ol’ softie when you get drunk,”

The morning sun filtered through the trees lining the street, making you squint as you looked up at him, gaging his reaction to your words.

Joel side-steps, blocking the glare of the sun with his broad shoulders as he steers you up his driveway, grumbling under his breath as you head for the steps of his front door.

“Ain’t soft,” you chew at your lip to hide your smile, “you get touchy when you’re drunk, if we’re goin’ there,”

You shrug, nonchalant, “You’ve never had any problem with it,”

He didn’t—Joel found out quickly that you were a hugger instead of a casual handshake type of person, always needing to reach out to touch whoever you were talking to, almost like it was a grounding technique—but when you were drunk, boundaries were a foreign concept.

“And your hair is so soft,” you comment with a knowing smile, glancing at him as you pushed past and into his house as he opened the door for you, “very touchable,”

You take a moment to soak in the space, not having seen it in a few months as you’ve hermitted yourself away and you hear Joel close the door behind you, footsteps growing closer as a bubble of laughter slips out, pointing at the furniture in his living room.

“You listened?”

Joel’s brow furrows in confusion before he understands what you’re referring to.

“Oh, well,” Joel waves casually toward the space, “it does…flow better, doesn't it?”

“You,” you reach forward and poke at the center of his chest, “listened,”

Joel chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he attempts to maintain his composure. "Sit your ass down," he warns, an empty threat that makes you smile as he gently swats your hand away, "relax, ‘for I make you,"

There’s a warmth to his tone that you’ve heard many times before, but it makes your chest flutter, nodding in response as you take a seat on the worn-in couch, sinking into the cushion as you slip off your shoes and tuck your feet at your side.

You can’t help but smile wider at the effort he put into making the place feel more welcoming, more like home. Not just a place to survive, but to live.

The living room, adorned with a few framed pictures of Ellie and some mementos from his past life, suddenly feels a bit more intimate. You spot the framed picture on the coffee table that showcased a younger Joel and his daughter, Sarah.

That Joel was long gone, but he did appear in flashes. Quick, fleeting.

“Tea alright?” Joel's voice carries from the kitchen, hearing the creak of cabinets doors.

“No coffee?” you ask curiously—Joel knew you hated it, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Got plenty,” Joel answers, “but given what I had to trade to get it, I’m not sharin’,”

You chuckle quietly and call out, “Tea is fine,”

The sound of water boiling soon followed, and you could hear the soft clatter of ceramic mugs as Joel moved about, clearing his throat on occasion as you watched his shadow move around the kitchen.

You settled deeper into the couch, your fingers tracing along its worn fabric and pulling the blanket draped over the back of the couch into your lap.

When he returned, he balanced two steaming mugs in his hands, the fragrant scent of mint invading your senses, alongside the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee.

“Here ya go,” he said, nodding toward your mug, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

“Thanks,” you replied softly, taking a sip and letting the warmth seep into your bones, though your fingers still ached, removing one hand from the mug to curl your fingers in, rubbing your thumb against the side of your forefinger where the bandaged was haphazardly wrapped.

“You should let ‘em breathe,” Joel suggests, “I’ll clean ‘em ‘f you want,”

“I know you’re gonna do it anyways,” you respond with tired grin, “go ahead, play doctor,”

“Shut up,” he responds with subtle amusement before grunting as he stands and disappearing again, but for a shorter amount of time, coming back with a small, plastic box that was an obnoxious red.

You’ve never seen him so gentle, so careful. He takes a long sip from his mug before he sets it aside as extends his hand, palm up, waiting for you to offer your hand in return.

You let out a soft sigh as you place your hand into his. He inspects your fingers with a focused intensity, brows furrowing deeper as he examines the damage, unwrapping the thin white cloth to peek at the myriad of cuts, his eyes squinting as he turned your hand over to check the other side.

“You can’t keep pushin’ yourself like this,” he says, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

“It’s just… I want to help,” you reply, voice quiet but firm, “Everyone’s been through so much. The town needs it. I don’t see anything wrong with it, taking care of others,”

“Sometimes help means takin’ care of yourself too,” Joel counters gently, his eyes darting between each wound, dabbing it lightly with alcohol.

His touch is careful yet firm, a contrast that shouldn’t entice you, but it does.

“Okay, dad,” you tease lightly, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck,

Joel gives you a look, very fatherly, but it quickly fades.

It was more of a watch yourself, if anything.

A subtle warning.

“I’m gonna clean this up, give you some meds for your back and hope it’ll get you some rest—I’ll let you sleep up in my room,” Joel finishes up with your hand, balancing the first-aid kit on his knee before he closes it up, “figure a bed’ll be easier on your back than this couch,”

“I can manage,” you interject and he shoots you a look.

Right—telling, not asking.

“I can probably scrounge some shit up for dinner tonight,” Joel seems to be doing the mental gymnastics in his head, knowing his fridge was mostly bare,

“Don’t act like you aren’t going to go back to work once I fall asleep,” you counter, tilting your head to catch his gaze, his eyes suddenly tracking toward you, only slightly guilty.

Joel's brow furrowed as he met your eyes, a familiar flicker of frustration igniting within him. You both knew it was a familiar exchange—you'd push against the weakness for you and he'd push back just as hard to mask it.

You were one of Joel’s few soft spots, as much as he tried to deny it.

The silence that hangs between you is thick—it often was, but it never had moments like this to settle. Both of you were too busy, too distracted, unwilling to let anything flourish.

“I’m just gonna go check on Tommy real quick,” Joel explains, “I know if I’m not here ‘round the clock you’ll end up sneakin’ out,”

He wasn’t wrong.

He points at your tea, encouraging you to drink before he disappears again, stowing away the first-aid as he comes back with his hand curled up, holding it over yours until you open your palm, dropping two small pills into your hand.

“Just enough to get you a little relief,” Joel tells you, watching as you rolled the pills around in your palm with your thumb, “and some sleep,”

You swallow them down without any arguing, knowing that there wasn’t any point for it.

“C’mon,” Joel nods, waiting for you to stand and follow.

The walk to his room feels like an eternity, the floorboards creaking under the weight of your paired steps before you finally reach his bedroom door, half-cracked open as he hits it with his foot and turns on the light.

Joel’s bed is unmade, a pile of blankets haphazardly thrown across the sheets, but it only adds to the charm of his space. And it smells like him, something woodsy but warm.

“Just…lay down for a bit,” he instructs, his voice dropping an octave while his hands settle on his hips as you move around him, “I’ll be back before you wake up,”

With a quiet nod, you walk over and climb into his bed, sinking into the soft mattress.

This shouldn’t feel personal, but it does.

Joel watches with a pinched, unreadable expression as you tuck yourself under his sheets. His, the ones he sleeps under every night, his pillow tousled like he was fighting for a comfortable position to sleep in.

You smile, adjusting it under your head.

Your breath catches when you turn and realize he’s still watching, though his head is bowed and he’s trying desperately to make it seem like he isn’t watching, but he can’t help it—his gaze is intense.

“Joel,” you say softly, startling him in a way that surprises you, his head tipping up almost immediately to look at you, attentive, “I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizin’,” Joel reprimands with a gentle tone.

The wave of emotion is unexpected, but it burns your throat. You look down, around, anywhere but him as you blink away tears and force yourself to breathe, quickly wiping away a tear with the back of your hand.

Joel watched you for a moment longer, his brow furrowing again as if he were to piece together a puzzle in his mind.

But this time, there was a softness in his gaze—an unguarded look that made your heart race. Without speaking, he approaches, fabric shifting against itself and suddenly he’s in front of you, the bed dipping with his weight as he sits near the edge to face you.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet as his hand searches over the blanket for your knee, gently grazing as his hand settles and squeezes, “talk to me,”

You look up hesitantly, his presence warm and grounding, and it’s difficult to wrap your mind around the feeling building between you. Joel was used to seeing you happy, cheerful—even irritated on occasion, but never like this.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you confess, your heart pounding against your ribcage as you meet his eyes. “I am—I know I am, all ‘cause I’m not taking care of myself,”

Joel shakes his head slowly, the look in his eyes unwavering. “You ain’t a burden,” he insists firmly, reaching out to wrap his fingers around your forearm to pull you into an unexpected hug, immediately relaxing into the warmth as you let it wrap you up, strong arms barricading themselves around your body. “I want to help you.”

His hands rub against your back in a way that could lull you into sleep, matching his breathing as the silence settles, suddenly struck with the desire to pull back and look at him, curious if he was feeling the same vulnerability that you were, walls down.

Leaning back to look at him, Joel’s eyes search yours, a depth of emotion mostly unreadable, but for the first time you see a flicker of something more than just concern—a flash of adoration that he rarely displayed.

“I’ll be back by dinner,” Joel tells you, blinking and the moment was suddenly gone, “get some sleep, alright?”

You nod sheepishly and follow his order, his hand drifting up the comforter as he tucked the blanket over your shoulder before he drifts away, the room dimming as sleep begins to pull you under.

—

Again, Joel’s got a gift.

He knows.

When he steps inside the house, something feels…off.

He strips off his shoes and shirt, leaving him in jeans and a worn tank top, burdened by the heat of summer as his clothes stuff to his skin, ready to drown himself in the cool water of his shower—but not before checking on you.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he knows.

You weren’t in bed, you weren’t even in his room.

But, your own clumsiness gives your new location away.

“Shitshit,” you curse as Joel approaches, shoving the door open as the papers float to the ground, quickly bending to pick them up as Joel clears his throat,

“Can I help you?” Joel asks only slightly accusatively, his face flushed red from the heat and the sight of his arms making it impossible to look at him for longer than a few seconds.

“I napped, I swear,” you quickly assure him, “but, I got restless—and I got…curious of what you’ve been working on,”

It had been a while since Joel had time to set down and work on anything for himself, guilty in the same way that you were, unwilling to let himself enjoy.

His face relaxes as he releases the door to let it swing open slowly, tossing the balled up shirt on the table at his hip as he approaches, pointing at the half-finished horse caught mid-read with a cowboy on it’s back, “Haven’t touched this place in a couple of months,”

You turn as he approaches, feeling the heat of his body at your back as you run your finger along the ridges of the carved wood, admiring his handiwork, “Still, this is amazing,” like most of the figurines that littered the room were, Joel’s talents were kept close to his chest, only caught in moments like this, and it never failed to amaze you.

Joel shifts slightly, his hand pressing into the table near your hip, "Just somethin’ to keep my hands busy when I can’t sleep," he admits, his voice gentle as he watches your expression shift from curiosity to admiration, turning your head to look at him with a soft smile.

“I think we’re a lot more alike than you wanna admit,” you challenge him.

Joel chuckles lightly, “I don’t know what you’re on about,”

“Denial doesn’t suit you, Joel,” you tease, turning your a smidge further and finding that the pain still lingered. Joel notices.

His head tilts almost accusatory before his hands come to rest over your shoulders, “You mind?” he asks, desperate to change topics.

You shake your head lazily, feeling his thumbs dig into the muscles near your neck, mouth immediately falling open as the tension begins to release under his precise touch.

“Oh, god,” you breathe out, leaning into his hands as they work deeper into your muscles, a blissful ache spreading from where he pressed. Without speaking, his hands had drifted lower, near your ribs as his hands worked through the balled up tension until you had no choice but to lean forward, hands catching the table in front of you before your hips did.

A soft laugh escapes you despite the discomfort; Joel had a way of making even teasing feel tender. Suddenly feeling a tinge of fear build in your chest, curious that if you turned to look at him it would ruin whatever….this was. You raise your head with half-lidded eyes, enough that you think you can catch his reflection in the mirror without him knowing.

But, he’s looking right at you.

Under the inhibitions of alcohol, you’d tease him.

Instead, you turn, uncertain of how he would react.

Your hands grasp the table behind your back as his drop to his side, balled up into fists as you take in the sight of him this close, the front of his shirt damp at the center of his chest with sweat, his belt hanging unbuckled at his hips and his eyes hungry.

Sure, relaxing was what you needed, but Joel had a strange desire to remind you just how precious your body was—both caring for it, but how much he found himself admiring it. Every curve or scar, he watches as your lips part in a breath, mimicking the movement subconsciously.

“Joel…” you begin, but the words catch in your throat.

“Just let me,” he whispers, a deep richness to his tone and he reaches out again, this time his fingers brushing against your cheek. His touch is gentle yet firm—a promise of safety and assurity layered with something more.

You lean into his hand instinctively, eyes drifting closed at his touch.

“Can I…” the words linger, but he doesn’t even have to ask.

You nod slowly, met with his lips a century of a moment later.

The kiss is soft at first, cautious and curious, his other hand twisting around your forearm to pull you in, your own fingers dragging up his biceps until they reach his neck, a touch so featherlight Joel fears he’s imagining it, but then you’re deepening the kiss.

Your tongue drags along his bottom lip, hearing him groan as he opens his mouth and lets you in, pressing himself against you as the table shakes with the unexpected weight and you snort softly, pulling away from his lips as he begins to chase them.

You can feel his heartbeat thrumming through the thin fabric of his shirt, a rhythm that matches your own racing pulse. Your hand fists into his tank and the look on his face is picturesque, a mix between wrecked and wanton.

“You smell like outside,” you tell him lightly

Joel chuckles softly, a low rumble that vibrates through the air between you two, “Coulda just said I stink,” Joel retorts.

“Maybe a little,” you quip back playfully, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid muscles shift beneath your touch as he leans closer.

“To be fair, I was gonna shower,” Joel defends, “then I caught you snoopin’,”

“Sorry,” you offer sweetly, though Joel isn’t sure you mean it.

With his hand still cradling your face and his fingers wrapped around your arm, he doesn’t move, watching as your gaze centered on his chest where your thumb was rubbing a circle over the fabric, thinking.

Waiting.

“Are you gonna ask me to join you?” you ask tantalizingly, eyes flicking up to meet his gaze.

“Didn’t think it was appropriate,” Joel defends, “bein’ your boss and all,”

“Bullshit,” you retort, his face splitting into an unexpected smile at your bluntness.

You stare at him expectantly, fighting the smugness that threatened to spread across your features before Joel leans forward again, quickly kissing it away.

“You’re so damn devious,” he mumbles against your lips.

–

Contrary to what you were expecting, Joel leaves you showering alone for longer than you like, hearing him insist that you needed a change of clothes before the front door was slamming shut and you were already running your hand through the heat of the water.

You were just finishing up washing your hair when the bathroom door clicks shut, some faint shuffling on the other side of the curtain as your impatience grows, pulling the fabric far enough back that you can twist your fingers around his arm and pull him under the running water, clothes and all.

Joel stumbles slightly as you tug him into the warmth, water splashing over both of you, and an incredulous laugh escapes his lips as he looks down at his soaked clothes.

It’s infectious, filling the small space with a sense of mischief as he pulls away just enough to look at you, the droplets cascading down his jaw and neck, “Really?” he asks, “You couldn’t wait?”

You shrug, aware of his drifting gaze as they follow down to your breasts, yearning deeply for his mouth as his lips part before his hands are wrapping around his top and pulling it over his head, tossing it to the floor with soft splat, alongside the rest of his soaked clothing.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he warns, a dangerous glint in his eyes as the water drips down his broad shoulders, revealing the strength beneath his tanned skin.

You smirk, feeling bold as you inch closer to him, “Oh? How, exactly?”

Without warning, Joel lunges forward.

His body is solid, pressing into yours as you gasp at the suddenness of it all.

“Like this,” he murmurs against your lips. This is deeper, more fervent, sealed with desperation and longing. You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been tiptoeing around your feelings for one another, but they seemed impossible to ignore now.

His mouth moves over yours like this was normal, like he knew everything that made you tick. You respond instinctively, lips parting further as your tongues press together, exploring the taste of him mixed with warm, cascading water that poured over you both as you tugged him closer, your hands settled near the sides of his chest, squeezing against his ribs as he guides you against the adjacent shower wall.

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive urgency that has you gasping, allowing himself to take a moment to really admire you, watching as the water dripped from his damp hair to his nose, his free hand tracing every inch of your body with lust-filled eyes, a thumb dragging along the underside of your breast until he finds the courage to drag it up and around your nipple, a small gasp slipping from your lips.

“Sensitive?” Joel asks curiously, a subtle smirk betraying his genuine question.

You let out a high pitched noise of acknowledgement as his hand rises to pinch at the bud before you slap at his chest, “What are we doing?” you ask breathlessly, a shake of uncertainty in your tone as Joel’s movements pause, though the hand on your thigh gives a reassuring squeeze.

“You know, I’ve got plenty of methods to help ya relax,” he explains, “could show you one?”

“Joel,” you warn, knowing there wouldn’t ever be a moment after this that you didn’t look at him and see him exactly as he was now, eyes darker than their normal brown and his face flushed with an increasing desire.

Joel leans forward, though tentative, and kisses you slow, waiting for you to react with intrigue, feeling like your brain was having trouble keeping up with his actions, “Let me take care of you,” he urges, “s’the least I can do,”

He pulls back, searching your face with a tinge of nervousness that quickly fades as you nod, the back of his hand pressing against the inside of your thigh to part your legs, hiking up one around his hip before he guides your hands up and around his neck, your fingers playing into the damp ends of his hair as the hand that wasn’t descending between your bodies came around the back of your head, cupping it gently.

With the first touch of his fingers as they split through your folds, you understand his intention with caressing you, your head thudding back against the tile wall gently.

You sigh shakily in satisfaction as you nod again, though there was no pending question.

Joel chuckles, watching as your eyes fall shut in bliss as he dips his head and drags his lips across your shoulder, collarbone, down your chest until he can swirl his tongue around your nipple, sucking on the sensitive skin as his middle finger drags over your clit and circles, a surprised gasp from you at how devastating his touch was.

The end goal was relaxation and you were anything but—though, you couldn’t complain.

Your workload rarely allowed for anything like this, even a moment for you to indulge on your own, mind frazzled with worry.

Joel hadn’t take his eyes off of you, much like how he behaved at work, but this was more intense, more purposeful, his brow creasing at every noise you made, his fingers moving from your clit to slip inside of you, filling you with a fullness that only Joel could offer, his thick fingers stretching your cunt open.

The sensation of him sliding deeper inside you made your breath hitch, the heat pooling low in your belly as your fingers squeezed at the back of his neck. You could feel every pulse of his fingers as they curled inside of you, drawing whimpers from your lips as he worked you open.

“How am I doin’?” He asks quietly, though his tone is cocky, speaking against your skin with his breath hot and heavy, “You thinkin’ about work?”

“Not even a little,” you admit, your response stangled off by a gentle cry as his fingers quickly switch gears, slick from your arousal as his body blocked the stream of water and worked over your clit, your hips rocking up into his hands.

“Good,” Joel notes, his mouth trailing up to your neck and to your cheek, pressed together as you pull him in close, your quiet but quickened breath against his chest that gave him the tell-tale sign that you were close.

“Joel,” he knows—of course he does.

“I know,” he soothes, his touch insistent as he worked over your clit in fast, tight circles until your legs shook, teeth biting gently into his shoulder where you face had found solace against, he grunts at the sensation, his voice soothing, “Oh, I know, darlin’,”

He guides you through every second of your orgasm, pulling back to examine the pinch in your features with a tinge of smug satisfaction as you whisper his name once more.

Joel’s become so familiar with your tone that even a simple slip of his name told him everything he needed to know.

Thank you, is what he hears.

And when you tuck into his bed, rolling your eyes affectionately as he leaves a respectable gap of space between you both, your muscles ache.

But, with good reason.

You’ve never felt more relaxed.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #jackson!joel #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #my writing #fic: tenderly

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d3stinyist1red · 7 months ago

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ʏᴀɴ ʟᴏsᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

yan loser who is genuinely the most disgusting, rattiest, emoest mf you've ever seen.

You guys met during English, having a project assigned to the both of you to work together. The whole assignment you just ignored him, not bothering to deal with his creepiness.

He was known around the school as the schools creep, always looking at girls, getting into fights and always losing, just a really pathetic dude to keep it short.

yan loser who during English class, got paired up with you once more as you quietly groaned and your friends wished you luck

"h-hi." He said shyly, fiddling with his long black sleeved shirt that he's been wearing for probably two weeks now

You raised your eyebrow, "Uh yeah hi." You said monotonously, not wanting to even look at the weird guy next to you.

yan loser who actually managed to strike up a conversation with you after so many failed attempts, feeling a recognizable friend rise to life from hearing you talk to him for so long.

"yeah I personally think that Sasuke is the baddest character out of everyone in naruto-"

"s-sorry y/n, imma go to the bathroom o-okay?" He mumbled under his breath before getting up abruptly asking for permission to go use the bathroom and leaving.

You didn't pay it much attention due to you barely caring about him, he was just someone you could use to pass the time with in this boring English class

yan loser whose never cummed so damn much in his life in that damn bathroom stall, cumming buckets as he pants, his tongue lolling out as he giggles at the memory of you, feeling another boner coming

yan loser who comes back a few minutes later, shirt completely ruined and pants low on his hips, as your classmates hurled at the sight of him

yan loser who out of your own will, begins hanging out with you more, trying to show you his collection of Pokemon cards

yan loser who uses reddit 24/7, acting as if it's their therapist, ranting and writing full on essays about you, as he slowly slicks his hand up and down, whimpering at the sensation, thinking about the many positions he could put you in

yan loser who touched your thigh on accident once, and hasn't been the same ever since, now all he's looking at is those soft warm thighs of yours, wondering how it would feel wrapped around his head

yan loser who all he wants to do is ram his hips against yours, to fully ravage and cream inside your womb, he wants to pull out and see the sticky substance slowly drip out as well, fuck he could already feel himself getting hot at the thought..

yan loser who unironically uses brainrot alot, using it to try to make you laugh, always feeling his ego growing each time you let out a giggle

yan loser whose always playing video games, more preferably hentai games where he could customize his love interest, designing it so it could look exactly like you.

yan loser who secretly owns a private insta that is basically a fanpage of yours, that account only follows his main account and your account.

yan loser who is a complete loser who hasn't felt a woman's touch on him for years and is now waiting to breed you (or u could breed him, he doesn't mind :3 )

yan loser who is ur loser that is just a nice guy! So why don't you like him! :(

#destinys worksss<333 #male yandere x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere male #yandere tendencies #soft yandere #male yandere #yanderemalexreader #yandere

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atlabeth · 8 months ago

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unadulterated loathing (pt 1)

masterlist

pairing: fiyero tigelaar x fem reader

summary: you are forced to partner up with fiyero on a history project. things don’t go as you imagine.

a/n: wicked was really good, i love jonathan bailey, and we're coming up on finals season which means im writing about how stressed i am. also halfway through this i realized reader is lowkey paris geller coded lmao. this got away from me so im splitting it into 2 parts, i had a lot of fun writing it so enjoy! also im high posting this so if there's any editing issues im sorry lol!!

wc: 5.5k

warning(s): reader is stressed to the max constantly. she is kinda mean to fiyero but he's into it so it's okay. mostly fluff

Your fingers were beginning to cramp.

You should have been used to this by now with Doctor Dillamond. You’d been in his class for a few months now, and you graded essays for him often. He often had a propensity for verbosity, but this lecture had been an especially hefty one in preparation for your midterm projects.

He would be announcing partners before the end of class—much to your dismay, for you worked far better on your own than with others holding you down—and you figured you would want to have as much of a head start as possible.

Great Oz, how you hoped you would be paired with one of your friends. Coralie and Ezura were your only contenders for top of the class—Elphaba had potential as well, not because of the magic she couldn’t control but because of the brain she very well could—and anyone else would frankly slow you down. Doing a large research paper with someone who didn’t care as much as you did would be a drag you didn’t care to go through.

Midterms were only the most important thing, for they set the track towards finals and affirmed your skill with your assignments, and your first midterm was potentially the most important thing for, when completed successfully, set you on the correct track altogether.

You tried not to think about it too much (though you failed almost immediately), for you were sure Doctor Dillamond would honor all the work you’d done for him by putting you with a suitable partner.

“I see some of you are getting restless, so I will cut class short today.” Your eyes snapped up from your paper to see the professor smiling, and you could hear sighs of relief around the room. “I’m sure you’re all eager to know your partners for the midterm paper.”

The sighs of relief turned to groans, and you had to agree. Assigned partners should have been considered archaic at this point in time.

Doctor Dillamond trotted back to the projector and, with a bit of difficulty, replaced the image with a piece of paper. Everybody in the class was paired off in groups of two—you immediately started searching for your name, squinting slightly to see despite your spot in the front, and the furrow between your brows deepened when you realized you couldn’t find it.

You searched instead for your hopeful options. Coralie was with Mayara, Ezura was with Nicholas, Elphaba was with Galinda—of course. You let out a slight huff of annoyance, not just at your disappointment but at the continued lack of your name.

Perhaps he’d merely forgotten. You didn’t know how Dillamond could have forgotten you, seeing as you were only his best student and literal TA, but things happened. Your anxieties only grew as you heard the beginnings of whispers throughout the room as your classmates saw their pairings, either excited or dismal.

“Class is dismissed,” Doctor Dillamond said. The room began bustling as students gathered their things, already talking with their friends or searching out their project partner—you heard Galinda squeal and saw her grab Elphaba’s hands out of your peripherals. You could only worry your lip between your teeth as you swept everything in your bag, hardly waiting a second before rushing up to Dillamond’s desk.

“You didn’t call my name, professor,” you said, managing a smile as you tried to act like it wasn’t killing you. How could he have not called your name? Was there something wrong? Great Oz— had you been somehow moved out of the class? Was your work not exemplary enough? Your assistance not assisting enough? “I don’t have a partner.”

His mouth opened, but you only found yourself continuing, the words practically tumbling out of you.

“Of course, if you intended for me to be on my own then I am perfectly alright with that!” Your smile widened as your fingertips dangled over his desk. “I— I prefer it, in fact, so if that is it then there is really no issue at all—”

“Mr. Tigelaar!” he interrupted, and your head turned on instinct to see the eponymous boy arm in arm with Galinda (who was arm in arm with Elphaba) just in front of the door. “I hope you are not about to leave.”

Fiyero flashed a look at his companions before offering one of those easy smiles he seemed to always have up his sleeve. “You dismissed the class. I believe I am part of your class, am I not?”

“You are,” he said, “but you were not assigned a partner. Surely you wouldn’t be trying to get out of the project.”

Your free hand clenched as the threads started to connect. Doctor Dillamond wouldn’t do this to you. Would he?

That easy smile remained on his lips as he turned to Galinda and whispered something in her ear. She giggled and pecked him on the cheek before she walked out, pulling Elphaba behind her, and Fiyero sauntered over.

“Of course I’m not trying to get out of it,” he said. “Whyever would you think so?”

“Your attempt at a quick exit before you could be assigned a partner,” the professor said. “But it is no matter, for your partner is right here.”

You blinked. He would do this to you.

Why would he do this to you?

“Well, pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand. “Fiyero Tigelaar.”

You ignored him, for you couldn’t look away from Doctor Dillamond. Would it be mad for you to strangle a Goat?

“Professor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “why?”

“Mr. Tigelaar’s grades in my class have not been satisfactory, as I’m sure he is aware.” Dillamond moved away from his desk, prodding the chalkboard with his head to move it out of the way. “I care about all my students, even if they seem not to care for my course. I believe a partnership for the two of you would be beneficial.”

Your jaw clenched. “So you’re forcing me to tutor him because he hasn’t got a brain.”

Fiyero chuckled. “Ouch.”

“Not tutoring, just working on your midterm together,” he said. “And if you end up teaching him a few things along the way, then we would all be better off, wouldn’t we?”

“Professor, with all due respect, this is ridiculous!” you exclaimed. “Why should I have to risk my grade, my midterm, my standing altogether at Shiz just to help him?”

“Should you perform the way that is typical of you, there should be no issues.” Doctor Dillamond gave you that professorly look and your teeth grinded against each other. How dare he try to take the moral high ground. “Now, the two of you better hurry off. You haven’t got forever to work on this project.”

“Professor,” you whispered, determined to not let up, “why are you punishing me like this?”

“I’m not punishing you, my dear.”

“Fiyero couldn’t care less about any of this,” you insisted. “I’m going to fail my midterm and it will be all his fault!”

“If you believe he can make you fail, then you haven’t got as much faith in yourself as I believed.” Doctor Dillamond looked at you. “Trust me—and yourself—that this will all work out.”

You stared back—it was rather difficult to have a staring contest with a Goat. “I don’t suppose I can change your mind on this?”

“You’d be correct.”

You huffed and glanced away. “Fine. But expect those test scores to take an extra day.”

He let out a bleaty sort of laugh while you walked away. You considered it a credit to yourself that you held back the childish tantrum you wanted to throw as you moved back over to your desk to gather the rest of your things. You shoved your books into your bag with a bit more anger than necessary, and you heard footsteps behind you. You glanced over to see Fiyero sidled up beside you, leaning against the desk next to yours.

“Surely you won’t be this irritated at me the entirety of our project.” He still had that unbothered smile on his lips, and it made you want to hit him. “It might make this a much more miserable partnership.”

You let out a mirthless laugh as you shouldered your bag. “Don’t act like this pains you. You’re just going to ride my coattails the entire time.”

“You know, I hadn’t even thought of that,” Fiyero mused. “But now that you bring it up, I just may have to.”

“For the love of Oz,” you muttered to yourself before mustering the strength to look up at him. “I have a myriad of things I need to do today. Why don’t you go bother your girlfriend for the rest of the day, and then you can meet me at the library first thing tomorrow morning so we can discuss all of this.”

He shrugged. “Sounds alright to me.”

“Good,” you said. “Because I meant every word I said back there. I will not have you ruining all my progress thus far because of your absolute refusal to think.”

“It looks as if you could take a page out of my book,” Fiyero said. “You seem awfully stressed.”

Your lips tightened into a mirthless smile. “I’m stressed because of you, Fiyero, and we have hardly even interacted. I dread to think of my mental state after a week of working together. Now, good day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You swept past him and walked out of Doctor Dillamond’s classroom. You felt his eyes on you until you turned the corner, and you had to resist the urge to look back.

Oh, how you loathed group projects.

The rest of your day was far more demanderating than it should have been, and you blamed Fiyero for it. You swore the clock went by half as quick and your lectures twice as long—it didn’t help that you were so distracted in chemistry that you nearly burned your eyebrows off from a potion gone wrong.

You’d practically thrown yourself onto your bed when you got back to your dorm, and you didn’t get up until your roommate got back and demanded to know what had gotten into you. She didn’t exactly give you the response you wanted.

“The prince is your partner?” Coralie sighed dreamily. “Oh, you are so lucky.”

“Lucky is not the way I’d put it,” you mumbled, words muffled by the sheets. You finally tore yourself up off your bed and picked your nightgown up from atop your dresser. You went behind your folding sheet and began to change. “And I didn’t know you had eyes for Fiyero.”

“I hardly have eyes for him,” she said wryly. “I just have eyes—anyone can see that he’s attractive.”

“It doesn’t matter how attractive he is if he makes me fail this midterm,” you said. You straightened your nightgown then folded your school uniform while you walked back into the open, passing a glance at your roommate as you placed it on your desk. You then settled on your bed with a huff. “I just don’t understand why Doctor Dillamond is punishing me like this. It makes me reconsider all those late nights spent grading papers for him.”

Coralie shrugged. “You’re one of his best students, Fiyero is probably one of his worst. I bet Doctor Dillamond figured you would be happy to take him on, what with how happily you take on everything else he throws at you.”

You grumbled as you laid back against your pillows. “I just don’t know if I can take him on. Fiyero seems to care more about flirting with every student at this school than any actual material.”

She gave you a mischievous smile. “Maybe he’ll turn the full force of his affections on you in return for your studiousness. Oh, how that would be a sight to see.”

“Don’t even put that idea into the air, Cora,” you scoffed. “Besides, he’s clearly involved with Galinda. Even if I was interested, which I’m not—” you emphasized with a pointed look at her— “that isn’t something I want to touch.”

“Well, you can’t deny that he’s dreamy,” she said. “He just showed up at Shiz and people started falling left and right. It’s more impressive that you haven’t.”

“Because I’m here for one reason,” you said. “His whole… thing doesn’t fit into any of it.”

“I know,” Coralie mused as she fell back onto her pillows. “You’ve told me your whole plan ten times over. I just think you should also try to enjoy your life instead of bulldozing your way through it.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I’m enjoying my life just fine, thank you.”

Interestingly enough, Fiyero was going through something similar a myriad of rooms away.

He laid on Galinda’s bed, his head in her lap as she trailed her fingers through his hair. She’d been going on about something for the last couple of minutes, but he hadn’t really been able to focus on any of it.

“Dearest, did you not hear what I said?”

Fiyero blinked at the sound of Galinda’s voice. He hadn’t indeed.

“I’m sorry, beloved.” He absentmindedly reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze once he found it. “I was thinking.”

Elphaba laughed from across the room. She sat on her bed with a book in her lap. “That’s a first for you.”

“It is,” Galinda said, though with much more concern laced in her voice. Her hand moved from his hair to his forehead. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just fine,” he assured. “What was it you were saying?”

“Just lamenting on how awful it is that we’ve been separated for this project,” she sighed. “I’m sure I could persuade Doctor Dillamond to put us in a group of three.”

“You can’t even get him to pronounce your name correctly,” Elphaba said wryly. “How could you get him to do this?”

“Well,” Galinda huffed, “maybe you could do it. He appears to like you more than me.”

“I’m sure that really hurts,” she said.

Galinda placed her hand on her chest. “It does!”

“It’s fine,” Fiyero interrupted. “I’m alright with my partner. She’s nice.”

“Nice?” Elphaba scoffed. “I heard her lecturing you the whole time we were out in the hallway.”

“She’s passionate,” he decided. “Besides, I don’t really care. I haven’t thought about it since she left.”

That was a complete lie. In truth, Fiyero hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you left. Very strange for someone who preferred to go through life with less thinking and more doing.

He honestly didn’t know why his mind was so occupied with you.

He’d always been aware of you, obviously—all your professors adored you, your name was always brought up when talking about top of the class, and he was sure you held the record for most time spent in the library at once—but he didn’t know anything about you other than your academic record. And for someone with such strong opinions, especially about him, Fiyero found himself with the strange need to know more.

He would be at the library tomorrow. Maybe not on time, but certainly there.

Fiyero would make this the beginning of a beautiful partnership, one way or another.

True to your word, you were in the library bright and early after a quick stop at the dining hall. You went through the effort of gathering everything you thought you would need—a myriad of textbooks and encyclopedias, your well-weathered notebook and another one for Fiyero because you doubted he had one, and enough writing material for the two of you.

You sighed. You had to do so much just to even the ground between your groups and the others. Coralie was always so prepared whenever you worked together.

Fiyero, to your surprise, was only ten minutes late. You already had your head buried in a book when he said your name and scared you witless.

Your eyes widened as they darted up to look at him, and he chuckled.

“Sorry. You were in the zone.”

“I just wasn’t expecting you,” you said. “You’re late.”

“Hardly.” Fiyero took the seat across from you, his eyes sweeping over everything you had on the table. “You’ve got quite a collection.”

“I doubt you know your way around the library,” you said.

“I know my way around a lot of things.”

You leveled your gaze at him. Leave it to Fiyero to make everything an innuendo. “And is a library one of them?”

“I’m sure I could make it one.”

“If you bothered to think at all.”

“Darling, you know I’d never,” he said with a smile. “Now, what are we doing here?”

“Do you really not know what our midterm is?” you marveled.

“I have more important things to worry about,” he said.

You scoffed and shook your head. Ridiculous— it was ridiculous that you had to put up with this. Maybe Doctor Dillamond really did hate you.

“Our assignment is an extensively researched ten page paper on any great Ozian,” you said. “Anyone who has contributed to our society in a relevant way and made our lives better for it.”

“A ten page paper?” Fiyero frowned. “That seems a bit much.”

“Between the two of us, it’s just five pages each, and we’ve got two weeks to get it done,” you said. “I’ve written five pages in a few hours of inspiration.”

“Your life truly sounds thrilling,” Fiyero said. “We could do the Wizard.”

“Half the class is going to do the wizard,” you scoffed.

“Because he’s a great man,” he said. “There’s no shame in it.”

“There is absolutely shame in copying half the class,” you said as you pushed over a sheet of paper to him. “Now, I’ve already got a list going. Look it over; see if there’s anyone you like or anyone worthwhile you want to add.”

You looked back down at your encyclopedia, opened to your personal favorite choice, and continued scribbling down basic notes. You glanced up a few moments later to see Fiyero’s gaze hadn’t wavered from you.

You frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“You’re awfully prepared,” he said instead.

“I figured you wouldn’t be,” you responded.

Fiyero’s lips quirked in a smile. “Then I believe that means you deserve to choose our subject.”

Your frown deepened. “Really?”

“Are you always this suspicious of everyone?”

“Just you.”

“Then consider this an olive branch,” he said. He slid the paper back over. “Who’s your top choice?”

“…Ilara Mayfair,” you finally said as you pointed at her on the top of your list. “She was a historical linguist, responsible for half of what we know about Ozian languages and how they connect and differ. She’s…” you cleared your throat and shrugged, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, “she’s kind of my hero.”

“Your hero?” Fiyero’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what you want to do?”

“…It’s always been my dream,” you admitted. “I grew up helping around my parents’ bookstore and her mark was on nearly everything. I really admire it. I want to make that sort of difference in the world.”

“How noble,” he remarked. What surprised you was how genuine he sounded. “It’s impressive how much of your life you have planned out already. All Galinda knows is that she’s majoring in sorcery—she hasn’t really got anything else worked out.”

“What are you majoring in?” you asked.

“Undecided,” Fiyero said. “I was kicked out of my last school before I could declare, so I figure there’s not really a point in doing it here.”

“Not really a surprise,” you said.

“Really?”

“On your first day, you snuck off campus with half of Shiz to go dance at Ozdust,” you said. “That’s not exactly a good first impression.”

“I’d argue the opposite,” he said. Fiyero tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he focused on you for a moment. His gaze made you uncomfortably aware of yourself. “I don’t recall seeing you there.”

“That’s because I wasn’t there.” You looked back down at your encyclopedia to avoid his eyes. “I had more important things to do.”

He frowned. “Do you ever take a day off?”

“Of course,” you said. “There isn’t any class on the weekends.”

“I mean with this,” he said, gesturing at all the books around you. “It doesn’t seem like you allow yourself a single moment of respite. When you’re not in class, you’re studying. When you’re not studying, you’re doing work. When you’re not doing any of it, you’re probably dreaming of your future assignments.”

You felt your skin heat. Surely you weren’t that transparent.

“...I don’t dream of them,” you defended. “Not— not always.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous. Do you know that?”

You frowned. “How am I ridiculous? You’re incapable of taking a single thing seriously.”

“And you’re incapable of not taking everything seriously,” Fiyero said. “It can’t be good for your health.”

“I plan to get out of here a year early,” you said, looking back at your books. “I can’t slack off like you do if I want that plan to come to fruition.”

“Oh, I’ve gotten out of every school I’ve been in a year early,” Fiyero said. “Sometimes two or three— Oz, sometimes I don’t even make it through the first semester.”

Your eyes snapped back up to him, widened in instinctual panic. “What?”

He burst out laughing, and it grinded every one of your gears. “Oh, I wish you could see the look on your face! It’s priceless— truly priceless!”

“You’ve been kicked out of every school you’ve been to and you think it’s a joke?”

Still laughing, he shrugged. “It is. Nothing bad has happened, and I’m still having the time of my life wherever I go.”

You just shook your head as you stared at him, eyes still wide. “Are you always like this?”

“Utterly charming?”

“Entirely insufferable.”

You didn’t understand how he laughed. Everything rolled right off him, like oil off a duck’s back, no matter how many times you insulted him.

“You know, there are other things to life than your studies,” he said.

“Not while I’m here, there isn’t,” you said. “It’s the whole point of university.”

“The point of university is to have fun,” he said. “You’ve seen how this place has perked up since I’ve gotten here, haven’t you?”

“Not really, no,” you said. “I’ve been more focused on other things.”

“Like?”

“Like my studies.”

“It’s like I’m talking to a broken record,” he marveled. “Have you ever had fun in your life?” His eyes widened comically. “Do you even know what the concept of fun is?”

“Ha ha,” you said dryly.

He tilted his head. “Do you?”

You frowned. “Of course I do.”

“Okay, then.” Fiyero leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about yourself.”

Your frown deepened. “We aren’t doing a research paper on me.”

“We’re working together on this,” he said. “Is it a crime to want to know my partner?”

A muscle worked in your jaw as you stared at him. He stared back, entirely unaffected.

“If I humor you, will you actually work with me through this?”

Fiyero held up his hand. “Prince’s honor.”

Finally, you broke. You folded your arms with a short sigh then glanced away. “Fine. I’m from a tiny village in Gillikin that you’ve probably never heard of. I’m here on scholarship with the plan to graduate, become a historian, and make a name for myself.” You looked back at him. “Is that good enough for you?”

“It’s excellent,” Fiyero said with a smile. “Dare I say I’ve learned more about you in one short day than I have in the entirety of my time at Shiz?”

You gave him a fake smile as you tapped your book. “Open your textbook. We have a lot to catch up on.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re not going to ask about me?”

“I mean this with all due respect—what could there possibly be to know about you?” You raised an eyebrow as you counted off on your fingers. “You’re from the Vinkus, you’re a prince, and you’ve never read a book a day in your life.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” he chastised. “I’ve read at least one—I just choose not to.”

“Well, how about we make that two?” You reached across the table and opened his book for him. “Unless that prince’s honor isn’t worth a thing.”

“Oh, it’s worth everything,” Fiyero said.

You raised your eyebrows expectantly. “Then prove it.”

“Very well,” he nodded. “I believe I can be serious for the next… fifteen minutes.”

“You won’t even get through a chapter,” you said. “Thirty.”

Fiyero frowned. “You set awfully high expectations.”

“Why do you think Doctor Dillamond forced me to help you?” you asked.

“Because you’re oh so nice and charitable?”

That got a genuine laugh out of you. If you’d been looking closer, you would have seen Fiyero’s smile grow, his eyes soften.

“Of course. Now, go to the glossary, find Ilara, and start writing. I know practically everything about her already, so you need to catch up.”

“I don’t have—”

You held out your extra notebook and fountain pen and cocked your head. “Don’t have what?”

Fiyero chuckled as he took them from you. “You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”

“Always,” you said with a satisfied smile. “Now get reading, my prince.”

He pressed his hand to his chest and bowed his head. “At once, my lady.”

You looked at the clock on the wall. Fiyero should have been here by now.

Granted, he was ten minutes late to your first meeting, but that was before he’d changed your expectations ever so slightly. Almost an hour had passed, and there was still no sign.

Of course, it wasn’t as if it hindered your progress. You kind of always expected him to fall short—if he showed at all, that was a credit to him—so you already had half the outline done. But a small part of you that you’d never admit to might have actually been looking forward to his presence.

You enjoyed the bout of verbal sparring he engaged you in. A lot of your classmates thought you were mean, and it never bothered you. Like you told Fiyero, you were here for one reason and one only, and the amount of people that liked you at university didn’t influence that at all. Your professors liked you and your grades were perfect—that was all.

But you couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t… nice. For Fiyero to take everything you said in stride, with a smile and a retort of equal measure.

It was nice. But that was all.

You were jarred out of your thoughts by someone calling your name. You looked up to see Fiyero sauntering over, bearing his usual smile and not much else.

“This is a library,” you said once he got closer. “You aren’t supposed to shout.”

He took the seat across from you. “I’d hardly call that shouting.”

“You aren’t meant to be loud,” you decided. “Why are you so late?”

Fiyero shrugged. “I lost track of time?”

“You know, we are partners,” you emphasized your last word, “so it would be helpful if you could try to put in the same amount of effort as me.”

“That seems impossible.” He gestured at your notebook with his head, your current page already nearly full. “You’ve got me beat on nearly everything.”

“It’s not that difficult,” you intoned. “I mean, just do some research outside of class.”

He stared at you expectantly, and you rolled your eyes. “I don’t know what I expect with you, honestly.”

“Exactly what you see, darling. Now,” Fiyero's gaze drifted over to the window, then looked back at you as he stood up, “what do you say we put a hold on things and enjoy this beautiful day?”

Your brows furrowed. “What, you mean do our research outside?”

“Is your work truly all you think about?” he asked in exasperation. “I mean leave the books and your notes and your stress here, and take a stroll around campus.”

“I’ve had my entire life planned out since I was ten years old,” you said. “Of course it is. I am not going to have some— some—”

“Some what?” Fiyero interrupted. He still looked remarkably unaffected by your outburst, that sideways smile of his infuriatingly charming.

“Some ridiculous, pompous, self-absorbed, lazy Winkie prince ruin it!” you exclaimed.

“Lazy,” he mused. “That’s a new one.”

“Of course you’re lazy! Why would we take a break when we have a project to do?”

Fiyero looked at you like you were crazy— no, like he was worried about you. He shook his head. “You really do have a one track mind.”

“When we’re in midterm season, yes, I d— what are you doing?”

Fiyero had started stacking all of the books you had on the table away from you, then he grabbed your notebook and your pen out of your hand.

“You need a break,” he said.

“I don’t need a break, and give that back—”

You reached for your materials but only just grazed his hand before he pulled them back and set them on top of the pile. “When was the last time you saw the sun?”

You scoffed. “I see the sun all the time.”

“Not from a window in the library or your dorm.”

You bit your tongue. Fiyero smiled and held out his hand.

“You need a break.”

You stared at his hand. He gave you a cloying look.

“It’s not a good sign that you’re this against self-care,” he said wryly.

You sighed and reluctantly placed your hand in his. “Fine.”

Fiyero grinned and he pulled you close. You yelped at the unexpected speed and you tumbled into his chest. Fiyero’s hand dropped to your waist, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, wide eyed.

“Shall we?” he murmured.

You jolted away from him once you came back into yourself, your skin burning where he’d touched you.

“We shall,” you said, a bit too forcefully as you started walking a bit too fast.

Fiyero chuckled. He matched your pace easily, soon coming up beside you. “You’re already that excited?”

“Oh, shut up,” you bit out. “You’ve already gotten what you want. No need for more.”

He feigned naivety. “What would I possibly be doing?”

You shook your head with a huff. “I’m not entertaining that with a response.”

Fiyero simply hummed. You glanced over at him, still staying even with you, and then you let out another huff as you stopped. He didn’t miss a beat, pausing at the same time as you, then met your flustered expression with a smile.

“Yes?”

“You’re the one that wanted to do this,” you said, gesturing in front of you with a hand. “So lead the way.”

“Gladly,” he said. “I’m very good at taking the lead.”

Fiyero started walking and, though you had half a mind to take the opportunity and dart back to the library, you found yourself following him.

Cora’s words spun around your head as you and Fiyero walked together, about him turning the full force of his flirting on you in return for you being such a stickler for your midterm.

That was the embarrassing thing; you didn’t even think this was half of it, and he already had you blushing—and for what? It was as if you’d never even talked to a boy before.

You’d had plenty of experience back home. Village boys coming into your parents’ store to flirt at you, leaving notes in your desk in class, offering to walk you home at night—plenty of experience.

It didn’t matter that you denied them all and never went anywhere because you had a one track mind even then, and that Fiyero had done what no one else had and gotten you take a break simply because he asked nicely—

You sucked in a sharp breath as Fiyero’s arm suddenly pressed against your chest, stopping you in place. Your head snapped up to look at him, mouth already open with questions loaded, but he gestured with his head before you could ask any of them.

You’d nearly barreled right down the stairs from being lost in your head, without care nor consideration for actually taking the steps.

“Mind the gap, darling,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you damaging that brain of yours.”

“…Thank you,” you said once you’d regained the ability to speak words again. “One of us ought to have one.”

Fiyero laughed as he took his arm away. “Certainly.” He used it to gesture down the stairs. “Ladies first—unless you’re unsure of your ability to conquer them.”

“I’ll be just fine, Fiyero.” You started the descent, Fiyero right behind you, and you let out another short sigh.

There had to be something wrong with you. That was the only explanation for why you were acting this way.

Maybe you really did need to start getting more sleep.

#fiyero tigelaar x reader #fiyero x reader #wicked x reader #fiyero x you #fiyero tigelaar x you #fiyero movie x reader #wicked movie x reader

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syrecjh · 26 days ago

Text

(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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dduane · 5 months ago

Note

I have been trying to write fic (well, smut) set in a world where certain things are slightly different to serve the fic's plot.

However, each time I try I have run into a problem: my head insists I need to justify the changes - I need to know comprehensive details about how the world works so I can ensure everything is consistent and not too f'd up.

So I get bogged down, and don't write a word. What do?

In your position, I’d sit down and write myself a bible.

This is how I did my prep for Barbie: Fairytopia.* And how I’ve done it for various works of fic presently on AO3… and how I’m doing it right now for the new Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rats of Sumatra III project. I was taught this art by my animation story editors at Hanna-Barbera, and it’s stood me in good stead. (Peter and I pulled down our first miniseries assignment from a company that told us “we gave great bible.” And that was true.) 😄

When I say “bible” I don’t necessarily mean something that thick! (Though some of mine have been pretty hefty, with one TV project’s bible running more than a hundred pages… because I knew I had skeptical and underinformed TV execs to convince about something historical.) For the kind of purpose we’re describing here, your prep bible could be quite short: maybe looking like a bullet-pointed “shopping list”, five or ten pages long. It can be just as long or short as it needs to be to cover all your salient points.

The idea is simply to put down, in concrete form, a list of the main “different things” you need to know and remember about your alternate universe when you’re working in it. This is where you do your justification work, in as much or as little detail as you need to convince yourself you’ve got the necessary bases covered. The virtual “stage manager” who sits at the back of the theater of the Writing Department in your mind, judging when things are right, will be your guide here, and will advise you as to when you’ve got enough and it’s time to stop. And once this stuff is down on the page, you’ll be a position to judge critically whether everything makes enough sense to work with, and slots together correctly.

This is also a bit like (for the prose part of a project) outlining, in that it’s incredibly freeing. Once you’ve got this background nailed down, you know you can safely turn your attention away from it and get down to the serious business: drama, and the character interactions that express it. (And inevitably as you’re doing the bible writing, you start getting ideas for how the substrate you’re laying down is going to affect the conflicts between and among the characters. The bible stage can be incredibly fruitful this way.)

It would be facile to describe the bibling process as “getting the easy part over with first”. Because sometimes it’s not easy! But it’s worth doing first, because having done this first relieves you of the ongoing anxiety caused by knowing you may have to keep inventing or rationalizing stuff on the fly. (Which can produce the kind of micro-blocks that a writer can generally really do without.) …Not that you’re not going to be inventing things on the fly anyway: that’s a normal part of the writing process. But the biggest and most obvious issues will have been handled already, and you’ll know they have; which is always a weight off one’s mind. And the fewer of those weights you have loading you down, when you’re in the midst of the labor of composition, the better.

Anyway, give it a shot and see how it works for you. And then you can, like the rest of us smut writers, get on to the really pressing business: making sure you haven’t lost track of where all the characters’ arms and legs (and things) are when you’re writing those hot steamy sex scenes. 😏

Hope this helps!

*ETA: My remit on this job did include creating a bible for them. But I write a rough-draft one for myself first, including various meta that I needed but they didn't.

#writing #writing advice #worldbuilding #bibles

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satorulovebot · 9 months ago

Text

so scarlet it was, maroon | chapter one

✧₊⁺ pairing — satoru gojou x journalist!reader

✧₊⁺ chapter summary — you get the chance to meet the infamous gojou satoru while working on your journalism project at suzuka circuit. what could you possibly want from him?

✧₊⁺ word count — 6.3k

✧₊⁺ warnings — nsfw (minors dni), age gap, alcohol use, mature themes, mentions of cheating, substance abuse, themes of marriage and divorce

✧₊⁺ notes — hello everyone! i asked you awhile ago on a poll which series you would like to see after cursed seas and f1 gojo won the poll and then i posted the masterlist and everyone wants it so you get it now. so here it is. and NO its not happy NEVER expect happiness from me because im allergic to it. also the reader being nosy af is inspired by me and my parents telling me i should be a journalist with how nosy i am.

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

next chap. the husband and his wife

You moved to Tokyo with your family when you were younger.

You grew up in a rural part of the country, surrounded by farmers and people either ready to retire or nearing the end of their lives. Your parents hated living there, and so did you—for one, there were hardly any kids to play with, and two, as your father would say, "too many old fuckers lying around."

When you moved to Tokyo, your family decided to celebrate by taking you to a Formula 1 race. Your dad thought it would be perfect for the two of you since fixing up old cars had always been your daddy-daughter activity.

You didn’t like the idea of racing at first—the noise was too loud, and the idea of people speeding toward a black-and-white checkered line seemed ridiculous. But the moment you heard the roar of the engines and watched the lights go from red to green, you were captivated, a fascination that would stay with you for years.

When you got your first computer, you began looking up videos of F1 drivers. One day, you stumbled across a video titled “The Biggest F1 Scandals in History,” and that was when you decided you wanted to go into journalism.

You were nosy, to say the least. So, it was no surprise to your parents when you announced to them that you wanted to pursue journalism as a career. Your father reminded you how you’d always been curious, listening in on others’ conversations and keeping up with the latest school drama.

When you applied for journalism school, you were accepted into one of the top programs in the world—Sophia University. Your parents were proud that you’d made it into such a highly ranked school for journalism in Japan.

You were now in your fourth and final year at Sophia, and enjoying your journalism class. Recently, your professor assigned a project: write a story about a major pop culture figure of your choice, and for extra credit, get an interview with them. Your professor knew it was damn near impossible, but he was always optimistic that one day, someone would get that interview and he could retire in peace.

That project led you here: Suzuka Circuit, Japan's main Formula 1 track. Your chosen figure was none other than Gojou Satoru—F1's biggest driver in recent years. He was your father's favorite among the new-generation drivers, known for his string of controversies since he started on top of the persistent rumors of his heavy drug use before races.

You had managed to snag a media passs from your professor when you mentioned doing an F1 driver for your project. He was able to pull some strings to get you into the media booth, getting you a closer look at Gojou Satoru in person.

You watched the pre-race preparations closely from the media booth, your fingers hovered above your notepad as you waited for the race to start. You were determined to get a good grade on this project, and that meant adding every single detail to your report about this race.

It was about time for the drivers to gather in their garages, each wearing headsets and ready for the pre-race briefing. The briefing typically covers the race start, various pit stop scenarios, and a detailed weather report. Before each race weekend, they usually spend time in a simulator of the track they'll be racing on, preparing them for the upcoming race.

After about thirty-minutes the racers came out of their garages in their respective cars. They each line up based on the results of a quaifying session that takes place before the race, slowest qualifier in the back, fastest in the front. Gojou Satoru was at the front of the grid, which meant he was one of the qualifiers who had the fastest time.

You waited around for a little while longer turning your attention to what was happening around you. Eventually, you made your way back to the front of the media booth as the race started, ready to report.

The engines revved as each driver began preparing for the start of the race, each car vibrating on the starting grid like a beast straining at its chains. Gojou sat at the front of the lineup, his hands loose on the wheel, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm as he waited for the lights to turn green.

The roar from the grandstands faded, becoming a blur of sound as the lights ticked down: red, red, red, red… green.

He slammed the throttle, feeling the raw force of the car’s engine kick him back into his seat as he tore down the straight. Other cars jostled for position behind him, all fighting to claim the inside line into the first turn.

Through his earpiece, he heard the voice of his race engineer, Shokou, calm as ever. “Clear on turn two, you’ve got five-tenths on Hayashi. Stay tight.”

But Gojou barley heard her. The car was an extension of him, responding to his every thought, every split-second decision. He pushed down the straights, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, taking corners at speeds most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt. The sound of his tires skidding against the asphalt, the blur of the track side barriers, the lights of Tokyo reflecting off his mirrors—it all blended into a single, perfect rush.

Gojou could see the next turn ahead, a tight chicane that could send the best drivers into the barriers if they weren't careful. He braked hard, turning the wheel with perfect precision to angle the car through. He could feel the back end wobbling, but he didn't flinch, drifting perfectly as he swung back onto the racing line, gaining another second on the pack.

He could almost hear the collective gasp of the crowd in his head as he slipped through the chicane. This was his playground. Every race was a chance to remind the world why he was the best.

“Coming up on a DRS zone,” Shoko’s voice crackled in his ear, grounding him, though he was already on it

He waited for the perfect moment, watching the rear-view mirror to see the faint outline of Hayashi's car. He pressed the DRS, and his car shot forward, the drag reduction giving him a temporary speed boost that had him pulling away, putting him in the lead.

The track opened up ahead, the second sector full of wide, sweeping turns. Here was where raw speed mattered more than anything. Gojou pressed down hard on the accelerator, the engine roaring in response. He leaned forward, watching the track fly by, the white lines blurring as he focused entirely on the road ahead.

For a second, the sound in his earpiece went dead, the faint sound of static filling his ears. Then Shokou was back. “You’ve got Yoshida closing in on your tail. He’s pushing hard.”

Gojou glanced up at the mirrors, his eyes catching the bright blue and orange of Yoshida's car looming larger. The familiar thrill sparked in him. So, Yoshida thought he had a chance, did he? Well, he’d show him otherwise.

“Copy,” he muttered into his mic, eyes narrowing as he took the next corner, barley touching the brakes. He felt the tires skid but he managed to control the drift, knowing any slip would open the door for Yoshida to slip past.

He whipped into another straight, his hands steady on the wheel as he hit a top speed.

His foot didn’t so much as twitch as the engine’s roar morphed into a high-pitched scream as the car closed the distance.

The curve ahead was brutal—a tight 90-degree bend that demanded precise timing.

In a split-second decision, he did something no one expected. He braked late, his heart pounding as he cut the turn at a speed that sent the back end skidding. The tires gripped just in time, allowing him to pull out of the corner without losing traction. He could almost feel the shock reverberating as he regained control, his lead still intact.

As the laps wore on, his body moved on instinct, every gear shift, every turn becoming a single, fluid motion. One lap. Two. Three, with two pit stops between. He counted them off one by one, his mind buzzing with the pure rush of speed and the heat inside the car, barely noticing the time passing. The crowd faded into nothing, the world shrinking down to the track and his car.

The final lap. This was it.

“Box this lap if you’re in trouble,” Shokou’s voice crackled again. “Tire degradation is high.”

But Gojou’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened. His front tires were holding out—barely. It would be tight, but he could make it. He’d run this last lap on sheer determination alone if he had to.

“Negative, Shokou. I’m taking it,” he replied, and then turned off the earpiece, tuning out everything except the track and the car in front of him.

He launched into the final lap, throwing caution to the wind. Yoshida was right on his tail now, close enough that he could see the gleam of his headlights in the mirrors. But Gojou didn’t back down. He took each turn aggressively, blocking Yoshida's attempts to pass, forcing him to fall back every time.

The last chicane loomed ahead, his final obstacle before the finish line. He tightened his grip, the wheel trembling under his hands. He took the chicane fast, too fast, almost feeling the wheels lift off the ground as he flew out of the turn. The car rocked, but he held steady, pushing the pedal to the floor.

The finish line was in sight, a faint white line at the end of the straight, and with one last push, he crossed it, the checkered flag waving in his periphery as he tore past.

It was only after he’d crossed over the line that the realization hit him—he’d won.

The cheers erupted in the stands, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as he slowed down, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He could hear Shoko’s voice crackling back in as she shouted, “You pulled it off, you insane bastard.”

Gojou grinned, leaning back in his seat, still buzzing. He’d done it again, just as he always did.

The moment he climbed out of the cockpit, Gojou was surrounded by his team. Shokou was the first to reach him, her usually composed face split by a wide grin. She grabbed his helmet and thumped him on the shoulder hard enough so he actually felt it though the layers of his suit.

“You reckless son of a—”

“Language, Shokou,” Gojou interrupted, grinning as he yanked off his gloves, waving to the rest of the Tokyo Jujutsu Racing team that swarmed him.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch you pull stunts like that? I’m gonna need a raise after today’s heart attack,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on, Shokou. That was just a little fun.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Where’s my confetti?”

“Coming right up, your royal highness." Someone handed him a bottle of champagne, still cold and slick, and he twisted the cap, spraying a wild arc of foam that showered his team and nearby fans.

His PR manager, Nanami, clapped him on the back. “You’re insufferable."

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle in a mock toast, flashing him a grin. The media’s cameras clicked and flashed, capturing every moment as his crew continued their congratulations.

The crowd pressed close against the barriers, shouting his name, waving homemade banners with scribbled slogans and his number embellished with the colors red and black. He walked closer, one arm raised, acknowledging the fans, letting their cheers fill him up, louder and louder with every step.

But as he continued walking, his gaze caught on something—or rather, someone—just beyond the crowd.

At first it was just a hint curiosity, the way your gaze was fixed on him. A bit removed from the chaos, you leaned against one of the barriers with a media pass hanging around your neck, arms folded as you watched from a distance.

Gojou slightly narrowed his eyes, holding your gaze longer than he'd held any fan's tonight, as if he was daring you to look away first.

“What the hell is that about?” he muttered under his breath, gaze moving back to Shokou for half a second.

“Hm?” Shokou followed his gaze, but her eyes slid right past you, uninterested. “Press. You’ll get used to it. Come on, they’re all waiting.”

He forced himself to break the stare, clearing his throat as Shokou ushered him toward the media pen, where a lineup of journalists waited, all armed with recorders, microphones, and notebooks.

He fielded the usual questions—how did it feel to win, what was his mindset, what was he thinking on that last turn? His answers were always the same practiced ones, words sliding out like clockwork.

“Well, Mr. Gojou, what would you say to those who believe your racing style is a little… aggressive?” one journalist asked, a little smirk on her face as if she thought she was catching him off guard.

He snorted. “They can call it what they want. I call it winning.” He shrugged. “I don’t come out here to play it safe.”

A few reporters laughed at his remark, clearly interested in what else he had to say as a fresh wave of questions started.

Somewhere behind the flashing lights, he saw you again, lingering a few feet behind the crowd of reporters with that calm gaze fixed on him. You didn’t raise a recorder or a camera, didn’t even make an effort to push closer for a question. You just… watched.

It was disconcerting.

“Gojou!” Another journalist waved a microphone his face, snapping his attention back to the current situation. “What’s the next step for you this season?”

He forced a smile, eyes briefly looking back to you before he focused on the question. “The same as always,” he said. “Push harder, get faster, and give everyone something to talk about.”

The crowd laughed again, though, he barely heard them, too focused on the strange woman staring right into his soul. The two of you locked eyes and you have him a small nod, as if acknowledging that you were in fact staring into his soul.

“Well, I think that’s enough,” Shokou said suddenly at his elbow, pulling him out of his thoughts. “They’ll have plenty of time to hound you later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, though he let her guide him away. Still, he couldn’t help glancing back over his shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of you.

But you were already gone.

Gojou slipped away from the crowd, weaving through the bustling garage and dodging the congratulatory slaps on his back, the endless rounds of handshakes, and the celebratory shouts. He ducked past a few journalists, ignoring the barrage of questions still hurled his way, his smile slipping as he finally found the door to the bathroom.

Inside, the cool, sterile silence was jarring compared to the noise outside, but he let out a sigh of relief, his heart hammering in his chest. He clicked the lock and leaned against the sink, running his hands over his face, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

The victory high had worn off, leaving behind a familiar pressure he could not cope with. It settled on his shoulders like an old, unwelcome friend.

He hadn't realized how much tension he was carrying in his shoulders, how deeply it would itself into him when he was alone. The race had been perfect, his win flawless, but he could feel the exhaustion radiating off of him, a pulsing throb being his eyes. He clenched his jaw, glaring at himself in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

But his words fell flat, swallowed up by the silence. In the mirror, his own eyes stared back at him, tired, almost hollow.

He reached into the pocket of his racing suit, fingers brushing over the small, familiar packet hidden in the inner lining. It was a stupid habit, a reckless one really, but it was one he hadn't been able to shake, no matter how many times he tried to quit. He could practically feel the temporary relief in the palm of his hand.

He closed his eyes, running his thumb along the edge of the packet before pulling it out, setting it on the counter next to the sink. He ripped it open tapping a small line onto the smooth counter top. It was like his fingers had a mind of their own, as if it was part of his routine of suiting up or gripping the wheel.

The powder glinted under the bathroom’s harsh fluorescent lights, almost mocking him with its simplicity. Just a quick escape, just enough to take the edge off. That’s all he needed.

He leaned down, closing one nostril and inhaling sharply, feeling the sting as the powder hit his nose. He straightened his back, blinking hard, the world around him sharpening as his mind cleared. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips.

He leaned back against the sink, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow, the tension in his muscles fading away.

But it didn’t take long for the guilt to creep back in, that hollow feeling settling in his chest, a reminder that this wasn't the answer. He knew it. He knew exactly what he was doing to himself, how he was destroying his body from the inside out, how it could all come crashing down. And yet… here he was.

“Fucking pathetic,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing against the tiles.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, jolting him back to reality.

“Gojou? You in there?” It was Shokou. “They’re waiting for you out here.”

He stuffed the empty packet back into his pocket, brushed the last of the substance off of the sink, and glanced in the mirror one last time to check his reflection, making sure there was no trace left of his momentary escape.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, forced a smirk, and unlocked the door.

Shokou was standing there, arms crossed, her gaze scrutinizing as he stepped out. She didn’t say anything, but her judgmental eye lingered over him for a split second too long.

“You good?”

“Never better."

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced, but she dropped it, gesturing for him to follow her.

As the celebrations continued, Gojou weaved his way through fans and team-members alike who were still wrapped up in their post-race celebrations. He scanned the crowd, hoping to find the strange woman from earlier who he noticed had a press pass, thinking you would be here.

And then he saw you, leaning against a stack of crates near the garages, observing the current scene with the same judgmental eyes that Shokou had. The media badge hung from your neck, swaying slightly as you shifted your weight, pulling out a notebook and flipping through it, seemingly absorbed in what you were currently doing.

He cleared his throat as he approached, the echo of his footsteps giving his presence away.

You looked up, your brow raised as he came closer, a hint of intrigue flashing in your eyes.

“Looking for something?” you asked, not moving as he stopped in front of you.

“You could say that,” he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze darted to the notebook in your hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you earlier, off in the shadows. Didn’t feel like joining the crowd?”

“Not my style.” You shrugged. “I’m not here to cheer. I’m here to report.”

“Journalist, huh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “What’s your angle?”

“The truth,” you said, a little smile pulling at your lips as you studied him. “Not everyone’s a fan of that, I know.”

“Depends on what you call the truth. But I’ve got a feeling you’ve already got your version.”

"How perceptive. I’m doing a piece on your racing career, your achievements, but… the public wants a fuller picture, don’t you think?

“Not sure I follow. Everyone knows what they need to know.”

“Not quite,” you replied, flipping through your notebook. “There’s more than just racing stats when it comes to Gojou Satoru, isn’t there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“People say you’re… unraveling. Your recent ‘questionable decisions’ are starting to paint a different picture, don’t you think?” you said, tapping your pen against your notebook. “The accidents, the fines, the constant change in pit crews—”

“Is this some kind of witch hunt?” he interrupted. “Because I’d hate to disappoint you, princess, but I’ve heard it all.”

“Maybe so.” You leaned in a bit, meeting his stare. “But what about the whispers that aren’t out yet? The suspicions about you cheating the drug tests, your team shielding you—” You paused. “There’s a lot of money on your success, Mr. Gojou.”

“Money and racing have always gone hand-in-hand, don’t you think? You’d have a hard time finding someone out here who hasn’t bent a rule or two.”

“True enough.” You titled your head slightly. “But even the most golden careers have a way of losing their shine.”

"Tell me—do you enjoy tearing people down for a living?”

“Only if it’s warranted,” you replied unfazed. “People aren’t interested in perfect stories. They want the flaws, the dirt. It makes it all more real. At least that's what my professor believes."

“You’ve got a wicked mind, I’ll give you that. But I hope you realize you’re not the first to come sniffing around for the ‘real story’.”

A pregnant pause settles between you before you asked, “And what about her?”

A beat passed before he answered. “Who?”

“Your wife. She’s been… noticeably absent from the press circuits. And rumor has it things aren’t exactly picture-perfect between you two.”

“Rumor has it,” he repeated. “Guess you know how it is in this business. There’s always some rumor or another.”

“So it’s just a rumor, then? All the time apart, the missed events, her name suddenly missing from every headline. You’re saying there’s nothing to it?”

“People are eager to make stories out of nothing. My private life is just that—private.”

“That’s interesting,” you murmured, not looking away. “Because the most recent stories about you and her—they’re awfully detailed. People are noticing, wondering why she’s suddenly… disappeared from the scene.”

“Let them wonder. Like I said, people will talk. And it seems like you’re more interested in gossip than journalism.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Journalism is about uncovering the truth,” you countered. “But it seems like you’re more comfortable brushing things under the rug than addressing them.”

His smile returned, his carefully crafted facade sliding back into place as he straightened up, glancing away from you, clearly bored of the conversation. "Maybe someday you'll get the truth you're so desperate for, but it's not going to be today."

Before he walked away completely, he gave you one last look, his tone playful but laced with a hint of warning. “Be careful what you dig up, princess. Sometimes the truth’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

And with that, he turned his back to you, disappearing into the crowd.

Gojou returned home after the long night of celebrations had died down, the adrenaline from the race long gone, now replaced by a gnawing emptiness that felt like it might hollow him out. His penthouse was in the hear of Tokyo—a sleek, modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the neon-drenched skyline.

As he opened the door, the soft him of the city below was drowned out by the sound of footsteps, His wife, Hana, appeared from the hallway, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed. She was dressed in a sleek black outfit, her dark hair pulled back, a looking a frustration etched onto her face.

“You’re late."

“Didn’t realize I was on a curfew,” he replied, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t act like that.” Her eyes flashed as she followed him into the living room. “You missed the dinner with my parents again. They’ve been asking about you, wondering why you’re never around.”

“Hana, I just won a race,” he replied, exasperated. “Sorry if I wasn’t in the mood to play the doting son-in-law tonight.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Of course, it’s always about the race with you. Everything is about that damn career, isn’t it?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“Maybe I didn’t know it would mean you disappearing for days, weeks sometimes, chasing whatever thrill you think you need to feel alive.”

“What’s your point, Hana? We’ve had this argument a hundred times.”

“The point is, Satoru,” she said, voice trembling with anger, “that you seem to care more about everything else than this marriage. I’m just a fixture in your life, something you come back to whenever you need to check a box or show face. But you’re never really here.”

He let out a harsh laugh, the bitter sound filling the apartment. "Here we go again. Hana, it’s not like you’ve been some shining example of commitment either. You’ve known what this is for months.”

“What this is?” Her voice rose, cracking slightly as she repeated his words. “What exactly is ‘this,’ Satoru? A sham? A partnership for appearances? I thought you loved me…"

“I can’t keep doing this,” she continued softly, her voice breaking. “The lying, the pretending. It’s exhausting.”

“So what do you want me to say, Hana? That I’m some perfect husband?” He gestured to himself, shaking his head with a smirk that looked almost pained. “We’re both guilty here. Let’s not act like this hasn’t been a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Fine. But do me a favor—at least act like you care when people ask. Because every time I hear some story about you, another scandal or rumor, it’s like a slap in the face. My family, my friends—everyone’s talking. They see the headlines too.”

“What do you want from me, Hana?” he asked quietly, the fight suddenly draining out of him. “You want me to pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“I want… I wanted the man I married. The one who cared, who had dreams."

“Then maybe,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper, “it’s time to stop pretending.”

As Gojou stood there running a hand through his hair. Hana paused, her expression shifting from something resigned to something wounded.

“And there’s one more thing."

He looked at her, brow furrowing. “Fucking Christ Hana, what now?”

“Do you think I’m stupid, Satoru?” she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “I know what’s out there. The rumors. The whispers about who you’re with when you’re not here. Or maybe you think I don’t hear them.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hana, they’re just rumors. You know how the press is—they’ll twist anything for a story.”

“Twist what, exactly? Why do they have something to twist in the first place?”

“They don’t have anything. It’s just the media looking for something to make people read. Speculation sells.”

“Right. Speculation. But funny how it’s always about you, always linked to another woman.”

“That’s because I’m under a microscope. People love to create scandals, especially with someone like me. And you know that better than anyone.”

“It’s not just them, Satoru. People talk, and it’s not just baseless gossip. I’m not naive. I hear things from people close to you, people who actually know you.”

“You really believe them? You think I’m out there, risking everything for some—” He stopped himself, biting his tongue.

“Do I? I don’t even know my own husband anymore. Maybe I should ask them. Or maybe I should ask you directly, Satoru. Are you seeing someone?”

“Why are we even doing this?”

“Because I want the truth. Just once. I deserve that much, don’t I?”

“Believe what you want, Hana. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Then maybe that’s all I need to know.”

Gojou stormed out of his apartment, his hands clenching and unclenching as he tried to shake off his frustration. He'd had enough for one night. His heart was pounding and the last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to get out, to drown the anger with something that could at least help him forget.

The bar he found was tucked away down a dim side street in Shibuya. It wasn't anything fancy–a dark cry from the glitzy nightlife he was used to–but it was dark and quiet which was exactly what he needed. He slid onto a bar stool and motioned for a drink, not bothering to pay attention to what the bartender poured.

He sipped his drink in silence, trying to tune out the night and all the noise in his head. The alcohol burned down his throat, but it was a welcome distraction that numbed his anger and frustration. He was almost on his third drink when he noticed someone sitting in the corner of the room, hunched over a notebook, tapping her pen against her cheek in thought.

She's cute, he thought to himself. He squinted trying to get a better look at the young woman, and he immediately recognized, it was you.

Of all the places he'd expect to see you, this shitty bar wasn't one of them. You looked so absorbed in your work, like you were piecing together something for a story. Satoru's curiosity got the better of him, and he stood up carrying his drink as he made his way over to where you were sitting.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the back of the chair across from you. “Didn’t peg you for a bar rat, but maybe I was wrong.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Gojou Satoru. What a surprise.”

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already taking the seat.

“Didn’t think someone like you would end up in a place like this. Celebrating?”

He gave a dry laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “Something like that.”

“So, what are you doing here, really? Figured you’d be at a fancy cafe, writing about some important news story.”

“Maybe I am. Research is research, even if it’s in a bar. Maybe it’s you I’m writing about.”

“So I’m your new project, huh?”

“Maybe. It’s part of this little journalism course I’m doing. We’re supposed to pick a public figure and write a profile. Someone who’s got a… colorful public image.”

“Colorful, huh?” He smirked. “Guess I’m your lucky target. Hope I make an interesting subject."

“Interesting is one word for it,” you replied, a faint smirk tugging at your lips. “What’s got you so quiet tonight? I thought you’d be surrounded by fans somewhere.”

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. “Not in the mood for fans tonight.”

“Tough race?”

He laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. “Not the race. Just… life, I guess.”

“So,” he said, leaning in. “tell me about this little journalism course. You planning to make a career out of stalking poor drivers like me?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. We’re learning how to ‘uncover the truth’—or at least, that’s what they say. So far, it’s been a lot of digging through archives and learning to ask the right questions.”

“Right questions, huh?” He arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hear one. What would you ask me, if I were your ‘colorful public figure’?”

“Alright, Gojou. How does someone at the top of their game manage to keep it all together? All the races, the publicity, the pressure… don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?”

“Honestly?” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Sometimes, yeah. It’s not as easy as it looks, being the guy everyone thinks has it all together. But people don’t care about that part. They just want the show.”

“So you put on the show.”

“Guess that’s what it comes down to.” He laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “People don’t want to see a guy crack under pressure. They want the image.”

“But what do you want?”

No one ever asked him that, as if what he wanted didn’t matter.

“What do I want?” he repeated, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he tried to dodge the question. “Maybe another drink.”

I’m serious. Behind all of that… what’s left?”

“Honestly? Sometimes I don’t even know anymore. It’s like I’ve been going so fast for so long, I can’t remember what it was I was chasing in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to figure out, then.”

He looked at you, and the faintest trace of a genuine smile broke through. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat in silence, and he found himself grateful for it. You didn't press or pry at him and he thought that he could just be himself, even if it was just for a little while.

“Alright,” he said finally, nudging your notebook with his finger. “So, future journalist, you really gonna write all this down? Make me sound like some tortured artist?”

You smirked. “I’ll try to be kind. Maybe I’ll even leave out the part where you go to bars alone and pretend to be mysterious.”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, holding up his drink in mock surrender. “Noted. But I expect a copy when it’s published. Autographed, obviously.”

“Obviously,” you replied, laughing as you clinked your glass against his. “But don’t expect it to be flattering.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the conversation continued, Gojou found himself leaning in closer. You both let the drinks keep coming, though it was less about how much alcohol you were consuming and more about the way the words spilled more easily between you two.

“So,” you asked, taking another sip of your drink, “what’s it actually like out there? Everyone sees the fame, the money, the cars, but… what’s it really like?”

He exhaled, tapping his fingers on the edge of his glass. “Honestly? It’s… intense. There’s this high to it, this adrenaline. Nothing like it. You’re pushing yourself and everyone around you to the edge," he tilted his head. “But sometimes, it feels like the line between winning and crashing out isn’t as thick as people think. You cross it once, and that’s it—you’re done.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“A little. But I’m more afraid of what happens if I stop. It’s like… I don’t know what I’d be without it. Guess that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t. I get it. When something’s all you know… giving it up is like giving up a part of yourself. Scary as hell.”

“Exactly. Guess we all have our addictions, huh?”

Shit. Did he say too much?

You didn’t push, just gave him a quiet nod. “So, what’s Tokyo Jujutsu like? It's one of the toughest team on the grid, right?”

“You know it. They’re tough as hell, no room for error. And they sure as hell won’t give you a second chance if you mess up.”

“Sounds brutal."

“Yeah, maybe. I guess I like the challenge. Or maybe I just like proving people wrong.”

“Enough about me," he continued. What about you? What’s the deal with this journalism project? Are you trying to make a name for yourself by exposing all my secrets?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Believe it or not, my goal in life isn’t to ruin yours. I actually think it’s fascinating, learning what drives people, what keeps them going, even when things get messy.”

“Messy? What makes you think my life is messy?”

“Oh, please. Gojou Satoru’s life is one headline after another. You’re practically the poster boy for drama.”

He feigned a hurt expression, placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me. I’m just a guy trying to make a living, you know?”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Just a guy who happens to have a dozen scandals and an equal number of speeding tickets.”

“Hey,” he laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m a professional, okay? That’s all part of the job.”

The two of you continued to chat into the night. Gojou found himself relaxing, caught up in the rare comfort of talking with someone who didn’t expect him to play a part. He could just… be.

At some point, the bartender announced last call, and Gojou glanced at you, smirking. “Guess that’s our cue.”

You stretched, gathering your notebook and tucking it under your arm. “Thanks for the, uh, ‘research material.’ It was… enlightening.”

He laughed, standing and grabbing his coat. “Anytime. But don’t go making me look like a complete asshole in your little project, alright?”

“No promises."

Outside, the air was crisp as he faint hum of city traffic the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slid his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

Outside, the air was crisp as the faint him of the city being the only sound as you stood together on the quiet street. Gojou slide his hands into his pockets, looking at you.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again."

“Only if you’re brave enough to handle more questions.”

“Oh, I’m plenty brave. But we’ll see if you’re as good at digging as you think.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you turned to leave, throwing him a casual wave. “Goodnight, Mr. Gojou.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching as you disappeared down the empty street.

In that moment he realized, he never did catch your name.

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojou satoru x y/n #gojou satoru #gojou satoru x reader #gojo saturo #satoru gojo #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo angst #jujutsu kaisen au #gojo fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you

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defmaybe · 11 months ago

Text

Sticky

ITZY’s Shin Yuna x Male Reader

1.9k words

Prequel to Party Police

See also: Not Shy, Bahama

A/N: I write this in two sittings for probably the only mommy Yuna fic lol - BFH-type shit. No editing, no beta-reading, just pure lust again.

–

The clickings of the keyboards displace silence. Again, you’re stuck in the mundane cycle of doing another proposal for the project you’re going to lead. Sighs and sighs don’t keep you from drowsiness building up inside. Others don’t seem to do better even, some even folded on their desks already. The chilly breeze from the conditioner really is relentless right now, so damn perfect for a nap.

“Miss Shin wants you,” the secretary says, keeping you from falling into slumber.

You quickly get up from your desk, pacing towards the glass-paned office. You see your other co-workers dreading their assignments, clicking on their keyboards with blank eyes. On the opposite side, you can see, through the horizontal blinds, the vibrant office with your boss, Shin Yuna, doing the decorations inside. She’s tall (well, taller than you, at least), often confident, and so energetic, contrary to the department she just got handed over a few weeks ago.

You knock on the transparent door, seeing her putting on her Lady Bird poster on the wall. She’s wearing a one-piece raven black dress, one that hugs her slim, otherworldly curvy body so well. You can see her wide hips being so prominent, stripping away your fatigue.

“Come in!” she says, looking over her shoulders as she’s finishing the touch-ups.

You open the door, greeted with the scent of her air purifier—spring. The white fur carpet on the floor welcomes you with the sensations on your soles. Her office is spacious, and the colorful decorations fit her attitude and personality so much.

“Please, sit down,” she says with a smile, hand pointing to the seat in front of her desk. Even the cluttering trinkets on her table never look crowded, they are so meticulously placed to give her a perfect amount of space left for her work.

You accept her invitation, walking towards the seat. Yuna also retreats from her sprinklings back to hers, sitting down in her chair gracefully—a charming boss.

The air hangs heavy for a while, as Yuna takes some time to clear her desk. You glance around the room like the other times. The crucial difference being the Lady Bird poster, of course, and a few more band posters that you can’t quite recall from your listening history.

“So…” Yuna breaks the silence, tapping a finger on her chin, contemplating. “I see that you’ve been looking a little tired. Is that true?”

You blabber out, “N-No! I’m not tired a-at all.” You even put your hands up to deny the allegation.

“Those eyes don’t lie, baby.” The utterance of the last word alone freezes you. Is she flirting?

Let’s pause for a bit. Shin Yuna just got promoted to being your department’s manager—now three weeks in tenure. Her bubbly and kind personality receives multiple acclaim from your co-workers. And combined with her insanely high performances in projects, you cannot see how she wouldn’t get the position.

Now, that friendly personality can be a bit, to say the least, slightly invasive. Yuna has always been so eager to fire up a talk with people, even if it means robbing someone’s silence. She’s also always happy to help those around her, no matter the methods. You’ve heard some complaints about her vivacious nature, but with the results saying otherwise, you just cannot dislike her for that.

“A-Are you suggesting I should go home or s-something?” you ask, unable to register how she’s getting up to close the blinds, as if she’s asking for some privacy from the outside right now. The room seems to shrink.

“Oh, does it look like that? Not at all, baby,” there it is again, baby.

“As your boss, I have to make sure that you stay productive for the day’s work!” Her smile lights the room up, as she walks towards her chair and sits down again. “I can’t have my employees dreading their jobs and expect a satisfactory performance.”

“Y-You’re very kind, M-Miss Shin,” you stammer out, and she seems to be happy with your words.

“Now tell me.” Yuna leans in closer to you, giving you the fine details of her face—doe eyes, minty breath, rose-colored lips. “Are you familiar with… mommy kink?”

You freeze, not expecting such a question from your manager. The gears in your head are working their best to seek the best answer you can give her, let alone making sense of the peculiar situation.

“A-Aga-”

“I’m certain of what I’ve said, mister,” she cuts you off, stern. Her expression reduces into an emotionless state. “Mommy kink, yes or no.”

“Uh…” That’s the only answer you can give her. The prospect of fully submitting to Miss Shin Yuna seems too enticing. Yet, perhaps it’s your inhibition that’s stopping your desire from falling into places.

“Come, sit on my lap,” Yuna instructs.

You glance around the room—left, right, back—as if to delay the inevitable of her pleasuring you.

“Now,” Yuna now commands, her voice steps down a few notes.

“And there’s no camera hidden here, I promise,” she says with a smile, comforting you a little.

You slowly get up from your seat. What if I don’t do well enough for her? You walk around her table to land at your destination, your back against her face. She adjusts her position on her chair a little to accommodate your ass.

Her thighs feel… strong—definitely a result of workouts she has had after work. The images of those sweaty, skimpy sessions are making your mouth quiver—the fluid dripping down her body, just for you to taste.

Her hands start from grabbing the both sides of your slutty hips, earning a small whimper from you.

“So yearning for mommy’s touch, aren’t you?” Yuna giggles, moving her frisky fingers to unbutton your blue shirt.

“Y-Yes, mommy.” Your breath comes out in a false rhythm.

With your abdomen being gradually exposed, she uses a hand to feel it a bit, sending shocks and shocks through your faltering body.

“F-Fuck.”

“Hmm, so needy for mommy~” Yuna then continues her groping, until the last button is freed. Your upper body is bare under the cold air of the conditioner right now, as she brings the fondling hand up to your throat.

“Do you want my lips on you, baby boy?” Yuna asks, breaths warming the back of your neck. You can only nod at her.

Consented, she plants her lips on your body, and you are sure that the rosy prints are going to stick with you until the end of the day. Still, is it a fact that you should care right now? Getting groped by your goddess of a manager, with her being your mommy, on top of it.

You shiver at her kisses.

She frees your throat before drawing her hand down to play with your raging bulge. She can definitely feel your cock aching to be freed right now.

“Need a hand, baby?” again, she asks, hand fondling the tent in your pants.

You become a stuttering mess at this point. “Y-Yes, m-mommy, please.”

“Please… what, baby boy?” She’s playing coy with you for sure.

“P-Please use your hand on my c-cock, please,” you utter out.

She whispers into your ear, “Good boy.”

She unzips your pants, hand then slithering into the hole. The sensations are even stronger right now, with your underwear being the only barrier between you and her.

She keeps kissing your moaning neck, printing roses wherever she can reach. Her hand is stuck in fondling your cock through the slim cloth.

“Mommy, p-please,” you whimper, desire burning too brightly.

“Say please again, baby boy, and I’ll touch your cock.” Yuna giggles, enjoying how you’re submitting to your boss so damn easily.

“Please, m-mommy.”

Yuna wastes no time to push all of your lower garments down in a single motion, exposing your throbbing, twitching cock in glory. She hums in satisfaction at the sight.

“Hmm~, baby boy, so hard for me already?” she asks, finger drawing a line on the back of your cock from the bottom to the top. It twitches in response.

“Ngh, y-yes, m-m-mommy.” Yuna seems to be happy with your answer as she strokes your cock leisurely.

Her slender fingers only do what they have to do: sliding up and down to make you shatter under her touch. She starts at a slow pace, only teasing you about what’s coming. Her other hand roams under your shirt, moving down onto your juicy ass.

“Ngh, mommy,” you utter, pleasure building up in your loins. The sensations become stronger as seconds passed.

Yuna giggles at your whimpering, “Yes, baby boy?”

“I-I-, ngh,” you cannot form any words under her spell. Fuck.

Yuna cannot hold her chuckle inside, clearly satisfied with her baby boy melting under her touch. “Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”

“Faster, please,” you finally respond, slightly out of breath from the overwhelming sparks all over your body.

Yuna listens to your plea, quickening the strokes, bringing you closer to the edge. Fuck, your slutty moans are probably heard by the people outside now.

The squelches of Yuna’s strokes are filling the room, along with your needy whimpers and her satisfactory hums. “I just wanna spend the whole day jerking this cock~” Yuna expresses, your heart flutters at her words.

“And I mean it, really,” she continues, still keeping the moderate pace of her hand from behind.

“The size, the curvature, the thickness, god, I’m sure it can stretch mommy’s cunt out so well,” she whispers, and your length just cannot get harder at this second.

“M-Mommy, would you berate me i-if I- fuck.” you struggle to lead your words out, stuttering everywhere you can. She’s still jerking your cock, nursing you with another hand roaming over your body to over stimulate.

“Fast cummer, baby?” She chuckles at your apprehension. “You’re doing well, baby. I think this is the perfect pace for us.”

“T-Thanks, mommy,” you say, feeling the tightening of your knot already. “M-Mommy, where c-can I cum?”

“Ooh, that’s an interesting question, baby boy,” Yuna laughs. “I don’t think the higher-ups would mind a few stains from us~,”

“W-Wha-”

“Shh, let mommy handle this,” she affirms. “Just stay on my lap and let me milk your cock, okay?”

Your mind goes feral, aching for release. Her hand relentlessly stroking your length and another traversing your compact frame just overloads your mind. “Y-Yes mommy.”

“Good boy, now, cum for me, please.”

And it hits, you become undone at her touch, like a lightning. Your sticky cum is shot everywhere—on her desk, on the floor, hell, even on yourself. You moan in the pleasure of her touch and the mind-shattering orgasm. “Mommy!” you shout. Yeah, everyone is going to hear that.

“Wow,” Yuna pants, before planting a kiss on your neck. She doesn’t seem to mind the fact that your seed is on her precious report right now. “You came so much for mommy.”

You try to catch your breath, before speaking out, “Thanks, mommy.”

–

#yuna #yuna smut #itzy #itzy smut #itzy yuna #itzy yuna smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut

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foreveia · 5 months ago

Text

director’s cut ⤨ tsukishima kei

⨭ genre; college!au, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst like its there if u squint

⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 17.3k

⨭ description; when you convince your best friend into being the male lead of your film project, you don't expect for it to make you question your whole relationship.

⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, smoking

⨭ a/n; this has been in the works for quite a while now and it is defff the longest fic ive ever written (not saying will ever write yet bc who knows), but i think i like it. i am a sucker for best friends to lovers, ESPECIALLY childhood best friends to lovers, so i hope u guys like it :)

song i listened to writing this: 'being your friend' by katherine li

one.

The universe has a top-tier sadism kink, and its living proof is Tsukishima Kei.

You know this to be a fact because 1) aside from his bachelor of science in anthropology, he’s pursuing a PhD in sarcasm and uses his learnings primarily to eviscerate your self-esteem, 2) The Umbrella Academy doesn’t come out with another season for another few months so your life choices have become the pinnacle of his entertainment, and 3) despite being your Bestie™ of twelve years, he still makes you beg for his benevolence, even if he does have the annoying habit of showing up when you need him most.

It’s deeply unfortunate that he’s all you’ve got, universe be damned.

“Name your price. Cake? Head? Money? C’mon, just tell me what you want!”

Tsukishima peers at you over his laptop with disdain, the blue glow of his pirated PDF of The Communist Manifesto reflected in his glasses as he squints at you. His lips are pursed in annoyance, face scrunched up as he seemingly contemplates whether to put himself out of his misery or squash you to little smithereens. “What I want is for you to go away.”

True love, honestly. The golden standard for kindness and affection. A picturesque image of camaraderie. Lo and behold, everyone, your best friend.

“Oh my god, Kei, please,” you whine, hands clasped together as you look up at him through batted lashes. He doesn’t even flinch, looking completely unimpressed—how pretentious of him. “I’ll literally pay you whatever you want.”

The blond rolls his eyes, looking back down at his laptop screen as he briskly retorts, “I’m not a prostitute, idiot. You can’t pay me to star in your stupid movie.”

He ignores the several judgmental stares that turn in your direction at his response. You, on the other hand, are praying the library’s studious occupants don’t assume you’re a pimp preying on broke college students.

In all honesty, you probably should’ve chosen a less populated spot than the library’s first floor seats in front of Crow’s Coffee, especially if you actually had any intentions to get work done. But with just a few months left until the end of second semester, you have way too many dining dollars left and not enough places to spend them; in this capitalist world, you refuse to let more money simply be pocketed by the greedy hands of the school. It’s how you managed to tempt Tsukishima out of the comfort of his apartment in the first place—with promises of free coffee and shortcake, courtesy of your four-star meal plan.

“Technically, that’s a pornstar,” Yamaguchi supplies unhelpfully from his spot buried amongst stacks of math and science textbooks. He’s the only one of you who’s effectively completing his assignments because he won’t pass his classes unless he’s in constant fight-or-flight mode (you thank every deity you can think of that you weren’t born to be a STEM girlie). “You know you’ve got the time to, Tsukki.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” he shrugs. You promptly deliver a swift kick to his shins. “Ow—well, now I really don’t want to.”

“Be honest, do you hate me?” you sniff dramatically, letting your head hit the table with a soft thud; Yamaguchi pats your head tantalizingly, as if you’re a fuckin’ child, and you want to scream at them both.

“Yes,” Tsukishima snorts, not even bothering to glance up. “It’s your own fault for being a film major.”

You shoot him a glare, but no threats come to mind because he’s sadly right.

Being a film major is basically being in a perpetual state of begging: begging your friends to star in your work, begging your professors for an extension because your lead decided to quit the night before shooting, and begging your parents for forgiveness because they didn’t send you to college to become a “professional movie watcher.”

Sure, you get to watch artsy film-bro movies for homework, but you also spend half your time pulling all-nighters to finish scripts and survive solely off a diet of Shin Ramyun and its complimentary mushroom flakes. Tsukishima likes to tell you how you reek of constant desperation; you concur because no one has a real penchant for the arts these days. In a world where everyone dreams of being the next Spielberg, nothing is truly original, and you’re just barely holding on with the kind of boundless optimism that can only be fueled by sheer willpower.

So here you are, offering bribes of cake, coffee, and cold hard cash, trying to convince your best friend—who has the emotional range of a teaspoon and the patience of a sleep-deprived toddler—to star in your magnum opus so you can pass the semester. You’d ask Yamaguchi, but he’s got civil engineering exams and an actual promising future to worry about. Meanwhile, your future, desperation and all, hinges on whether Tsukishima will stop being a pain in the ass for ten minutes and agree to be your leading man.

Luckily, because you’ve been #pairbonded for twelve years, you know exactly what buttons to push. You let out a sorrowful sigh, before loudly declaring, “Fine. I’ll just ask Shoyo then.”

That does it. Tsukishima’s jaw twitches, his fingers pausing over the keyboard; you know him too well because the mere thought of the red-head starring in your movie is enough to make Tsukishima reconsider his stance. You never did understand their beef, but Yamaguchi tells you that they’re just inverse idiots, which seems pretty likely considering they’re actually both easily provoked and highly competitive. He looks up from his laptop, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Absolutely not,” he says flatly, closing the lid of his computer with a decisive click.

Yamaguchi snickers, clearly sensing victory in the air. You, on the other hand, suppress your triumphant smile and put on your best wounded-puppy look. “But he’s so eager to help,” you say, your voice dripping with faux innocence. “He’ll do anything for me.”

There’s a moment of silence as Tsukishima contemplates this. His fingers drum lightly on the table, a sign that he’s weighing his options. And then finally, he lets out a long, suffering exhale, head rolled back in exasperation. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I swear to God, if this film ruins my life, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“You already hold me personally responsible for most things,” you chirp, practically beaming with delight. “But thank you, Kei! You’re the best.”

Yamaguchi looks up from his mountain of textbooks with a bemused smile. “That was a quick turnaround. You’re like a married couple.”

“Only in spirit, ‘Dashi,” you purr, blowing him a playful kiss. The freckled boy pretends to catch your kiss and presses it to his cheek in a dramatic gesture; no wonder he’s your favorite. He really is such a sweetie.

“Stop encouraging her,” Tsukishima groans, pushing himself up from the table. “And stop saying things like that. People might believe you.”

“Wow, not you denying our love,” you scoff, sticking your tongue out at him. “I want a divorce.”

The blond ignores your threat. “I need air. Bye, Tadashi.”

He gives you an unimpressed but telling look, so you roll your eyes and promptly start packing up your things, shoving notebooks and pens into your bag haphazardly. The last things you do are run over to give your beloved ‘Dashi a light squeeze goodbye, swipe your laptop and Owala into your arms (because you are a broke college student who cannot afford to get a new laptop and your New Years’ Resolution is to be more hydrated), and skip to catch up with your friend, already halfway out the door. The evening air is a refreshing change from the stuffy library you’ve been in for hours; you’re sure if you had any free hands right now you’d bend over and grab a handful of grass, just for the sake of it.

‘Tis is the life of a film major, you guess. You’re bitchless with a capital ‘B’ and spend the other half of your time with your equally bitchless friends. And all they do is abuse your dining dollars and mock your miseries in life, so honestly, it’s a good thing you’re in school to write and produce rom coms. You can live vicariously through them, at least.

But whatever. Pathetic love life aside, right now, Kei has agreed, and you’re already one step closer to a successful final project.

two.

The walk home with Tsukishima is as comfortable as ever, the silence between you two punctuated by the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes and the distant hum of campus life winding down for the night. He doesn’t pull his headphones on, but he also doesn’t start up a conversation; being alone with him is simply being able to exist.

He’s walked you home everyday since the beginning of middle school, when his mom found out he hadn’t waited that day and you had walked home alone in the dark. From your bedroom window in the house next door, directly mirroring his, you had overhead her lecturing both him and Akiteru about the importance of manners—and to Kei’s credit, he’s dutifully picked you up after your classes and chores ever since, even if he grumbles the whole way home. For some reason, this habit carried over when you, him, and Tadashi committed to the same university, even if it meant standing outside a frat house at two in the morning because you got too fucked up to walk home on your own. You puked out half your stomach on his sweatpants, and he’d made you do his laundry for a month as punishment, but he still waits patiently at the café by frat row every time you get coerced to go out by your roommates.

As you reach your dorm building, Tsukishima steps aside, holding the door open for you; you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Such a gentleman, Kei. What would I do without you?”

He smirks, letting the door swing closed behind him as you head towards the elevator. “Probably get kidnapped or something. You’re too trusting.”

“The only person I’d let kidnap me,” you say dreamily, pressing the button for your floor with a dramatic swoop. “is Oikawa.”

You’re only half joking because Oikawa Tooru, the president of Sigma Epsilon Iota (SEI), is in fact extremely pretty and volunteered to be in your film last semester. You later found out that it was because he’s an astronomy major and thus felt compelled to star in your movie (which, yes, was titled Stars); he convinced you to spend many extra weeks in After Effects making sure the sky imagery looked ‘as perfect as him.’ He’d actually been a really good sport about learning his lines and cues, but you’re pretty sure neither you nor your 2014 Macbook Air would survive that experience again.

“Right, fall for the guy who does keg stands at every party,” he drawls, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Smart.”

You huff and stick your tongue out at him, earning yourself a half-shrug and an amused snort. The elevator ride is brief, and soon you’re at your door, fumbling with your keys; as always, Tsukishima stops and stands to the side, waiting for you to invite him in, because again, manners. You turn to him with a playful grin. “You know, you don’t have to stand there like a sentinel every time. You can come in.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

You laugh, pushing the door open and gesturing dramatically. “Oh, please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

Not that you had to tell him that. He slouched past you and kicked off his shoes as soon as you gave him the cue. He’s honestly just as relaxed here as in his own studio, already stretching and making himself comfortable on the couch with your favorite decorative pillow tucked under his head.

You two have settled into a pretty comfortable routine. It’s a Friday night, so chances are that he’ll yank out his phone, scroll through his email. You’ll put something on the TV and he’ll critique it through mouthfuls of popcorn, only to have it ruin his appetite for whatever you end up ordering for dinner; later, if he’s tired enough, he’ll give up on the thirty minute drive home and collapse next to you in your Twin XL. It’s a mess of limbs and limited space, but you two manage—you always have. Your suitemates, Yukie and Kaori, have already texted that they’re bringing home Chinese takeout for four, so you decide against your usual snacks because your twig of a best friend needs actual sustenance.

Swinging by your room to drop off your bag and laptop, you take a pit stop in the kitchen on the way back to pluck two bottles of soju from the fridge. You toss him one; he catches it neatly and observes the flavor with scrutiny.

“You hate strawberry,” he points out. “Why are you drinking this?”

You shrug, walking over to plop down on the couch by him. “Because it’s your favorite.”

His head is right up against your thigh because he’s too tall to fit on your shitty university furniture, even with his legs half-dangling off the armrest. You click through Netflix, nursing your drink with a slight pout until you make the executive decision to put on The Bachelor.

“Trying to prove you can love both me and Oikawa at the same time?” Tsukishima comments, watching the screen as he pops open the cap of his bottle. He’s referring to Ben telling both Lauren and JoJo he loved them in season 20; you lowkey love the series and he highkey loves the drama. There’s just something about people finding their supposed soulmates after knowing each other for like a month that really makes life entertaining.

“Don’t ever compare me to Ben,” you frown, because you think he was a massive asshole for doing that to JoJo and then not even picking her in the end. These bitches really be throwing each other under the bus. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You just bribed me with strawberry soju.”

“It’s not bribery if it’s out of love. Plus, I can tolerate it for one night,” you roll your eyes, taking a sip of the drink. “So, you wanna know what the film’s about or not?”

He looks at you over the rim of his bottle, eyebrow raised. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” you grin, patting his head affectionately. “Okay, so, the film. It’s a romantic short about the progression of a college relationship. Like, from the first meeting to the final stages of being together. It’s dreamy, very aesthetic—y’know, all those soft hues and hazy shots. A smoking scene thrown in there somewhere.”

“Sounds like every other indie film ever made.”

“Shut up. This one’s different,” you insist, lightly tugging on a strand of his hair. “It’s got a great cast—Yachi’s playing the female lead.”

He nods, seemingly interested. “Yachi, huh? What’s my role, then?”

“The male lead, obviously,” you say, not even bothering to look away from the screen. The opening credits have just finished and you’re instantly sucked into the magical world of Malta; God, what you would do to be there right now instead of in your overpriced residence complex.

“Oh, great. Falling in love. My specialty,” he deadpans, taking another swig of his drink. “What do I have to do?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Learn the lines, cues, whatever. Yachi said she’s free tomorrow, so maybe we can get coffee with her in the afternoon and run through the working script?”

Tsukishima groans. “We already have to get started?”

“Yeah, there’s a lot to do,” you retort, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. He frowns up at you disapprovingly, and you mockingly frown back. “Get over it. You’re my main star.”

He shakes his head as you both watch the girls line up in knight costumes to compete in the episode’s extra-time competition. Modern television is truly unreal. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me.”

You flick your eyes from the TV to him, gauging his reaction. He’s rolling his eyes, of course, but the small smile and faint blush creeping up his cheeks tells you everything you need to know.

three.

The prior night, your suitemates eventually came home with the promised takeout; Kaori even brought home boba orders courtesy of her friend Bokuto closing shift at the campus Broba Tea, so it’s safe to say you have the best roommates ever.

Turnabout is fair play, so you and Tsukishima agreed to clean up—therefore, even after your suitemates retreated to their rooms, you two lingered behind in the living room, sorting away recyclables and compost into their respective places and watching your favorites get eliminated. Friday nights like this are nice: just you and your best friend, making three-pointers with empty soju bottles into the blue plastic bin. Even after you finished the season’s finale, you put on some nature documentary (courtesy of his Disney+ subscription, which he exclusively uses for National Geographic like a fuckin’ weirdo) and argued about which ugly fish looked more like each other the whole hour and forty minutes. You must’ve crashed no earlier than one A.M., but the specifics are hazy: you don’t actually remember falling asleep.

So the miserable blaring from your phone right now is truly, in short, cruel. Apparently, you forgot to turn off your alarm for your usual Friday 11 A.M. lecture last night, because you’re currently being rudely awoken at a completely unnecessary time on a Saturday morning. Groaning, you slap around the bed until your fingers find your phone, silencing the alarm. As you roll over, you find yourself face-to-face with Tsukishima, who’s occupying the other half of your twin XL bed, looking every bit as disgruntled as you feel. His hair is a mess, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from your pillowcase; his arm is slung loosely over your waist as he grumbles and tries to hide his face from the light. He must’ve carried you to your bed after you dozed off on the couch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse with sleep. “Why do you set alarms on days you don’t have class?”

“I forgot to turn it off,” you mumble back, burying your face in your pillow. “Sorry for waking you up.”

He sighs, rolling over onto his side and squinting at you as he makes out the hazy figure of your silhouette through his shitty impaired vision. “Move over. Your greedy ass is hogging all the space.”

Ah yes. Truly, a dreamboat. You roll your eyes, but scooch closer to the wall nonetheless; his grip tightens slightly around the curve of your back as you make space, and you can’t help but smile into your pillowcase. Despite his grumpy demeanor, there’s a warmth to his presence that you’ve grown to appreciate over time.

“Better?” you ask, your voice muffled by your cotton pillow.

“A little,” he grumbles. He shifts closer, his body warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your pajamas.

You lay there in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the quiet sounds of the morning outside and the soft rhythm of his breathing. Your head kinda hurts; you haven’t woken up this early on a Saturday in forever. Maybe in another life, you’re born as one of those matcha latte girls who get up at 6A.M. for a run and have their lives sorted out by noon, but in this one, you love procrastinating and Netflix far too much to have yourself in order like that. Truly, you run off caffeine and spite and Google Calendar reminders—and as if on cue, your phone buzzes with a reminder about the meeting with Yachi.

Tsukishima, recognizing the sound of the notification, leans over and hands you the device to read, giving you a minute before he asks, his voice soft to match the stillness of the room, “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Crow’s with Yachi at one,” you murmur back. Normally, you’d be giddy to meet with your beloved angel of a friend (you would literally give Yachi your whole life), but truthfully, you don’t really want to get out of bed. Kei’s fingers, lightly tracing patterns on your back as he processes the information, feel so comforting and warm. You’re tempted to cancel and spend the day here, in bed, with him, but you know just as well as he does that you can’t.

“Right,” Tsukishima sighs. “Guess we should get up soon, then.”

“Mmm, in a bit,” you reply, savoring the warmth of the moment. “Just a few more minutes.”

He doesn’t argue, instead allowing the silence to stretch on comfortably. But eventually, it does slow. “We should get going, or we’ll end up being late,” he says, though he makes no move to get up.

You groan in response, but you know he’s right.

“Fine,” you mumble, reluctantly sitting up. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, and you glance over at Tsukishima, who’s also making an effort to get up; he grabs his glasses, neatly folded on your nightstand, and puts them on, blinking back into consciousness. He looks far too composed for someone who’s just gotten up, but of course he would be.

What a lovely, familiar sight. You hope this, these Saturday mornings with him, never end.

***

The campus is slowly waking up, students milling about, heading to the library or the better of the two dining halls, the one that serves freshly-made waffles on Saturdays. The other one only serves the world’s runniest scrambled eggs that’s held together with the most plasticky cheese, so even if it’s a ten minute walk further, it’s worth it.

You secure a table near the window; the dining hall overlooks the square and you like watching the way people narrowly dodge the campus seal. It’s a superstition that you won’t graduate if you step on it—and especially now, in the second semester when everyone gets pretty desperate, you gotta respect the grind. Tsukishima has already gone to order at the counter with your dining card, so you’re left alone to ponder about your impending project; you go over the working script in your head, running the lines and dialogue over and over.

Your thoughts are interrupted when he returns with a tray loaded with waffles, two matching cups of coffee, and an extra serving of fruit for you—because he claims you need to eat healthier. You think he should eat more, period, but whatever.

“Wow, I’m impressed. Fruit? Did you find it hard to carry all this food without your arms falling off?” you tease, as he takes his seat across from you.

He rolls his eyes, picking up his fork. “Someone has to make sure you get at least one vitamin today.”

You stick your tongue out at him and dig into your waffles because you never wake up early enough on a Saturday to actually have them often.

“When we finish eating, I need to go back and get my laptop,” you announce over a mouthful of waffle, ignoring the disgusted look Tsukishima gives you. “And then we’ll head to the library.”

“I am begging you to chew with your mouth shut,” he groans, throwing a well-aimed napkin at your face. You catch it with a dramatic flourish and quickly dab at your mouth, before you ball it and toss the napkin back at him; he ducks violently, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. You fight the urge to laugh at him and instead stab your fork into a piece of cantaloupe.

“You need to eat,” you declare, promptly sticking the fruit in his direction.

His eyebrows arch slightly as he glares at the fork held out toward him, but after a beat of silence, he leans forward and bites off the melon with a grumble. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” you beam, popping a grape into your own mouth. “So, Crow’s at one. We can read for like, an hour? And then you’re free to go home and do whatever you do.”

“Study.”

“So boring,” you sigh. “Don’t you have any friends, Kei?”

He scoffs, sawing off another meticulous square of waffle. “I have you. That’s enough socializing for a lifetime.”

“Lucky me, I guess,” you roll your eyes.

He smirks in response, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, lucky you.”

four.

After breakfast, you head back to your dorm to grab your things. Tsukishima scrolls through his phone, making an occasional snide comment about whatever nonsense he comes across on Twitter. You pack your bag with your notebook, laptop, and a few pens—desperation fuels organization, and you can’t afford to leave anything behind.

The walk to the library is filled with light-hearted banter, and soon enough, you spot Yachi waving at you from a corner table. She’s already got her laptop out, a notebook filled with neat handwriting open next to her, and you skip up to the table.

“Hi baby girl,” you coo lovingly as you give your friend a hug. Tsukishima gives Yachi a polite nod before sliding into the seat across from her, leaving you to fill the middle one. “Thanks for meeting us before your shift.”

“Of course! I’m really excited about this project,” Yachi beams, her cheeks slightly pink from your affectionate greeting. “I’ve been reading over the script and it’s just so lovely. I can’t wait to get started.”

And this, everyone, is why you adore Yachi Hitoka with your whole heart. You would actually dropkick your best friend off the face of the earth for her, and that is not an exaggeration.

Tsukishima sighs, reaching into your bag to pull out your laptop; he settles it on the desk and pries it open for you. “Let’s get started.”

His impatience makes you roll your eyes, but nonetheless, you click to the latest draft of the script and slide it over for your Blondes™ to see. “Here’s what I’ve got so far,” you say, pointing at the section still titled SCENE 1 DARFGT :P from when you wrote the first six pages over the course of an all-nighter. “The first scene sets the tone for our whole film, and I’m thinking of having it outside the library, so get used to this café.”

“As if we don’t already spend half our time here,” Tsukishima deadpans, but he leans closer to the screen anyway. You watch the way both of them take in the script, their gazes fixed on the document as they read through the lines.

He looks visibly relieved as he scrolls through the very short document; it’s a mess of director and action notes because you have a very specific vision in your head that you want to execute. “It doesn’t have much dialogue because I want it to be focused on the little details that show your initial connection,” you say as they near the end of the script. “Y’know, body language. The way you look at each other. Your expressions.”

Momentarily, you pause to read their reactions; you’re minorly concerned because acting is actually the hardest part of the job, even if memorizing dialogue does suck. Thankfully, Yachi’s eyes visibly light up, and she chirps cheerily, “I love that! It feels very natural and genuine; I think that’s beautiful.”

Her reassurance makes you kick your feet like Sofia the First because she says it in a way that feels completely real.

Tsukishima, on the other hand, does not acknowledge this statement: he’s too busy raising his stupid eyebrow and smirking as he reads scene four. He drags his finger over the screen, where the line reads Interior - Dorm Room - Night. “Okay, first of all, very original,” he snorts. “But second, you volunteered my place without asking me? How very presumptuous of you.”

“Well, I have roommates,” you say, really emphasizing that last word because you want him to feel as stupid as he looks smirking like that (he looks very annoyingly pretty with his cat-like simper). You know he doesn’t actually care about the usage of his studio: he just loves seizing the opportunity to mock you.

Your internal irritation clearly goes ignored by him, because he just grins as he continues to blissfully dissect your script. “And ‘they kiss passionately’? Really going for the heartstrings, aren’t you?”

“It’s called intimacy, Kei. It’s a crucial part of developing the relationship on screen.”

Yachi, ever the peacekeeper, nods eagerly. “I think it’s really sweet. It’s important to show the depth of their connection. The close-ups will make it feel very personal.”

“Sure, whatever you say,” Tsukishima says, raising an eyebrow, his expression still amused. He gestures to the next few pages—blank sans the text DJEJSJSJDJ PAIN, because again, you spend a lot of time writing during deranged all-nighters. “But what’s with the cut to black right after? Did you run out of ideas?”

You bite your lip. “I haven’t finished the ending yet. I want to see how you two portray the characters and their chemistry before I decide how it concludes. It’s not just about the script; it’s about the emotions you both bring to the roles.”

“You mean you’re winging it.”

“Creatively winging it, yes,” you roll your eyes. “It’s a work in progress, and I trust you two to help bring it to life.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But if I have to make out with Yachi and you cut it short, I’m going to hold it against you.”

Yachi blushes, but she’s smiling too. “I’m sure it’ll be great. We can practice and make sure it looks natural.”

“Thanks, guys,” you beam at them both, grateful for their willingness to dive into your project.

As antsy as you were, the film’s got a lot going for it—Yachi is a sweet, earnest cutie pie and Tsukishima is… well, him, so their contrast will hopefully make for compelling cinema. And the word compelling is honestly enough—those three syllables are truly music to a film major’s ears.

***

By the time you finish at Crow’s, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the campus. Tsukishima predictably gets ready to walk you home; he shoves his hand in his jacket’s pocket and tries to look nonchalant, so obviously you tell him he looks stupid, to which he promptly flips you off. Rude. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate honesty.

Yachi’s already headed off to her shift at the café, so you two are left alone, navigating past other tables to the library doors. The evening air is cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowded café; you walk in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and the distant chatter of other students.

He walks you to your gate, and you’re honestly about to just head inside, but you pause in your tracks because he deserves to hear it twice.

“Kei,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “Thanks again. It really means a lot to me.”

He looks at you, his expression unreadable. “I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

You blink up at him, momentarily thrown off by his directness. Tsukishima isn’t the type to say things he doesn’t mean—he’s never been one for flattery or unnecessary kindness. And yet, there’s something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, that makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.

Tsukishima Kei cares about you. No matter how much he pretends otherwise, you know he’ll be there for you when you need it most. If twelve years have taught you anything, it’s that he’ll do it reluctantly, begrudgingly, but he’ll be there for you.

He always has.

five.

The first day of filming is, somehow, going smoothly.

You’re not sure if you should be suspicious of this. Typically, film shoots involve at least three things going horribly wrong within the first twenty minutes. A mic cutting out. A location suddenly getting overrun with people. A key actor arriving late because they forgot their costume at home.

But today? Today, things are working. The morning light is perfect, the sound equipment is cooperating, and most importantly, Tsukishima and Yachi are actually… really good together.

Which is a huge relief, because you were honestly half-convinced you’d have to wrangle the emotional chemistry out of Tsukishima with sheer force. But watching them run through the first scene on the bench outside the library, you realize you don’t have to do much at all.

He’s relaxed, leaning back with an elbow draped over the back of the bench, his eyes sharp and calculating as Yachi speaks; she’s perfect for the blushing, hesitant-but-artistic old soul character you want to portray and he takes to his role just as quickly. There’s something natural about the way they interact—the slight hesitations, the way he looks at her before speaking, the subtle smirk that plays at his lips when she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear.

It’s not forced. It’s not awkward. It’s just real.

You bite your lip, watching through the camera screen as Yachi delivers her next line, her voice soft, a little unsure. Tsukishima’s response is barely above a murmur, but it carries, even in the open air. The way he’s looking at her—that’s what makes it work. It’s the kind of gaze that makes people believe in love stories.

Holy shit. This might actually be good.

“Cut!” you call, your voice a little breathless as you lower the camera. Yachi blinks up at you, a little startled, before breaking into a smile.

“Was that okay?” she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.

“More than okay,” you say, grinning as you step over to them. “You guys are killing it.”

Yachi lets out a relieved laugh, cheeks pink. “Oh, thank god. I was worried I looked weird.”

“Nope. You look like the perfect indie film love interest.” You pat her on the shoulder before glancing at Tsukishima, who raises an eyebrow at you.

“What?” he drawls.

“You’re actually trying.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, because I’m not going to embarrass myself on camera.”

“Right,” you deadpan, smirking. “Nothing to do with the fact that you two have, like, the easiest natural chemistry I’ve ever seen.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but you catch the way his jaw ticks slightly before he stands up, stretching. “Are we done here? Or are you going to keep talking?”

Impatient idiot. You snort and go to collect your camera and sound system, and together, you all head off to film scene two.

***

The second scene of the day takes place in the small, naturally-lit art studio on campus. It’s not often used, especially not on the weekends, now that the university’s built the big fancy modern art building in the north campus, but it’s perfect for this scene. You wanted something intimate, somewhere that made the world feel smaller, quieter, to parallel the deep intimacy of a relationship (wow, look at you talking like a true film bro). A space where the characters could be alone, even if they weren’t saying much.

Tsukishima sits at the table, his hands idly flipping through a sketchbook that’s just a prop, though you think it suits him weirdly well. Yachi’s holding a paintbrush, standing near the window, looking at a half-finished canvas, the soft glow from outside catching the strands of her blonde hair just right.

“Alright,” you say, stepping back behind the camera. “Tsukishima, this scene is mostly you watching her. Yachi, I want you to look like you’re lost in thought. You’re thinking about something big, but you’re not sure if you want to say it.”

Yachi nods, exhaling as she settles into place. Tsukishima just leans on his elbow, glancing at her through his glasses, waiting.

You call action. And for a moment, the room changes. It’s not just a studio anymore. It’s a quiet, suspended moment in time.

Tsukishima watches Yachi, and you can’t look away. The way his gaze lingers, not quite analyzing, not quite soft, but something in between. The way Yachi’s fingers trace the edge of the painting, distracted, unaware of the way he’s looking at her. The way they look so perfectly together, like halves of a whole, like something that’s meant to be.

It’s... breathtaking.

You swallow, suddenly feeling warm.

They’re good. Too good.

“Cut,” you say softly, your own voice sounding a little distant.

Tsukishima looks up at you immediately, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s searching for something in your expression. Yachi, however, simply exhales a breath of relief, breaking into a small laugh. “That felt really real,” she says, beaming.

“It was really real,” you admit, trying to shake the weird feeling creeping up your spine.

Wow, honestly. They must be some of the best actors you’ve ever met. If you didn’t know better, you would think they were actually in love.

six.

The blinking cursor on your laptop is mocking you.

It’s a tiny, relentless metronome ticking away the seconds, reminding you of your failure to move forward. You glare at the half-finished sentence on the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing your brain to conjure anything—literally anything—that makes sense.

You had an ending in mind—of course you did. The perfect, soft, cinematic conclusion to your film. A final shot drenched in golden light, delicate and lingering, like a whisper against a bruise. The kind of scene that settles into the chest like an old song or a half-remembered dream, stirring something deep and unshakable. The culmination of all those quiet, electric moments between your leads, woven together into something fragile and honest.

Except every single draft you’ve attempted so far? Complete garbage.

You groan and throw yourself back against your chair, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. Why does this feel impossible? You should’ve known writing the ending would be the hardest part. You’re always better at beginnings—openings are easy. Openings are full of possibilities. But endings?

Endings mean making a choice.

And right now, you have no fucking idea what choice to make.

As if on cue, summoned by your misery, your door swings open without warning, and Yukie strides in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she practically does—she and Kaori have an open invitation to barge in at any time, and they use that privilege liberally.

“Please tell me you’re taking a break from that thing,” she says, nodding toward your laptop as she flops onto your bed. “You’ve been staring at it like it’s personally offended you.”

“It has personally offended me,” you mutter back, head caught between your hands, visibly in distress. “I’ve rewritten it like five times, and it still feels wrong.”

Yukie hums, but her attention drifts toward your open script document, skimming the words with the sharp, practiced gaze of someone who enjoys knowing things before you tell her. A beat later, her eyebrows shoot up.

“I still can’t believe you’re letting Yachi and Tsukishima film together,” she says, lips curving in a smirk.

You glance at her, confused. “Uh, yeah? They’re the leads? Kind of an important part of the whole thing?”

She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, expression downright mischievous. “No, I mean… you don’t think it’s a little risky?”

You blink. “Risky how? Like existentially?”

Yukie snorts. “No, dumbass. I mean, don’t you think it’s easy for co-stars to catch feelings for each other? Like hello? Zendaya and Tom Holland broke the Spiderman-MJ curse cause of it.”

“Oh c’mon,” you scoff immediately. “Kei and Yachi? Please. He’s the human equivalent of a hazard sign, and she’s literally an angel.”

“And opposites attract,” Yukie sing-songs, wiggling her eyebrows like she’s just cracked some grand conspiracy.

“Not like that. It’s literally just acting.”

Yukie tilts her head, looking entirely too entertained by your dismissiveness. “You say that, but it’s not uncommon. You spend enough time pretending to love someone, and eventually, it stops feeling like pretending.”

You open your mouth to retort—but for some reason, your brain short-circuits. The words are there. They’re on the tip of your tongue. But they won’t come out. Because now you’re thinking about it.

Tsukishima and Yachi. Together.

It’s ridiculous, obviously. Tsukishima is sarcastic and emotionally constipated, and Yachi is sweet and nervous and actually respects people’s feelings. They make sense on screen, sure—chemistry is chemistry, and that’s what acting is for. But in real life? You can’t even picture it. Matter-of-fact, you shouldn’t even be picturing it.

And yet, something uneasy churns in your stomach, and you shift in your seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in your own skin. No, this is stupid. You’re overthinking. Yukie’s just stirring up unnecessary drama because that’s what she does when she’s bored.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice forcibly even. “They’re just acting. Besides, you really think Tsukishima of all people would catch feelings for someone just because of a film?”

“Mmm.” Yukie hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “You say that, but you’re weirdly defensive about it.”

“I’m not defensive,” you snap, too fast, too sharp. A mistake.

Yukie’s smirk deepens, and you hate her for it. She swings her legs off the bed, stretching like a cat. “When you’re done pretending you’re not in denial, dinner’s ready,” she chirps, sauntering toward the door.

You roll your eyes. Classic Yukie. Your roommates are simultaneously your greatest strength and your worst influence; they know you inside and out, and unfortunately, that means they never let you run from your own feelings. They’ve been convinced for years that you’re in love with your best friend, which is laughable. Delusional, even.

And yet.

The thought lingers longer than it should, trailing after you like a shadow as you trudge to set for the first day of filming.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity when you glance Tsukishima’s way. Just morbid fascination when you catch the way his gaze lingers on Yachi between takes. Just professional interest when you watch how his sharp, unimpressed scowl softens—barely, just a fraction—when she nervously stumbles over a line, and he mutters a quiet correction, his voice steadier than you expect.

It’s just good acting, you reason. Nothing more.

Because Tsukishima is your best friend. And that’s all he’s ever been, all he’s ever going to be. You tell yourself that, over and over and over again, trying to make it feel like the truth. But for some reason, despite all your effort, it doesn’t, and it bothers you in a way that it wouldn’t bother friends that are purely just platonic.

seven.

“You look like shit.”

You rub your eyes, very conscious of the fact that you’re sporting dark eye bags and a goofy-ass fit. Your hoodie is three sizes too big, your sweatpants have a suspicious stain on them from an unknown source, and your hair looks… actually, you don’t even want to talk about it because it really is that bad. You blink up at Tsukishima, who has somehow managed to find you after your afternoon lecture, looking disgustingly well-rested and put-together as always.

“Thanks,” you deadpan, shouldering your bag. “Great to see you too, Kei.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes but doesn’t move out of your way. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that keen, observational gaze of his. “Seriously. Are you okay?”

You pause, thrown off by his genuine concern—normally, he’d just mock you and move on, but there’s a sharpness to his tone today, like he actually cares. Maybe it’s because you’ve barely been outside in the last few days, much less seen him and Yamaguchi. Now that you’ve made it through over half of the film’s scenes, you’ve already started editing it together (arguably the worst part of being a self-produced film student: the excessive time spent with Adobe Creative Cloud). You hesitate, then sigh. “Just tired. I’ve been working nonstop, and I still haven’t figured out the ending.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“I thrive under pressure.”

“You thrive off caffeine and bad decisions.”

“Same thing,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

Tsukishima doesn’t look convinced, but instead of pressing further, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys, holding them up with a lazy shake. “C’mon.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“You clearly need a break. Let’s go.”

You frown at him, confused. “Go where?”

“Does it matter?” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “I swear to god, if you go back to your dorm and stare at your screen for another five hours, you’re gonna lose whatever brain cells you have left.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you know he’s right. Your brain is fried, your eyes are starting to blur from staring at a screen all night, and you could really use some air. So, with a dramatic groan, you give in. “Fine. But if you take me somewhere boring, I’m jumping out of the car.”

“Noted,” he says dryly, shoving his keys back in his pocket before turning on his heel. “Now move it.”

***

The drive is familiar, comfortable. You don’t even ask where he’s taking you because, honestly, he’s right: it doesn’t matter. Being in his car like this feels natural, like muscle memory.

You remember when he first got his license, the first of you three to do so. Akiteru had gifted him a car to use once he did, an old but functional, clean and simple one, much like him. At the time, it had felt like the biggest deal—suddenly, Tsukishima had a ticket to freedom, and by extension, so did you and Yamaguchi.

You can still picture those early drives vividly: the three of you packed into the car, Yamaguchi in the passenger seat nervously checking the map while you sprawled in the back, shouting ridiculous directions just to mess with Tsukishima. He always acted like he hated it, threatening to pull over and leave you on the curb, but he never actually did.

There were the late-night drives to nowhere, just because none of you wanted to go home yet. The ice cream runs in the middle of winter, sitting in the parking lot with the heater cranked up as you argued over movie rankings. The way Tsukishima always kept one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the volume knob, adjusting it up or down depending on whether he was feeling indulgent or annoyed by whatever you were blasting through the speakers.

You remember one time, when a storm had rolled in suddenly and you got caught out in the rain on the way back from a late study session; he’d picked you up after you spam-called him seven times. Tsukishima pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the wipers barely keeping up with the downpour, but for some reason, instead of rushing out of the storm into your apartment, you’d just sat there for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain against the car roof. He hadn’t told you to get out, hadn’t asked why you were lingering. He just turned up the music, leaned back, and let you stay.

The cityscape blurs past the windows as the car hums beneath you, the low rumble of the engine mixing with the sound of the playlist Tsukishima has quietly playing in the background. You recognize the song instantly—it’s from one of your old shared playlists, one you made together back in your first year of high school.

You glance at him, but he keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gearshift. His sweater is vintage, made of a gorgeous dark green wool that you had been ecstatic to find when you first took him to your favorite thrift store back home; it looks good contrasted with his blond hair and fair skin. His usual stoic expression is softer in the evening glow, illuminated by the street lamps lining the road.

God. Have his eyes always been able to capture the city lights like that?

***

Tsukishima drives for what feels like forever, but when he finally pulls over, it’s basically where you started: an empty parking lot, outside of your favorite convenience store because they’re open late and always stock freshly-made to-go onigiri. It’s owned by a sweet old woman, so double points; you two have been coming here since the start of your freshman year.

He throws the car in park and gives you a look. “You coming?”

You sigh dramatically but unbuckle your seatbelt, stepping out into the cool night air. The store’s neon sign hums quietly, casting a soft glow over the pavement.

As soon as you step inside, the familiar scent of warm rice and miso greets you, and you immediately relax. Tsukishima heads straight for the onigiri section, while you linger near the drinks, debating between a matcha latte and a cappuccino.

“You’re getting the matcha,” Tsukishima calls over his shoulder, barely even looking up.

You roll your eyes but grab it anyway, because yeah, he’s right. You join him at the counter, where he’s already placed two onigiri on the register—one salmon, one tuna mayo.

“You know my order,” you say, amused.

He shrugs, handing over his card to pay before you can argue. “You never change it.”

The words are casual, offhanded, but something about them settles deep in your chest. You look at him, at the way he’s effortlessly familiar with your habits, your preferences, your life.

And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist.

eight.

You tear into your onigiri, letting the familiar taste of salmon and warm rice settle on your tongue. The quiet hum of the city surrounds you both as you sit on the hood of Tsukishima’s car, drinks resting beside you. The neon glow of the convenience store sign flickers in the periphery, casting long, gentle shadows over the pavement; the night is cool but not biting, the breeze rustling the stray napkins you’d forgotten beside you.

The conversation flows lazily, touching on everything and nothing at once—complaints about professors, Yamaguchi’s latest doomed tutoring attempts with Hinata, Tsukishima’s upcoming project on primate evolution that he absolutely does not care about. It’s easy, the way it always is, but there’s a weight pressing against your ribs, something you can’t quite name.

Then it slows. After a beat, you sigh, staring out at the dim glow of the streetlights. “I think I might change the ending.”

Tsukishima shifts beside you, glancing at you briefly before turning back toward the night sky. You don’t even have to specify: he knows what you’re talking about. “Yeah?”

“I wanted a happy one,” you admit, your fingers picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. “But I don’t know if it fits. Every version I write feels fake. Too neat. Too… easy.”

He’s quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip of his drink before shrugging. “Then don’t force it. If it’s not working, make it ambiguous.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” he argues, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “People like things that feel real. If you’re struggling this much, maybe that’s your answer.”

You chew on his words, considering. Maybe he’s right. Maybe an open-ended conclusion is the answer—letting things linger, unresolved but full of possibility. But something about that unsettles you, like leaving something unfinished, like waiting for something that never comes.

And then, it clicks: how to leave it ambiguous without being unfinished.

You exhale, pressing your phone’s power button and watching the screen light up, a blank notes app staring back at you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing, the inspiration finally clicking into place. You can already see the scene in your mind—the way the light will filter in, the subtle expressions, the carefully chosen silence between words.

Tsukishima watches you with mild amusement, his lips quirking up just slightly. “Are you seriously writing right now?”

“Shut up,” you mumble, furiously typing. “You said something smart for once, and now I have to take advantage of it.”

He snorts. “You wouldn’t survive without me.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know he’s right. The thought lingers, unspoken. How many times has he done this? Pulled you out of your own head before you spiraled, pushed you to do better, reminded you—without ever really saying it—that you aren’t alone?

The words on your screen blur slightly. Maybe it’s just the neon lights. Maybe it’s something else.

Then, softer, almost offhand, he says, “You know, if it’s really bothering you this much, maybe it’s because you want it to mean something.”

Your fingers still over your screen. The words sit heavy in the air, pressing down on you with a weight you can’t quite place. You look up at him, but he’s already turned back toward the city, his expression unreadable.

nine.

You think that you need a distraction. A long walk, or a snack, maybe. Or better yet, what you actually really want: a frontal lobotomy.

Instead, you have filming.

Which is, honestly, the opposite of helpful when your current goal is to shove all of your weird, unwelcome, inexplicable feelings into the deepest recesses of your mind. It’s awful, but now that you’ve started to see your best friend in a whole new light, it’s really all you can think about. Therefore, you cope as you always have: running from your problems. You’ve been distant the last few days. You’re responding less, cancelling on your weekly study sessions, sprinting out of your lectures before he can catch up to you. You’ve even been ghosting Yamaguchi out of proximity.

But you can’t do that today. Because today, you’re shooting one of the final sequences—the rooftop scene. The one drenched in soft intimacy, lingering glances, and unsaid words thickening the air between them. The one where Tsukishima and Yachi have to act like they exist in their own world, where nothing and no one else matters.

You try not to think about it too hard.

The rooftop set is perfect. The city sprawls beneath them, lights flickering like stars, a mirror to the actual night sky above. Yachi’s already in position, sitting at the edge, her posture relaxed but poised. Tsukishima is beside her, long legs stretched out, hands lazily resting on his lap. The camera is set up, framing them beautifully against the endless stretch of buildings and sky.

You call action, and for a while, it’s fine.

Yachi takes a slow drag of the cigarette (a prop one—she refuses to even come close to tainting her lungs), the smoke curling up between them. Her voice is soft, contemplative, as she delivers her lines. Tsukishima exhales smoke into the night, his face not particularly expressive but not detached. He’s… engaged. Focused. Too focused. There’s something in the way he looks at her that makes your chest tight, even though you know, know, it’s just acting.

Still, the words he says don’t feel like lines. Not when his voice dips just slightly, not when his eyes linger on her face.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone quieter than rehearsals, “but some moments leave imprints on our souls. They’ll last forever in our hearts.”

The air shifts.

Yachi leans her head on his shoulder. The city hums below them. The scene is exactly as you envisioned it, the kind of moment that pulls people in, that makes an audience believe.

And yet, it feels like you can’t breathe.

The worst part is that it isn’t even that bad—no, you get through the scene just fine. No one else notices the way your stomach churns, or the way your hands tighten around the back of the director’s chair. No one notices that the words aren’t just dialogue in your head anymore, that they feel… wrong, out of place, too much.

It isn’t until Tsukishima reaches out, without prompting, without direction, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of Yachi’s face that you realize you actually feel sick.

It’s not scripted.

The camera catches it perfectly, a soft, natural movement. The kind of instinctive touch that makes a scene feel real. Your breath stutters in your chest. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he leans in slightly, pressing the briefest kiss to her forehead before pulling back, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Not in the script.

Not in the goddamn script.

“Cut,” you say, too quickly, your voice tighter than you mean it to be. You clear your throat, forcing a neutral expression onto your face when both of them glance toward you. “That was—good. Really natural.”

Yachi beams, a little shy but pleased. “It felt nice, actually. He made it really easy to stay in the moment.”

You swallow down whatever the hell it is that rises up in you at that.

Tsukishima doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, sharp and unreadable.

Your fingers curl into your palm. “I think we’re done for tonight,” you announce, forcing a yawn into your voice like exhaustion is the reason you need to leave so badly. “I’ve got a migraine coming on, and we still have to film the passion scene this weekend.”

Yachi nods easily, already stretching out her legs, but Tsukishima’s expression darkens slightly.

“You sure?” he asks, low enough that only you hear it.

You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Just need sleep.”

He stands, brushing invisible dust from his jeans, and you know what’s coming before he even says it. “I’ll walk you back.”

“No!” you panic, waving your hands wildly. “Kaori’s picking me up.”

It’s a lie, an obvious one, but you don’t care. You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder before he can question it. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Then you leave, practically sprinting out, before he can say anything else. Before you have to deal with whatever the hell this is, whatever it means.

Because if you stop to think about it, even for a second, you’re pretty sure you’ll break.

ten.

Midway through your most recent homework assignment (dissecting the art behind the glorious film Cars—the best Disney movie out there, fight with the wall), your phone vibrates against your nightstand. The screen flashes the text message that’s popped up, but you don’t even need to check to know who it is: it’s a notification that you already know you don’t want to see.

(11:12 PM) kei :P: are you avoiding me?

You stare at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard, your mind spinning with an answer that won’t sound like a complete lie. The problem is, you are avoiding him. You’ve been practically stonewalling him, dashing away inconspicuously whenever you know he’ll be nearby, and it’s getting obvious. He knows it. There’s no use pretending otherwise, but the idea of confronting it—confronting him—makes something anxious curl in your gut.

You sigh, flopping onto your bed, one arm draped over your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. Your fingers type out a response before you can overthink it.

(11:15 PM) y/n: no? y/n: i’m j busy lately u know that

The three dots appear, then disappear. Reappear, then disappear again. He’s debating his response, and for some reason, that is terrifying. Then it buzzes.

(11:21 PM) kei :P: right.

It’s short. Barely anything at all. But you know him, and you know exactly what that one-word response means. He doesn’t believe you. He’s letting it go for now, but he isn’t letting it go entirely. The thought unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Your room feels suffocating suddenly, like it’s pressing in on you. You glance around, searching for something—anything—to keep your mind occupied, but all you find are pieces of him.

Tsukishima had helped you move in, so he has a fundamental part in the whole place already, but when you look even closer, he’s really in the details. There’s the framed picture on your desk from your high school graduation, his hand resting lazily on your shoulder as Yamaguchi beams from besides you. There’s a hoodie draped over your desk chair, long since stolen from his closet during a late night out that never got returned. There’s a battered copy of Normal People by Sally Rooney tucked into your bookshelf, its pages creased and worn from the way he always mindlessly flipped through it when he came over.

It never seemed evident until now, when you’re trying so hard not to think about him, to not let him occupy a space that he’s so clearly always kept filled, but now that you see it, it’s simple: Kei has been a part of your life for as long as you can possibly remember. He’s always been there, from the very moment your family moved into the house next door to him when you were seven. He’s in your daily routine. If you turned on your phone right now, it’d open to a picture of you three; if you were to open Spotify, you’ll find your blend at the very top of your pinned playlists.

He’s everywhere. He’s everything. Tsukishima Kei is worn into your very bones, into every single cell, written into every little part of your being.

Your fingers tighten around your phone, and for a moment, you consider texting him back. Saying something real. Something honest.

Your gaze flickers to your desk, to the script sitting on top of a stack of notebooks. The ending you rewrote stares back at you, the words bold and final.

Scene 6 Exterior - Rooftop - Sunset Yachi returns to the rooftop, now alone. She sits on the edge, looking out at the city. The sun sets, casting a warm glow over everything. She takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling deeply. Cut to: Tsukishima, walking through the city streets, the sunset reflecting in his eyes. He pauses, looking up at the rooftop where Yachi is sitting. The screen fades to black. Text on screen: “We’ll be there at the end of the world, together as the stars go out.”

The moment your professor read it, she called it striking. Said it felt honest. That the ache in the words felt real, like someone had lived it.

But you didn’t just write it. You felt it.

Because if the world were ending, if the stars were truly burning out—there’s no question where you’d be. Who you’d be with.

And yet, here you are, running.

You inhale sharply, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.

With the weight of twelve years of friendship comes the obligation to not let it go to waste: you are terrified of what a confession could do. You can’t even imagine what a world without Kei looks like; you would honestly rather die than lose him. And well… admitting your feelings could very well mean losing him.

Then again, you could very well lose him too if you keep ignoring him and running away. You just need to come up with some way to either 1) get over your feelings, or 2) explain to your best friend that you’ve suddenly started having inexplicable dreams about him and feeling the urge to kiss him.

You mean, how hard could it really be?

eleven.

Evidently, very difficult.

You’re standing outside the door of Tsukishima’s flat for the first time in days, feeling like you might actually throw up. You have the horrible urge to cancel. Maybe you should turn around. Maybe you should fake food poisoning. Maybe you should suddenly develop an urgent need to flee the country.

But no. You can’t do that. This is your film, your project, your fucking grade on the line. You can’t just run away forever.

So you’re here. And you take a deep breath before you knock, because your heart is hammering like you just ran across campus, and it only picks up when the door swings open.

And then he’s there too—Tsukishima, standing in the doorway of his apartment, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His glasses slide down his nose just slightly, and for a second, he just looks at you, eyes scanning your face, your posture, like he’s already found something off about you.

“You’re early,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.

You nod, stepping over the threshold, hyperaware of the way the air inside feels different—warm, his, thick with something you don’t have the words for.

“Wanted to set up before Yachi gets here.” Your voice is steady, detached, the way it should be.

It’s not a lie, not entirely, but it’s not the truth either. The truth is sitting in the space between you, glaring and heavy, pressing in like the weight of an oncoming storm.

He hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. Tsukishima doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his gaze. His arms are crossed, his posture lazy, but there’s something pointed about the way he’s looking at you—sharp, analyzing, like he’s cataloging every tell, every avoidance, every reason why you’re standing here instead of texting some excuse from the safety of your dorm.

You drop your bag near the couch and move to set up your camera, your hands moving automatically as you avoid his gaze. The apartment smells like him—coffee and citrus, faintly like that stupid expensive detergent he swears isn’t a luxury purchase but definitely is. The scent is so him, so familiar, that it makes your stomach flip.

And then he speaks.

“What’s going on with you?”

You freeze.

It’s not accusatory, not sharp, just… careful. Measured. Like he’s trying to get an answer without pushing too hard. Which, honestly, is worse than if he had just called you out directly.

You force yourself to keep your hands steady, adjusting the camera’s angle. “Nothing. Just busy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”

Your stomach twists. The air in the room shifts, thickens.

He’s always been quick. Always been able to pick apart your bullshit before you even finish spinning it, before you can even convince yourself it’s real. And now, with those gold-flecked eyes trained on you, burning through every excuse you try to build between you… well, you’re drowning.

His voice is steady, but edged with something dangerous. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you think I haven’t noticed, you’re dumber than I thought.”

Your breath hitches in your chest.

For a second, you want to tell him. Everything. The thoughts, the jealousy, the confusion that’s been clawing at your throat for weeks. You hate that he knows you this well, that he can see through you so easily. You hate that he’s giving you that look, the one that says I’m waiting for the truth, waiting for you to finally be honest, and you hate, hate, that you don’t know what to say.

But then, the door swings open. Yachi steps in, breathless and smiling. “Sorry I’m late!”

The moment shatters.

You exhale, stepping back, forcing a smile as you greet her, ignoring the way Tsukishima is still watching you. He goes still, expression unreadable. And then—just like that—his face smooths out, his posture relaxes, his hands sink into his hoodie pocket like nothing happened at all.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Let’s start.”

If you want to make it through a whole scene of them making out for three minutes, you have to stop looking at your best friend. His amber eyes, under his layer of concern, confusion, and annoyance, are filled with hurt, and your stomach feels like it’s being ripped out, torn to fucking shreds, to see him like that.

So you avert your gaze, stubbornly keeping your eyes on Yachi and your camera, and set up to film the scene.

***

The camera is steady. Your breathing, however, is not.

The apartment is dimly lit, the soft hum of music playing through the speaker, some indie song with melancholic chords that you once added to the shared playlist, long before this—before all of this—became something unbearable. It filters into the space like a ghost of a memory, like something familiar that you can’t quite place.

Yachi sits on the edge of Tsukishima’s bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for direction, waiting for him. Tsukishima stands in front of her, tall and composed, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s testing the weight of the scene before stepping into it. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, his face unreadable. Too unreadable.

Too casual.

Like he’s trying to make it look effortless.

Like he’s making it look effortless for you.

Your grip tightens around the camera. The frame is perfect—low lighting casting long shadows, the soft golden glow from the bedside lamp catching on strands of Yachi’s hair, the curve of Tsukishima’s jaw. It’s intimate. Close. Exactly what you wanted.

It should be fine. This should be fine.

The scene is simple.

Close-ups of hands, of fingers grazing over fabric. Of a breath caught in the space between them. Of a moment stretched too thin, heavy with something unsaid.

And then, they kiss.

Your stomach lurches.

It’s instinct—the way your body reacts, the way something tightens in your chest like a vice, the way your nails press into your palm where you grip the camera. You tell yourself to look at the screen, at the framing, at the way their silhouettes fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

But you’re not looking at the shot.

You’re looking at him.

The way his head tilts slightly, the angle just right. The way his hand ghosts over the small of Yachi’s back before settling, fingers barely pressing into fabric. The way he moves slow, deliberate, like every part of him has been designed for this moment, like he’s meant to be here, kissing her, making it look real.

Making it feel real.

Your fingers tighten around the camera, but you don’t move.

The shot is perfect.

Tsukishima is slow, careful. One hand cups Yachi’s jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, his other resting against her waist, anchoring her in place. He leans in, the motion seamless, practiced, lips pressing against hers with just enough pressure to make it believable.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

It’s nothing. It’s just a film. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

But you do.

The words sit at the back of your throat like acid, thick and burning, because this is what you wanted—this is what you asked for—and yet you can’t seem to convince yourself that you’re okay with it.

You should be focusing on the technicalities. On the way the lighting frames them, on the way the movement aligns with your vision, on the way Yachi’s fingers twitch against his hoodie like she’s nervous, like she’s fully immersed in the moment.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way his eyelashes flutter for half a second before he closes his eyes.

The slow exhale against Yachi’s lips.

The way his grip shifts against her waist—just slightly, just barely, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s steadying his breath, like he’s trying to remember it’s acting.

Something inside you twists, sharp and visceral, something so wrong it makes your stomach ache.

Your fingers are shaking.

And then, the worst part: Tsukishima tilts his head further, deepening the kiss.

Your breath catches.

It’s instinctive, automatic, the way your entire body tenses. You barely realize what you’re doing until the words leave your lips, unbidden, a little too fast, a little too urgent.

“Cut.”

The word slices through the air like a blade.

Tsukishima pulls back immediately, blinking, like something had momentarily snapped.

Yachi exhales, touching her lips, a little dazed, but then she laughs, easy and light. “That felt really natural.”

Natural.

The word rings in your ears, cold and foreign, something heavy and nauseating settling in your stomach.

Natural.

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

Tsukishima is still looking at you. Not at Yachi, but at you.

His expression isn’t unreadable anymore. It’s something else—something darker, something searching, something sharp enough to make your skin burn under the weight of it.

You swallow, forcing your voice into something neutral. “Yeah. That was good. Really… natural.”

Yachi grins, stretching her arms. “I have to run—I promised Hinata I’d help him study tonight.”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

She gathers her things, slings her bag over her shoulder, completely unaware that the air in the room is thick with something else, something unspoken, something unraveling.

The door clicks shut.

You inhale.

You should leave too, right now. You should grab your bag, make up some excuse, and go.

But before you can even think about moving, a hand wraps around your wrist, and drags you back in.

twelve.

The door clicks shut behind Yachi, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. If anything, it gets heavier, pressing against your ribs like an iron hand squeezing the air out of your lungs. You force yourself to breathe, force yourself to move, force yourself to not think about the way Tsukishima had looked at her, had touched her, had—

A hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

Tsukishima tugs, firm but not rough, pulling you back before you can escape.

Your heart stutters.

“What the hell is going on with you?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it—frustration, confusion, anger.

You try to twist your arm away, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you, to keep you here. You force yourself to look at him, to meet the sharp, burning gaze that’s demanding answers.

You swallow. “Nothing.”

His jaw clenches. “Try again.”

“Tsukishima—”

“No.” His voice cuts through the air, low and unyielding. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Avoiding me. Lying to me. Looking at me like I fucking killed your dog or something. Not even calling me Kei anymore. And then tonight—” He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen. “What is your problem?”

The words sting, sharp and cutting, but the worst part is that he’s right. He’s right.

And you’re tired.

Tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you. Tired of biting your tongue. Tired of shoving down every ugly, twisting, unbearable feeling that claws at your throat.

So, suddenly, recklessly, you snap. “You! You’re my fucking problem!”

The words burst out of you like they’ve been waiting, desperate to escape, and suddenly, there’s no going back.

Tsukishima’s eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker of shock before his expression hardens again.

“What?” His voice is sharp, almost mocking, like he’s daring you to say it again, to spell it out for him.

You rip your wrist from his grip, shoving him back a step. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is pounding.

“You don’t get it, do you?” The words come fast, breathless. “Do you even see what you look like? How easy this is for you?” Your voice wavers, thick with something too sharp to be just frustration. “How you can just— just kiss her like it’s nothing?”

His brow furrows. “It was a scene.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

You shove him again, hands pressing against his chest, but he barely moves.

“I had to watch you,” you spit, voice cracking at the edges. “Watch you hold her like that. Watch you look at her like that. And I hated it, Tsukishima. I hated it.”

Something shifts in the air between you.

The anger is still there, but beneath it—something else. Something fragile and aching and real.

Tsukishima doesn’t speak. His lips part slightly, but no words come.

He’s staring at you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.

You inhale, shaking, your hands balled into fists. “I don’t know when it happened, or how, or if I’m just an idiot who took too long to figure it out, but I—” Your breath stutters. Your throat feels tight. Fuck, you shouldn’t be saying this. You shouldn’t be saying this.

But you do.

Because it’s too late.

Because there’s no running now.

“I love you.”

The words drop between you like stones in water, sinking deep, sending ripples through everything.

Silence.

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, erratic and deafening.

Tsukishima stares at you. Gaping. Frozen.

Like the world just tilted on its very axis. Like the entire sky is tumbling down, like gravity is the sole thing keeping him on the ground.

And then you panic.

“I—I didn’t mean—” Your voice shakes, your fingers twitch, you need to fix this, you need to take it back before you lose him, before you ruin everything—

But then he moves.

Fast.

His hands are on your face before you can breathe, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not careful. Not controlled. Not measured, the way he was with Yachi.

This is something else entirely.

This is desperate. This is frantic. This is a storm breaking after years of tension, of longing, of something building between you that neither of you had the courage to name.

His lips crash against yours, stealing the air from your lungs, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that’s more relief than surprise. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for too long, like the second he let himself move, he couldn’t stop.

Like he’s been waiting.

Like he’s always wanted this.

The heat of his body devours you, swallowing you whole, pulling you under like a riptide you don’t want to escape. His hands slide down, fingers spreading against your waist, gripping tight like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp. He tugs you forward, flush against him, so close there’s no space left, no room for doubt, no hesitation—only him, only this, only the way he’s holding you like he never intends to let go.

His mouth moves against yours with intent, deliberate and thorough, a silent demand, a confession with no words, just the press of his lips and the desperate, aching pull of his hands. He’s tasting, memorizing, mapping out every gasp, every shiver, every fragile part of you that has ever been his without either of you realizing it.

You make a sound against his lips, something caught between a sigh and a plea, and that’s all it takes—his grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s learning you by touch, like he needs you closer, closer, closer.

You melt into him. You break into him.

There is no hesitation when your hands reach for him, twisting in the fabric of his hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline, because you are terrified he’ll stop, that this will disappear, that he’ll come to his senses and—

But he doesn’t.

Because when you part, just barely, just enough to let air slip between you, Tsukishima chases after you.

His lips find yours again, softer this time, reverent, like he needs to remind himself that you’re real. That this is real.

That you’re not running anymore.

His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, warm, fanning over your lips in slow exhales. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, just lets the silence stretch, heavy and fragile and trembling with meaning.

Then, his voice—low, hoarse, something wrecked and beautiful.

“Say it again.”

Your heart stutters, something sharp and sweet twisting in your chest.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, amber eyes burning, raw with something you’ve never seen before, something almost pleading.

Your fingers loosen against his hoodie, but you don’t let go. “What?”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, his jaw tight, his gaze steady, searching yours for something unspoken.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, quieter this time.

Your throat is dry. Your world has shrunk to the space between you, to the way his hands still hold you, to the weight of his gaze pressing into you like an answer he already knows but needs to hear anyway.

You swallow once, then again. Then, soft but steady, you let it slip. “I love you.”

The way he exhales, sharp and shaky, is enough to undo you completely.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower this time. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s taking his time, like he wants to make sure you understand.

This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t something he can write off as an impulse, something fleeting or meaningless or careless. This is him. This is him choosing you.

He kisses you like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches when he moves a certain way, the way your hands tremble when they slide up to cup his jaw, the way you—God, the way you kiss him back like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Like you love him, and you’ve always loved him.

Like he loves you, and he’s always loved you.

And maybe it’s too much, too late, too terrifying, but when you pull apart, he still doesn’t let go.

His fingers linger against your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.

His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he snorts.

You laugh, breathless, and it comes out half-shaky, half-dazed. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, his lips curving slightly—soft, unbearably fond, annoyingly smug—but his eyes stay serious, stay warm.

“I love you too,” he says, just like that, like it’s simple. Like it’s easy.

And for once, it is.

thirteen.

You wake up in a panic.

Your heart is a drum in your chest, erratic, wild, out of sync with the soft pre-dawn quiet of your dorm room. The weight of last night presses down on you all at once—the argument, the confession, the way Tsukishima kissed you like he’d been waiting, like he meant it, like he wasn’t going to let you take it back.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhale sharply through your nose. It doesn’t help. The air is too thick, your limbs too restless, your thoughts too loud.

What the fuck did you do?

You sit up, shoving the blankets off you like they’re suffocating you. Your hair is a mess, the hoodie you slept in (not yours—his, fuck) twisted around you uncomfortably, but you don’t bother fixing it. The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 6:04 AM, and outside, the world is just beginning to wake.

You should be asleep.

You should be anything but this.

Blindly, you reach for your phone, thumb swiping over the screen to unlock it. The notifications hit you like a brick.

— 17 missed calls — 3 new voicemails — kei :P: pick up your phone — kei :P: are you serious right now — kei :P: we’re not doing this — kei :P: text me back

Your stomach lurches.

Your fingers twitch over the screen, hovering, hesitating, and then—fuck—you lock the phone and throw it onto your desk like it burned you.

You can’t deal with this right now.

Not now, not when you’re still caught in the aftermath of what happened, not when the ghost of his lips still lingers on your skin.

You need a distraction.

You push yourself up from the bed, dragging your feet to your desk, where your laptop sits untouched from the night before. The screen glows as it wakes, casting a pale blue light over your desk. You click open Premiere Pro, fingers moving on autopilot, pulling up the final cut of your film.

Something to ground you. Something to keep you from spiraling.

The editing timeline stretches before you, a mess of layered clips and audio tracks. The cursor blinks, waiting. You set it to the last scene you worked on—the rooftop scene, Yachi and Tsukishima against the night sky, the cigarette smoke curling between them like something ephemeral, fleeting.

You press play.

The footage unfolds in perfect clarity.

Yachi sits on the ledge, her fingers wrapped loosely around the cigarette, her expression thoughtful. Tsukishima is beside her, arms draped over his knees, his profile sharp against the neon haze of the city below.

She turns to him, voice soft, hesitant. “Do you think it’ll last?”

There’s a pause.

Then—his response.

“As long as we exist, it will.��

You exhale sharply, the words hitting you harder than they should.

The scene plays through, Yachi taking a slow drag of the cigarette before exhaling toward the sky, the glow of the embers casting flickering light over her features. Tsukishima doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay forward, locked on something distant, something unseen.

Your fingers twitch over the keyboard, and without thinking, you hit the spacebar.

The scene rewinds.

You play it again.

“Do you think it’ll last?”

“As long as we exist, it will.”

A lump forms in your throat.

You rewind it again.

Again.

You don’t know why you keep watching it, why the words keep lodging themselves deeper and deeper into your chest.

Maybe because it doesn’t sound like acting. Maybe because you remember the way he said it, the way he delivered the line so effortlessly, so quietly, like it wasn’t a scripted moment but something real.

Maybe because it reminds you of last night.

The way he kissed you, the way his hands held you firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The way he told you, Say it again, like he couldn’t believe it, like he needed to hear it over and over to make it real. The way he looked at you when you did. The way you let yourself believe, just for a second, that everything you wanted wasn’t impossible.

Your breath hitches, sudden and sharp, and then— you’re crying.

It’s not dramatic. There’s no sobbing, no wretched gasps for air.

Just silent tears, slipping down your cheeks, slow and unrelenting, as the weight of it all crashes into you.

Because you love him. Because you’ve always loved him. Because you can’t remember a time of your life where you didn’t, and because you can’t imagine a time where you don’t.

And you’re terrified.

You don’t know how long you sit there, shoulders curled in, fingers gripping the edge of your desk like you need to physically hold yourself together.

The sun creeps through the window, light spilling over your room in soft golds and oranges. Outside, the campus hums to life—doors opening, footsteps in the hallway, distant laughter.

You should move. You should do something.

Instead, you hit play one more time.

“Do you think it’ll last?”

“As long as we exist, it will.”

The tears keep falling, and you don’t know why you’re crying anymore: whether it’s because you believe it, or because you don’t.

fourteen.

Your hands are shaking as you pull up your contacts list.

It’s barely past 6:30 AM, the sky still tinged with the last remnants of dawn, but you can’t stay here. The weight of your realization—your love for Tsukishima—is suffocating, curling around your ribs like something clawed and desperate, something that refuses to let go.

You need to talk to someone, and there’s only one person who will actually pick up at this hour. So you press the call button and wait.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

Then, a groggy voice, scratchy with sleep but undeniably familiar.

“This better be good, or I swear—”

“I need you.”

A beat of silence.

Then, rustling sheets. A sigh. And finally.

“Where?”

***

The tiny café is quiet, still waking up alongside the rest of campus. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of vanilla and warm pastries. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden rectangles onto the worn wooden floors.

You sit in your usual booth, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, though you haven’t taken a single sip.

You barely register the sound of the door swinging open before a familiar figure drops into the seat across from you, yawning into his hoodie sleeve.

“You look horrible.”

You huff out a weak laugh, your throat still tight from earlier. “Good morning to you too, ‘Dashi.”

Yamaguchi stretches his arms overhead before slumping against the seat, blinking at you with the exhaustion of a man who has spent way too many nights buried under physics equations. He eyes you carefully, then his gaze flicks to the untouched tea in your hands.

“You called me before seven in the morning,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Which means either the apocalypse is happening, or you did something monumentally stupid.”

You drag a hand down your face. “Both.”

His lips quirk up slightly. “Alright. Start talking.”

You open your mouth, but—where do you even start?

The confession? The kiss? The fact that you spent half the night crying over your laptop, replaying Tsukishima’s voice like some deranged, lovesick film major cliché?

Your hands tighten around your cup. “It’s about Kei.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t even blink. “Figured.”

You exhale, shaky and uneven. “I—I don’t know what to do.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table, his expression turning serious. “Okay. Take it from the top.”

So you do. You tell him everything.

About the jealousy—the awful, gut-wrenching feeling that took root in your chest the second you saw Tsukishima kiss Yachi, the way it spiraled into something uncontrollable, something you couldn’t suppress.

About the fight—the way Tsukishima saw right through you, called you out, made you snap. The way you finally admitted the truth you’d been running from for so long.

And then, the kiss. The way he grabbed you, the way he pulled you in, the way he kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had.

And the way, afterwards, you panicked.

The silence stretches when you finally stop talking. You can’t bring yourself to meet Yamaguchi’s eyes.

“I left,” you whisper, shame curling in your chest. “I—I freaked out and left. And now I don’t know what to do.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip, and then sets it down with a soft thunk. Then—finally—he speaks.

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’ve personally caused him actual, physical pain. “This is literally the worst case of mutual pining I’ve ever seen.”

“Mutual—?”

“Yes,” Yamaguchi says, exasperated. “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t realize he’s been in love with you since we were, like, fifteen?”

You choke on air. “What?”

He gives you a flat look. “Oh, come on. You think he just puts up with people like that? Have you met Kei? He barely tolerates most human interaction, but you? You’re different.”

Your stomach sinks.

Yamaguchi leans back against the booth, studying you carefully. His voice is quieter when he says, “Now he’s waiting for you.”

And suddenly, it all comes rushing back.

Like that summer when you were fourteen, sprawled on the grass in his backyard, swatting mosquitoes away while he read some ridiculous philosophy book he’d scoffed at but couldn’t put down. You had called him pretentious, poked fun at his stupid little annotations, and then—just when he was about to snap back—he had looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Or the time in high school when he stayed up with you, sitting outside your house at two in the fucking morning, just because you had a nightmare and didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t mock you for it, didn’t act like it was a big deal. He just let you talk about stupid shit until you weren’t shaking anymore.

Then there was college. The night he drove across town just because you were too drunk to make it back to your dorm. The way he let you ramble about some stupid movie you had watched for class while he carried you—actually carried you—up the stairs because your legs had stopped working.

And then, of course, last night.

The way he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for years.

The way he whispered, Say it again, like he needed to hear it more than anything.

The way you had run.

Because maybe, deep down, you always knew.

Yamaguchi watches you, then exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You love him.”

It’s not a question.

It's a fact.

And you know that, of course. You’ve always known that. But hearing it out loud—having someone else say it, no doubt, no hesitation—it does something to you.

Your fingers tighten around your cup.

“I love him,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I love him, and I’m scared.”

Yamaguchi hums, tapping his fingers against the rim of his coffee cup. “Why?”

“Because if this goes wrong, I lose him,” you say, staring down at the caramel liquid in your cup.

He tilts his head. “And if it goes right?”

You swallow.

That’s the terrifying part.

If it goes right—if you actually let yourself believe in this, in him… then everything changes. You can never get it back.

But then again, if you don’t, you’ll never move forward.

Yamaguchi leans forward, voice softer now. “Look, I get it. Kei is… a lot. He’s a pain in the ass. But you don’t have to be afraid of this. Not with him.”

You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone. But you don’t call him.

Not yet.

Instead, you look at Yamaguchi, heart hammering, voice barely steady.

“What do I do?”

He smiles, small and knowing.

“Go to him.”

fifteen.

Your heart is pounding.

Your pulse is an erratic drumbeat in your ears, your breath uneven as you stand outside Tsukishima’s apartment at 7 AM like an absolute psychopath. The hallway is empty, most of the residents still asleep, because normal people do not show up at their best friend’s door at the crack of dawn after confessing their feelings, running away, and then ghosting them for a whole night.

But here you are.

You raise a fist to knock. Pause. Lower it.

Your mind runs through every possible thing that could go wrong. What if he’s still asleep? What if he’s awake, but he’s pissed? What if you just turn around and pretend this never happened and never speak to him again and maybe flee the country?

But no. No more running. You’re done with that.

You exhale sharply, grit your teeth, and knock.

There’s no response at first.

Then, a very loud, very irritated groan.

Footsteps. A thud as something (probably his knee) collides with something else (probably his desk), followed by a mumbled string of very colorful expletives.

And then, the door swings open.

Tsukishima is standing there, half-asleep and thoroughly unamused.

He’s not wearing his glasses, which is so much worse, because without them, he looks—soft. His blond hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s wearing that stupid old hoodie that’s two sizes too big, the one you’ve definitely stolen at some point but returned because it stopped smelling like him. His sweatpants are loose around his hips, and his expression is pure murder as he squints at you.

“…The fuck?” His voice is rough from sleep. “It’s seven in the morning.”

You should probably say something. You should probably apologize. You should probably explain why you’ve lost your goddamn mind and decided to show up here like some dramatic main character in an early 2000s rom-com.

But instead, you go on your tiptoes, yank down him by his hoodie, and kiss him.

It happens fast, and at first, he completely freezes.

Like full-body shutdown. His entire frame locks up, his hands hovering uncertainly, breath caught in his throat.

For one horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a mistake.

But then… then his hands find your waist. And suddenly, he’s kissing you back.

It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s still processing this, still trying to believe it’s real. But then his fingers tighten against your skin, pulling you closer, and you can feel the exact moment he gives in.

The exact moment he stops thinking.

And God, you feel it everywhere.

The heat of him, the slow, deliberate press of his lips, the quiet, shaky exhale against your mouth before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. He’s warm, solid, real, and for the first time in weeks, your head isn’t a tangled mess of doubt and fear.

For the first time, everything makes sense.

You pull away first, breathless, heart hammering.

His hands linger on your waist. He keeps his face close to yours, just centimeters away, and when he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark with something you’ve never seen before. Something raw. Something completely, utterly unguarded.

You swallow hard. “I—”

His thumb brushes over your hip, the smallest, barest movement.

You inhale sharply. “I’m sorry.”

Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just watches you, eyes sharp, unreadable. “For what?”

“For—” You hesitate. Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie. “For running. For taking so long to figure this out. For—”

He sighs, but there’s no real annoyance in it. His gaze softens—just slightly, just enough.

“You’re a dumbass,” he mutters.

You let out a breathless laugh. “I know.”

A pause. Then, he asks, “Do you wanna go for a walk?”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “A walk?”

“Yeah.” Tsukishima shrugs, stepping back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you gonna walk me back to my dorm? Because I literally just dragged myself here for nothing if that’s the case.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass. I just—” He exhales, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Just wanna walk somewhere.”

Your lips twitch. “…How romantic of you.”

He scoffs. “Shut up.”

But he doesn’t deny it.

The air is crisp, the early morning quiet—the kind of stillness that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up.

You walk side by side, the distance between you not much, but enough. For a while, neither of you speak.

“I meant it.”

You glance at him. “Huh?”

Tsukishima doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his hands still tucked into his hoodie, his jaw set. But his voice—low, certain—doesn’t waver.

“I meant it,” he repeats. “When I told you to say it again.”

Your breath catches. He keeps walking, staring straight ahead like this isn’t some life-altering confession, like he’s just casually commenting on the weather. But his hands are tensed inside his hoodie pocket. His shoulders are tight.

You swallow. “Kei…”

“I don’t like a lot of people,” he says bluntly. “I barely tolerate most people. But you—”

He stops walking. You stop too.

Finally, he turns to you, and God—his eyes. They burn, golden in the morning light, open and completely unguarded.

“You make me feel like I belong in a movie.”

Your breath stutters.

He exhales, shaking his head, voice quieter now. “And I fucking hate movies.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat, sudden and unexpected, and you can’t stop smiling.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely making it a thing,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. “My grumpy, six-foot-four, emotionally constipated best friend just confessed he’s been hopelessly in love with me for years.”

His ears go pink. “I didn’t say that.”

“You did.”

“Shut up.”

You grin. “Make me.”

A pause. Then, he does.

This time, the kiss is gentler. No urgency, no desperation—just warmth. Just him. And as his hands settle against your waist, as your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, as his lips move against yours with something quieter, steadier, you realize something very, very important.

For the first time in a long, long time—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

With him.

But then, the moment stretches, and a thought occurs to you. An extremely essential thought.

You pull back slightly, blinking up at him. Tsukishima frowns. “What.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Then, after a beat, you blurt out, “So… does this mean we’re dating?”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable—half amusement, half exasperation. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushes absently along your waist, his grip shifting slightly, like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s touching you.

Then, flatly, he says, “I don’t know. Do you plan on kissing other people?”

“No?” You reply, your nose scrunching.

“Then yeah.”

You stare. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You gape at him. “Kei, you are the most unromantic—”

But then something flickers across your mind, something bigger, heavier. A thought that makes your stomach tighten, your fingers twitch against his hoodie.

You inhale. “Hey,” you say, softer this time. “How long?”

He watches you. “How long what?”

You swallow hard. “How long have you loved me?”

A pause. A long pause.

Tsukishima doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. But there’s something in his expression that shifts—something softer, quieter. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist. And then, voice low, steady, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he sighs.

“I can’t remember when I didn’t.”

Your heart stops. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around his hoodie, and God—what are you supposed to say to that? Because there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just him. Just this. Just the reality of a love so deeply ingrained in the both of you that it has no beginning and no end.

You exhale—shaky, breathless. “You suck at romance, you know that?”

He rolls his eyes. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You laugh, bright and full, and before you can think about it, before you can overanalyze, you’re kissing him again.

It’s easier this time.

Because now, you’re sure.

And maybe the universe really does have a thing for sadism, because somehow, against all logic, it made him your person. The same Tsukishima Kei who laughs at your mistakes and misfortunes, who calls you out for your delusions and idiocy, who makes fun of your collection of Smiskis and love of reality TV. But at the same time, this Tsukishima Kei would do anything for you, even if you have to beg and beg. This Tsukishima Kei has held you through the worst days of your life, has seen you at your lowest moments and stayed, has waited for you for years to see him the way he has always seen you.

And you think, feeling his hands tighten at your waist and his lips linger against yours like he’s memorising the feeling, that maybe, just maybe, the universe got this one right.

⨭ closing notes; i adore tsukishima kei so much. tbh i rly struggled w this work bc i had this concept fleshed out for so long and j cldnt execute it the way i wanted, but thank u to @kinaskorner for beta reading and for the reassurance <3 i hope u guys love this too!! if u made it to the end of this super long fic lol then thank u sm and i hope u have the loveliest day

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7-deadly-cats · 6 months ago

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killing me softly | 1

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language, awkward & nervous reader, hints at a mini panic attack

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 2.1k+

✿ A / N ✿ ok so you guys need to bear w me ok 😭 i wrote the first five chapters in my note’s app on my phone so the writing kinda lacks some quality (+ i just came back from years-long writing break). i promise every chapter’s gonna be better than the previous. anyway, this is for all my introverted, weird and overthinking girlies (who may or may not be kinda insane) <3

xx ᓚᘏᗢ

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // M O N D A Y

Fuck my life.

That was the first thought crossing your mind as Mr. Smith announced the partners for the upcoming two-week project in art class.

In pairs, you were supposed to create a reinterpretation of the Greek gods. The execution and medium was up to you.

The assignment itself wasn’t the problem. In fact, it actually sounded kind of fun. But your partner? Yeah, that was the real issue.

Fucking Rafe Cameron.

Of all the people in this class, it had to be him.

You didn’t even know why he'd chosen this class in the first place. Rafe was probably the last guy you’d expected to take an art elective—well, ok, no, right after jock asshole Chris Reid.

He'd probably thought it was an easy class to boost his GPA.

Rookie mistake.

Okay, whatever, it was just a small project. You could handle this.

NO, YOU COULDN’T, HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

The thought of working with Rafe (FOR TWO WHOLE FREAKING WEEKS) made your skin crawl. In all your years at Kildare Academy, you'd maybe exchanged two words with him—and that was only because he'd mistaken you for another girl.

HAHAHAHA maybe he drops this class after this lesson and Smith pairs me up with another student.

Fun fact: he didn’t.

Instead, he appeared at your desk at the end of class, a bored expression on his face. "Y/n, right?"

Okay, okay, just act normal. Be nice. AND IGNORE HOW FAST YOUR HEART’S RACING.

HOW, THOUGH. He looked so freaking cute with his slick-backed hair, the salmon-colored polo, and the little furrow of his brows.

You nodded, managing a polite smile. "Yeah."

Rafe stared at you for a moment, probably waiting for you to continue BUT YOU HAD NO CLUE WHAT TO SAY, his whole presence startling you.

A crease formed between his brows before he raised his chin, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder. "Cool, okay. Let’s just meet up during lunch break and get this over with."

Did he seriously think you could finish a two-week project in one single lunch break?

When he saw the look on your face, he raised his brows in amusement, his tone teasing. "What? You too busy?"

AKCKWNDKAKX.

Your cheeks heated up as you shook your head. "No, lunch sounds good."

Marry me, please.

"Aight, then let’s meet after fifth period." Before you could ask for a place (not that you even had the brainpower to form a question), he turned around and disappeared out of the classroom.

A soft exhale left your lips, the tension fading from your shoulders. This was off to a great start.

Just two weeks, you reminded yourself as you slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed to math class.

On the way, you unlocked your phone to text your bestie Cara:

You shoved your phone away and tried to ignore the uneasiness creeping into your stomach. You didn’t usually have trouble talking to guys but Rafe Cameron was a whole different story. Not because he was "too cool" or some dumb shit like that.

No, Rafe was just... intimidating. Not in that bad-boy, cringe Wattpad kind of way. It was something else, something you couldn’t quite put into words.

He wasn’t arrogant, he was proud. He was loud, but not in the annoying way Kelce Statter was. He wasn’t necessarily rude, he just said whatever the hell was on his mind.

He was just ... himself. And yet, somehow he wasn't. It felt like there was a lot more going on beneath the surface. (Maybe you also just hoped your years-long crush wasn’t wasted on some braindead guy.)

But this missing variable—the lack of answers and depth—made him so interesting to you. Sure, he had a nice face and a well-known name, no doubt about that. But more than anything, you wanted to understand who he was and get to know him.

Was he just a blunt person who didn’t give a fuck, or was there more to him than his looks and cocky aura?

So yeah, a big part of you was curious about him, but Rafe had such an overwhelming presence, you wouldn’t even know where to start. You could barely even hold eye-contact with him without your brain short-circuiting.

In the past, he'd had a few friends-with-benefits situations, but none of them had lasted long. And that was definitely a path you didn't want to go down.

Under different circumstances, maybe you could but you've never even held hands with a guy, let alone kissed one or—yeah, no, not going there.

Okay, chill. Internally, you cursed Cara for fueling your delusions.

You had more important problems right now anyway. Like math class with Mrs. Richman. And no one could claim you were a star student in that subject.

As the lesson dragged on, your thoughts constantly drifted. And it was real hard holding onto any other topic that wasn’t Rafe.

Rafe, who had PE right now.

Shit.

You tried not to think about a sweaty, heavy-breathing, and—NOPE, NOT NOW.

GOSH but the idea of working with him in less than twenty minutes…NONONONONO. This was just too much all at once. If you’d had at least some time to prepare, get your mind ready and calm your nerves a little, that would’ve been so much easier.

BUT NO.

Mr. Smith had freestyled today’s lesson and just randomly decided to introduce a huge project that decided on 40% of your Art grade.

OKAY SURE I MEAN WHY NOT.

And on top of that, he’d put you in a group with Rafe.

Funny. Yeah. Real fucking funny.

HAHAHAHAHAH.

Okay, back to being nonchalant :))))))

"That’s it for today. Don’t forget about the math test next week,” Mrs. Richman announced, dismissing the class. “But for now, go enjoy the nice weather.”

Yeah, more like enjoying how badly you were about to embarrass yourself during the next hour.

As you got up to leave, your hands felt clammy as hell. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You immediately headed to the restroom and washed your hands, trying to get rid of this horrible feeling spreading in your gut. Washing off the panic and anxiety and the fear of turning into an awkward mess as soon as you and Rafe started working.

Why were you so nervous about spending one lunch break with him?

OH MAYBE BECAUSE EVERY TIME YOU LOOKED AT HIM, THE BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH WENT ABSOLUTELY INSANE.

"Everything okay, Y/n?" A soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. "You look kinda pale."

You turned to see the pretty face of Molly Crane. Strawberry-blonde hair, cute freckles, and the kindest smile in the whole universe. She was one of the few Kooks who was genuinely nice.

You forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah, all good. I think I just ate something bad for breakfast."

Molly didn't look convinced. "You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Really, thanks, Molly. I’m fine now." With an awkward smile, you excused yourself and headed out, only to realize that, well… great, you and Rafe had never picked a meeting spot.

Brrrzt.

Your phone had been buzzing since math class. Of course, it had been Cara.

Should you really wait in front of the gym?

Um, no, that felt weird af. But at the same time, you didn’t want to miss Rafe and end up having an awkward conversation about it in the next art class. Holy shit, just the thought of explaining to him why you’d been nowhere to be found just because you were too scared to talk to him, almost ended your nerves.

Okay, wait.

So, the dining hall was the most obvious spot to meet up, considering that’s where most students gathered during lunch. But the question was, would Rafe actually look for you there?

Ugh, this would imply he even cared about seeking you out in the first place, but instead, he’d probably feel relieved skipping your first project session.

And sure, you could probably manage this project in the last few days if necessary but there was no need to risk anything just because you’re spiraling over a simple question.

You pressed your lips together. Fuck it.

Heart pounding LIKE CRAZY, you headed toward the gym. And your adrenaline? Through the ROOF.

Good thing your body totally knew how to distinguish between social interaction and actual danger.

When you arrived at the large building at the side of the campus, muffled voices of the boys inside rang out, along with Coach Brown’s instructions.

Just breathe, it’s just one lunch break, you told yourself. Then again, this was probably how the next two weeks were going to feel.

Cool cool cool cool cool cool cool.

And as the gym doors swung open ten minutes lated, you held your breath at the anxiety and sight of a crowd of sweaty—oops wrong—freshly showered boys streaming out.

You awkwardly stepped to the side, ignoring the curious glances thrown your way.

DON’T MIND ME, JUST WAITING FOR THE LOVE OF MY LIFE HAHHAAH.

But.

No sign of Rafe yet.

A sick feeling settled in your stomach. Even worse than being here and explaining HOW you knew that he was here, would be explaining WHY you were standing here if he didn’t actually have PE right now.

OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD.

But the universe spared you this misery. Relief washing over you when you spotted Kelce Statter and Topper Thornton. And right behind them—Rafe Cameron.

Instinctively, you tightened your grip on your bag, nerves buzzing like a thousand bees under your skin.

Okay, okay, I got this. They’ll probably say bye to Rafe and leave for lunch now.

Oh.

HAHAHAHAHAH.

They didn’t.

Great.

When Rafe spotted you, his brows twitched for a moment, and you were too startled to analyze whatever that reaction meant.

You expected him to just walk past you but instead, he HEADES STRAIGHT TOWARD YOU.

…with Kelce and Topper right behind him.

Your blood pressure? Probably around 180 by now.

Okokok, relax. Just smile. No, not like that, you probably look like a creep. Oh god, okay.

"Yo," Rafe greeted you with a slightly puzzled smile as the three of them stopped in front of you. "Didn't expect you here."

In other words: You some fucking stalker or what the fuck are you doing here?

Kelce and Topper eyed you with amusement, exchanging (not so) subtle side-eyes.

This is so unbelievably embarrassing.

Cheeks flushed, you pointed at the gym bag slung over his shoulder, an awkward smile on your face. "Well, I saw you bringing a sports bag today, and PE is usually scheduled right before lunch ... so I just assumed you’d be here."

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Kelce stifling a laugh.

DUDE.

You wanted to disappear from Earth, no from this universe. No way anyone would believe--

"Uh-huh," Rafe replied, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Could’ve waited in the dining hall. I’d have joined you.”

…

So you had been right. And you could've saved yourself this painfully awkward moment :)))

G-r-e-a-t.

"Good thinking though, I guess. The faster we get this shitty project over with, the better."

Shit, did Rafe just compliment you? Then again, why did the last sentence sound like he didn't want to work with you? HAHAHAH WHAT AM I EVEN DOING HERE?

A strained chuckle escaped your lips. "Exactly."

"You're Y/n Y/l/n, right? Your mom owns Y/l/n Yacht Sales." Topper’s voice cut in, and you were goddamn grateful for the topic change.

You nodded, this time with an honest smile. "Yeah."

Oh! Was that admiration on Topper’s face?

"Ohh, a business Mommy", Kelce said, and both Topper and Rafe eyed him with shaking heads.

Topper blinked at him annoyed. "Bro, shut the fuck up for once."

Kelce just giggled in response.

"My dad bought a Grady-White from you guys recently," Rafe remarked, and your gaze flicked back to his strikingly blue eyes.

Jesus, he wasn’t just looking at you—he was staring straight into your soul. If he was always looking at girls like that you'd gladly be his friends-with-benefits-girl.

JUST KIDDING, I COULD NEVER.

You prayed to whatever gods were listening that you didn’t look like an awkward mess. "I remember. A 456 Canyon."

The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched up, his eyes boring into yours. "Yeah, a beauty."

HELP.

Wildfire spread across your neck and cheeks, and with that way too tensed smile you probably looked like a weird-ass cartoon character.

SOMEONE SHOOT ME.

"Oh shit, that sounds like a yacht party," Kelce chimed in with a grin directed at you. "If I were you, I’d have thrown a dooozen parties by now. So many possibilities…"

Rafe scoffed, amused. "Shit, good thing she isn’t, or her family would be broke by now."

You chuckled awkwardly. I’m so bad at whatever this is, fucking shit.

„Hey, I’m just saying.“ Kelce raised his hands innocently.

Topper tapped him on the chest with the back of his hand. „Okay, dude, and I’m saying we’re leaving now before you say more stupid shit.“ He eyed you apologetically before turning his gaze to Rafe. „See you later.“

Rafe just gave him a short nod, his expression hard to read. Then he turned back to you, a crooked smile on his face as Kelce and Topper disappeared behind the gym. „So, you hungry?“

BREATHE, GIRL.

Why did this situation suddenly feel so… intimate?

It wasn’t. Definitely not. There was absolutely no reason to feel weird about this. And yet—standing here alone with Rafe Cameron was… a lot.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you—calm, focused, and yet way too intense. Or maybe it was the damn wet strands of hair falling into his forehead after his shower, making him look CUTE AS HELL.

Get a grip.

You nodded quickly, trying to calm your nerves. „The dining hall offers quinoa veggie bowls today.” An awkward smile tugged at your lips. “Or fries, if you’re not into influencer food.“

Oh God. Was that your attempt at being funny?

Tragic.

Rafe’s lips twitched with amusement. „So, you’re assuming I don’t like quinoa bowls?“

Oh. Oh no.

Heat immediately rushed to your face, and you could feel your cheeks straight up burning. Why the hell did I say that?

„No—I mean…“ You let out a nervous laugh, which sounded more like a weird cough. „Not that you wouldn’t like it, but you’re just more like—uh, not that I’m putting you in a box or anything, but you don’t seem like someone who…“

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. „Someone who eats quinoa?“

You let out a shaky breath, smiling awkwardly. „Forget it. I’m just talking nonsense.“

„Nah, now I’m curious.“ His voice sounded genuinely amused, almost teasing. „How exactly do I seem?“

You swallowed. Shit.

„Uh…“ Your eyes flickered over him for a second—his broad shoulders, the damp strands of hair falling into his forehead, the fresh polo shirt fitting way too well against his body—oh God, wrong direction.

„I just meant…“ Maybe you should just stop talking and dig your own grave, how about that?

You sighed, furrowing your brows. „Okay, look, I'm sorry if you’re actually a secret quinoa veggie bowl advocate or whatever. I didn’t mean to sound condescending.“

Rafe laughed. Not in a mocking way—no, it was real, boyish, which somehow made the situation worse because it only made you all the more nervous.

GETTING A LAUGH LIKE THAT OUT OF RAFE LIKE OKAY.

„Nah, shit, I get it,“ he said, shrugging with an amused smile. „Guess I gotta work out more if I’m giving off ‘McDonald’s stan’ vibes.“

Your eyes widened, and you quickly shook your head. „That’s not what I—“

„Jesus Christ, relax, I know what you meant,” he cut you off, nodding toward the dining hall. „Now, come on, you can keep judging me in there.“

I am the most embarrassing person alive, you thought, face still burning.

Nonetheless, you gathered all your strength, energy and dignity, and fell into step beside him, gripping the strap of your bag so tightly, your knuckles hurt.

Brain, could you please shut the hell up? Thanks.

But that bitch had other plans.

Because why the fuck did Rafe’s presence feel so overwhelming in the best and worst way possible? And why did his ridiculously good aftershave still linger in the air between you, like the universe was trying everything to make you lose composure?

And most importantly—how the hell were you supposed to survive two whole weeks of this?

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | N E X T ->

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madebycloud · 6 months ago

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pt 3 | Not Even at All

jinx/powder x female reader — 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬⠀𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: vi is off limits until her sister gets a date that doesn't end within the first ten minutes. eager to date vi, a certain girl approaches you with a proposal. date jinx. win her over. and for your efforts, she's willing to be generous. (10 Things I Hate About You AU) warnings/themes: fluff and slight angst, kinda enemies to what, one sided fake dating, highschool, modern au, kat!jinx, patrick!reader words: 7.5k notes: took this long enough bcz uni sucks — ✩ part one, part two, part three, part four, part five

Jinx storms into her classroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

She's only been inside for a few seconds when one shithead student leans back, sneering. “Jinx, me lady, you sway to the rhythm of me heart,” he mocks, his friends laughing along.

Another adds, “Yeah, give us a private performance, babe!”

Another one shouts from across the row, “How much for a personal dance, cowgirl?”

Some asshole from the party filmed her drunken dance and uploaded it, and now she's the hot topic around school.

“Piss off, dipshits,” she mutters, dropping her backpack on her desk and throwing herself into her chair.

Mr. Salo walks into the class, a stack of papers in his hand. “How was everyone's weekend?” He set the papers down on his desk.

One of the boys pipes up, his friends snickering as they elbow him in the ribs. “Maybe we should ask Jinx.”

Before Jinx can respond, Mr. Salo cuts in, “Unless she kicked the crap out of your butt, I don't want to hear about it.”

—

You shuffle into the classroom late as usual, trying to ignore the way Mr. Salo's eye twitches as you drop into your desk. Immediately you glance over to where Jinx usually sits.

Jinx lifts her head, her eyes shifting across the room. At the whiteboard. At the ceiling. At her textbook. Anywhere but you.

“We're continuing our lesson today,” Mr. Salo announces, grabbing your attention. “Open your books to page seventy-three, and we'll get started.”

You rummage through your backpack, shoving your textbooks and notes and empty crisp packets out of the way. You manage to wrangle out the battered copy of the textbook.

Mr. Salo clears his throat, addressing the class. “We'll be doing something a little different today. I want you all to write your own version of Shakespeare's Sonnet 141.”

Groans echo across the classroom.

You don't really blame them—doing it like this on Monday? not only that, it's english class. Nobody in this room can be bothered to do any work right now, least of all thinking of a way to make an assignment interesting.

“As you work on your assignments,” Mr. Salo continues, “remember this is meant to be a creative, expressive project. I expect everyone to think outside the box for this one.”

Creative and expressive? What could be so creative and expressive about an old ass Shakespeare sonnet.

While the rest of the class starts writing, you open the assigned page and squint at the poem, silently reading it to yourself.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes. For they in thee a thousand errors note.

How in the hell are you supposed to come up with anything creative for something like this?

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise.

You read out the next line, drumming your fingers against the edge of your desk.

Who, in despite of view, are pleas'd to dote.

This whole assignment seems like a bunch of pretentious bullshit.

—

“You actually went to the party?” Lux asks, eyeing the menu on the counter. “I thought we were officially opposed to suburban social activity.”

Jinx gives a half-shrug. “I didn't have much of a choice.”

“You didn't have a choice,” Lux repeats mockingly. “What'd they hold you at gunpoint or what?”

Jinx cringes, avoiding Lux's gaze. “I did Vi a favor, and it backfired.”

Lux's eyes widen. “You didn’t…”

“I got drunk. I puked. I got rejected. It was big fun.”

—

You enter the diner, making your way towards the counter to order.

Wait a damn minute.

Is that Jinx?

You smirk, approaching Jinx. “Hey,” you greet, lifting a hand.

Jinx doesn't reply. She shoves a handful of items into her backpack, not even sparing you a glance before she takes off out the door.

You furrow your brow, turning back to look at her friend (Lux, you think her name is?), who just shrugs apologetically before following Jinx out the door.

You stand in the diner for a solid ten seconds.

What the hell?

Did she just... ignore you like that?

You blink a couple times, staring at the door Jinx just walked out of.

Just what the hell?

—

You sit on the bleachers watching the girls soccer team practice. You spot Jinx kicking the ball around with a few of her teammates.

“What'd you do to her?” Cait asks on the other end.

“I don't know,” is your honest answer. A pause. “I decided not to take advantage of her.”

“You realize that pretty much ruins our deal, right?”

“Yeah, no kidding," you reply. “She won't even look at me.”

“Why can't you just tell her you're sorry?"

“Because she's been doing nothing but avoiding me,” you explain. “I'm not sure she even knows I exist anymore.”

“Of course she knows. It's not like she doesn't remember who you are,” Caitlyn points out. “Did you at least apologize?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because she'd probably break my nose if I was within a 10-foot radius of her right now,” you retort.

Caitlyn sighs. “You're an idiot.”

“I'm aware.”

“You need to apologize,” she says. “Soon. Otherwise this entire thing is going to blow up in our faces, and neither of us is going to get anything out of it.”

“She just needs time to cool off,” you say, nodding. “I'll give it a day.”

And suddenly—

THWAP!

A soccer ball goes flying past your head. You flinch so hard you nearly fall off the bleachers. You twist around to see who threw the damn thing.

Jinx.

“...maybe two,” you correct yourself, watching her get back to practice.

You rub your forehead where the ball almost hit you, frowning as you watch her play. You knew she could aim, but holy moly. If that had hit you, it would have probably left a bruise.

Well, at least you know she hasn't completely forgotten who you are. So… progress?

—

Jinx and Lux walk through the courtyard when Jinx sees a flyer for prom taped to the nearby wall. She rips the flyer off the wall, crumpling it in her hands before tossing it to the ground.

A girl next to the wall, who was holding a stack of flyers, let out a gasp. “Hey!”

Jinx doesn't even glance in her direction as she keeps walking, shaking her head. She turns to Lux. “Can you imagine who would even go to that antiquated mating ritual?”

Lux raises her hand. “I guess I would. But I don't have a date,” she admits.

“Why would you want to go to prom?”

Lux shrugs. “It's the last time we'll all be together as seniors-”

“You really want to get all dolled up so some guy with a cheap Walmart suit and a boner shoved down his pants can grab your ass all night while you're forced to listen to a band that, by definition, sucks?”

“Okay, okay, I guess we won't go. It's not like I have a dress or anything.”

Jinx smirks. “You're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective. We're not just skipping prom. We're making a statement.”

“Oh, goody. Something new and different for us.”

“We're not some mindless sheep, going through the motions of senior year just because we're expected to-”

“Apart from studying for exams and turning in assignments,” Lux comments.

Jinx shoots her a scowl. “You're ruining my monologue.”

“Sorry,” Lux says, still smiling.

“As I was saying,” Jinx continues. “We're not just skipping prom to sit at home all night... we're making a statement. We're rebels. We're refusing to go through the boring, pointless motions of senior year like the other sheep, like every other senior year before us.”

—

You meet up with Caitlyn, who looks like she's getting just as frustrated and restless as you are with this entire situation.

Jinx has been refusing to even acknowledge your existence, and it's been a week since she last spoke to you—if you even count a soccer ball being whipped at your head as a form of communication.

And you're not sure you even want to bother anymore. This is stupid.

But Caitlyn is just as persistent and desperate as ever.

“Your school's having prom soon, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

Caitlyn hands you a stack of 200 dollar bills, pushing it into your chest. “Take her to prom.”

”No,” you reply, shoving her hand away. “I don't care, Cait. Can't do this anymore. Its sick-”

“Come on, 300 bucks.”

You push her hand away for the second time. “I thought you wanted out.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed. Vi kissed me,” she says. “We're not together yet.. but I think we're close. The only thing holding Vi back right now is her sister.” Caitlyn pushes the three-hundred dollar bill into your palm and closes your fingers over the money. “That's why I need you to do this now. Come on… help a friend out?”

You look at the money in your palm, then at Caitlyn.

“Fine.”

—

You figure you can't make things much worse than they already are and decide to find Jinx at the record store.

After some searching, you eventually find her standing in the guitar section, admiring an electric guitar. Complete with strap, of course. She fits the headphones over her ears, then sits on one of the stools nearby.

You slip your hands into your pockets, quietly approaching her from behind to talk and—

Wait.

You pause a few feet away, watching her.

Jinx looks… content. Comfortable, at least. Her eyes are closed, and she's slowly bobbing her head to whatever music is playing through the headphones.

You open your mouth to speak, to say sorry and get all this done and over with. But…

No. No. You can't��won't—disturb her when she's comfortable and, dare you even think it... too peaceful. Too calm. You're not going to take that from her.

So you quietly back away, deciding to leave her alone.

—

You wander down the section of vinyl and CDs, scanning the titles on display. You spot Jinx across the way and decide to follow her, ducking your head to watch her walk across the shelf.

Once she turns the corner, you end up right in front of her.

“Excuse me. Have you seen Collide with the Sky? I'm looking for the vinyl.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And what are you doing here?”

“I heard there's a sale going on,” you lie.

“You're so…” she starts, her eyes narrowing.

“Charming?” You cut her off with a grin, only for Jinx to roll her eyes—not amused at all, and walk away. “Wholesome?“

She stops in her tracks, turning to look at you. “Unwelcome.”

You step closer. “You're not as mean as you think you are.”

She looks at you head to toe and scowls. “And you're not as badass as you think you are.”

“OOO,” you drawl. “Someone's still got their panties in a twist.”

“Don't for one minute think you had any effect on my anything, let alone my panties. Moron.”

“Then what did I have an effect on?”

She turns away from you, rifling through the vinyl. “Other than making me want to puke? Nothing.” She shoves one into your hands and pushes past you, knocking you back a step as she storms out of the record store.

You glance down at the vinyl she shoved into your hands. Collide with the Sky.

—

You sit at a table in the cafeteria, typing out a message on your phone and sending it to Caitlyn. “she's still pissed.” You hit send before taking a bite of your lunch.

Almost instantly, you get a notification. Caitlyn reacted to your message with a haha. A message bubble appears, then disappears.

You type out another message. “i can hardly ask her to prom if she's still pissed at me.”

She responds in mere seconds. “I have an idea.”

“what is it?” you type back.

“Sing a romantic song for her.”

“you want me to die that badly?” you reply. “do you really think that will work?”

“Yes.”

You toss your phone to the side, picking at your food again. Singing a romantic song to Jinx? that's ridiculous.

Your phone buzzes again. “Come on. Do it. You've got nothing to lose.”

You pick up your phone and type out a response. “besides my pride, self-respect, and maybe even my life?”

“Stop being a pussy. Just do it. I double dog dare you.”

—

You approach Ekko's locker as he closes it with a slam. You clear your throat and give him a smirk.

“You again?” he says before turning to look at you. “What do you want now?”

You pause, glancing around the hallway to make sure no other students are within earshot. The coast looks clear, so you turn to face Ekko again. “You lead the marching band, right?”

“So?”

You hold up a one hundred dollar bill. “Play a song.” You notice his gaze flick back and forth between the stack of cash and your face.

He clenches his jaw but takes the bill nonetheless. “What song?”

—

You look out over the school field as the girls' soccer team and marching band members practice below.

You scan the controls for the school's stadium audio before plucking the cordless microphone off its stand. You find the switch labeled FIELD MIC ANNOUNCE and turn it up.

The mic is on. You hear some feedback when you bring it to your lips. Here goes nothing.

“You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off of you,” you begin to sing, stepping out through the stadium's audio control room and into the open air. Your voice echoes from the speakers all over the open field. “You'd be like Heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much. At long last love has arrived…”

The soccer team and the marching band members look up at the sound of your voice. Some of them stop to see where the singing was coming from.

“And I thank God, I'm alive. You're just too good to be true.” You step into view, scanning across the open field and finally spotting Jinx in the crowd.

She's standing in the field with the rest of the soccer team, and she's already looking at you.

“Can't take my eyes off youuuu,” you point directly at her, a huge grin stretching across your face.

With a whistle from Ekko, the marching band takes their cue and starts playing.

The noise catches Jinx's attention, and she turns away from you to look at the band playing. Realizing that something is going on, she glances back and forth between the band and then to you before breaking out into a chuckle.

“I love you, baby, and if it's quite alright. I need you, baby, to warm the lonely night,” you sing, making your way over towards the home bleachers and sitting down on one of the steps. “I love you, baby, trust in me when I sayyy.”

You keep going with your performance, dancing around the bleachers while singing.

The two guards arrive to grab you, but not before the crowd claps to your performance.

You finally break out of their grip and continue singing. You even sneak in a pat on one guard's ass on your way past them, then run away with a huge grin on your face.

—

And, as expected, you end up in detention after that.

The room is quiet, and you rest your head against the surface of the table, closing your eyes.

Mrs. Medarda walks around the room, occasionally glancing around to make sure they're behaving. She stops at the desk next to yours. “You look pretty nervous.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He nods anxiously.

“You're sweating like a pig,” she notes, eyeing the boy.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Your eyes are all... bloodshot.”

“Yes, m-ma'am,” he stutters.

“You've got pot, don't you?”

The boy pales but reluctantly holds out his hand and places the weed into her open palm.

“I'm confiscating this,” she says, turning around and placing the weed on the front desk.

You hear the creaking sound of the classroom door opening, followed by Jinx's voice. “Coach Medarda…” She clears her throat. “I have some ideas on how we can improve the girls' soccer team.”

Mrs. Medarda turns her head towards Jinx. “Let's talk about it later,” she replies before turning away once again.

Jinx turns to you and whispers loudly, “Window! Now!”

“Window?!” you whisper shout back. The hell does she mean, window?

Mrs. Medarda turns back to Jinx, who gives a nervous laugh. “As you know, we have a huge game against the Noxus High Scorpions upcoming.”

You quickly grab your bag and move to the side of the room without Mrs. Medarda noticing.

Mrs. Medarda begins to turn in your direction, but Jinx grabs her arm to keep her from turning around completely.

“Your bicep is huge! Holy crap!” Jinx exclaims, grabbing Mrs. Medarda's other arm. “The other one's even bigger. Do you take steroids or something? I've heard steroids can really mess you up, like make your-”

“Jinx.” Mrs. Medarda interrupts her.

“Uh, that's not the point.”

“Let's hope not.”

When you make a loud creak, Mrs. Medarda cranes her neck to look at you, but Jinx grabs Mrs. Medarda's arm again to stop her from turning around.

“So, the point is,” Jinx chimes in, “they beat us every single time. And this year, I think I have a plan to actually win. You see…”

“And what might this plan be?” Mrs. Medarda asks.

You take a glance out the window. It's open, but it's a fair distance down from the second floor. Definitely would not be a pleasant drop. You spot a large tree in front of the window with its branches extended across it. That might work.

“You remember that drill you taught us?” Jinx continues.

“What drill?”

“Misdirection.”

Mrs. Medarda stops and thinks for a minute. “I taught you that?”

“Yep… anyway... that's not what's important right now.”

Mrs. Medarda tries to turn away once more, but Jinx grabs her chin and spins her head right back.

“Think about it!” Jinx exclaims. “They're looking left, but we're running to the right and scoring points. Boom, we win!”

“Okay, but how do we get them to look left?”

You don't hear the rest of the conversation as you leap forward onto the large tree. You let out a yelp as you land. Just as you settle on one of the branches, a loud BOOM is heard from inside. A few seconds later, the window to the detention room lights up with a shower of multicolored sparks.

—

You watch as Jinx looks around, catching her breath. “She just left!” she pants. “I did all the hard work, and the dickhead left me.”

“Hey, sunshine,” you call down from the tree. “Look up.”

She cranes her head towards the tree, her eyes locking onto you.

“I have to admit, I'm afraid of heights,” you add.

“Oh,” Jinx looks up at the tree, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It's not that bad.”

“How would you know?” you ask, swinging your legs from the high branch you're perched on. “Try looking at it from my angle.”

She scans the branches and points to the one right below. “Put your right foot here-”

“Forget it,” you refuse. “I'm staying right here.”

She scoffs, then glances up at you again. “You want me to climb up there and show you how to get down myself?”

“Maybe.”

She sighs and climbs up the tree until she's right next to you on the branch.

You grin at her, then swing your legs down and hop to the ground, leaving her stuck on the high branch alone. “Catch ya later, sunshine,” you call up.

“You little...! Get back here, you shithead!” She jumps down from the tree and sprints after you.

—

The small, rented pedal boat rocks under your weight as it glides through the water. Jinx is sitting right next to you, both of you laughing as you try to make the boat go faster.

“Frankie Valli?” she asks between giggles.

“I figured it had to be something ridiculously cheesy to win your respect and piss you off.”

She snickers and continues pedaling. “Good call.”

“You are a terrible co-paddler, you know that?” you tease.

“You're the one pushing all the water around.”

“It would go faster if you helped out.”

“I am helping out!” Jinx protests. “I'm keeping the boat from tipping over.”

“More like you're making it tip over,” you counter.

“Hey!” She smacks your leg. “We'd be moving a lot faster if you pedaled, too.”

“You can't hit the coxswain like that!”

“Stop whining and pedal!”

Both of you laugh. “So I gotta ask,” you begin. “How'd you get Medarda to look the other way?”

“I blew up the whole detention room,” Jinx says nonchalantly.

You blink. “You blew it up? with what?”

Jinx shrugs, turning to look at you. “Fireworks.”

“Fireworks. Seriously.”

“Yeah... but they're never gonna find out who did it.”

You're not sure if you should be impressed or terrified.

You continue to paddle around the sea together. You pause, looking around the sea before looking back at Jinx. “So what's your excuse?”

“Excuse for what?” Jinx asks, eyebrows raised.

“For acting the way you do,” you clarify.

She purses her lips in thought. “I just dislike meeting people's expectations.” She looks off to the side, out to the sea. “Why live up to other people's expectations when I can live the way I want to?”

You ponder her words, thinking over the way her mind works. “So you disappoint them from the start, and then you're covered, right?”

She nods. “Pretty much.”

“Then you screwed up.”

She frowns, her brow wrinkling. “How so?”

“You never disappointed me.”

Jinx turns and meets your gaze. After several seconds, a smile slowly forms on her lips, and soon a chuckle escapes her.

You look away, suddenly finding your shoes much more interesting. You try to fight back a smile of your own.

Your eyes flicker across the coast, spotting a paintball field in the distance. “You up for it?” you ask, nodding towards the field’s direction.

She follows your gaze. “Hell yeah.”

—

SPLOP

The paintball bursts against your chest, splattering paint all over you. With a smirk, she sticks her tongue out at you.

You tilt your head and take aim. And then, FWUMP. The paintball hits her square in the stomach.

She gasps and grabs her stomach, looking at you in shock. “You asshole!” she yells, giggling. She runs toward one of the obstacles and ducks behind it. She then pops her head out from the obstacle and takes aim at you.

The paintball hits you on the shoulder, adding yet another blue splotch to the paint already decorating your protective clothing.

“Hey!” You quickly chase after her, the two of you running between the obstacles. She turns a corner, and you quickly round the corner after her, only to find… ah hah. There she is, cornered like a rat.

She holds up her hands in surrender, grinning at you. “Caught me.”

“Yeah,” you reply, stepping closer. “You bet I did.” You sling your arm around her shoulders.

And then, without a second thought…

You smash a paintball against her head, leaving behind a bright blue splatter of paint on her hair.

She squeals and hides behind a nearby obstacle. “No fair!“

But you follow, throwing paintball after paintball, not letting her get away.

She pokes her head out to throw a paintball back at you. It hits you on the chest.

You both laugh as you run around the field, throwing paintball after paintball. You chase her around, she tries to run away, but you're faster. You lunge at her, taking her by surprise. The two of you fall onto a nearby bale of hay, you landing on top of her.

You both throw your protective goggles aside, laughing breathlessly while you both catch your breath.

You look down at Jinx, and…

Her face is flushed and streaked with paint. Her hair is tousled, some strands have fallen out of her braids.

You slowly reach out and cradle her face in your hand, running your thumb across her cheek. “Can I…”

She nods in response. Her eyes flutter shut as you lean in. Your lips meet Jinx's, and it’s…

It's like fireworks. Why does it feel so right?

Her lips are soft, and they taste like cherry lip balm. The fingers on her left hand slowly trail up your arm, making their way up to the back of your neck. The other hand clutches at the fabric of your paint-splattered clothes as she kisses you back, her tongue slipping into your mouth.

Her bangs swing forward, getting in the way of your kiss, causing her to pull away with a groan. You watch her brush her hair to the side and fix it back into place. “Here,” she huffs, pulling you back in with a tug around your neck, “let me try that again.”

You barely manage to get the word “sure” out before her lips are back on yours. Your hand slides up to the back of her head, your fingers slipping between her braids, grabbing a handful of hair, and tilting her head back to deepen the kiss.

It… it feels good. Really good.

She smiles against your lips, then pulls back, her eyes hooded as she stares up at you.

You lean in to kiss her again when BAM! A paintball suddenly smashes against the side of your head.

What the fuuuck?! “Wha—Hey!” you shout. “You!”

Jinx laughs as she scrambles to her feet and runs off.

“I swear to god I am going to get you back for this,” you curse as you get to your feet.

—

Jinx walks out onto the paintball field, her forehead smeared in bright blue paint. “I think I should cut my hair,” she says, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder.

“Why's that?” You wipe a sweat off your forehead.

Jinx scratches her cheek. “Just kinda thinking about it,” she replies.

You walk beside Jinx, the paintball field disappearing out of sight behind you. “Why have you got it so long?” You gesture to her braided hair.

“I've had it since I was a kid.” She reaches behind, grabbing one of her braids and resting it under her chin. “Never cut it after I…” Jinx pauses, then shakes her head. “Doesn't matter.”

“After what,” you ask, bumping your shoulder into Jinx's.

She glances back at you and lets go of her braid, letting it fall into place at her back. “Nothing, nothing,” she says, waving her hand.

“Your hair looks fine now. Why do you want to cut it?”

“I dunno... it's getting kinda long, I feel like it's holding me back.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Holding you back from..?”

“From changing.”

“Changing?”

Jinx nods. “Changing,” she repeats. “It's just… a fresh start, I guess.”

You hum, kicking a small rock with your foot as you follow Jinx's lead. “Anything specific you're thinking of?”

—

You stand outside the local hair salon, waiting impatiently for Jinx to come out. Jinx had shooed you out of the salon to wait while she freshened up her “look” as a surprise, or so she said.

Just when you're about to reach for your phone, you suddenly hear a voice behind you. “What do you think?”

You turn around and-

You blink. And blink again.

Wow.

Her long blue braids are now cut to her chin. She wasn't kidding when she said it was a surprise.

Goddamn. She's beautiful.

“Well?” Jinx asks, hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

You gawk at her for a moment too long, completely speechless. How can you even put your thoughts into words?

“It's-” your mouth feels dry. She looks... different. But the same. “Wow. That's-” Wow. “That's... Wow.” Your eyes scan over her shorter hair, down her face, her arms... everywhere. Everything about her looks just so… damn perfect.

Jinx grins. “You like it?”

Like it? Hell yes, you like it. You nod mutely, still at a loss for words.

“You look like you've been struck dumb,” Jinx jokes. She lightly punches your shoulder, making you stumble backwards a couple of steps. “Seriously, no comments?”

You try to form a sentence, but the only two words that come to mind are “holy” and “shit”.

Jinx laughs at you—either her laughter is adorable as hell, or you're completely losing your mind. Might be both, to be honest.

You quickly regain your wits and manage to regain control of your mouth. “Sorry,” you reply, sheepish. “You just... look really good. And the haircut… it's really-” You pause to gesture vaguely at her hair before continuing. “You look... different.”

“In a good way?”

Your ears grow hot. “In a good way.”

“I thought so.” Jinx slings her arm through yours. “Soooo,” she drawls, looking at you sideways, “about this massive collection of 2,000 CDs you have…”

Fuck. You forgot about that.

“I wanna see em,” she continues.

“Yeah… about that.” You laugh nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “I uhh… I mayyyyy have exaggerated a bit?”

—

“What is thiiiisss?”

“It's…” you start, before faltering mid-sentence. “My… grandmother's birthday present.”

She looks at the CD and smiles widely. “No way.” She turns the case to show you the cover. “Madonna? Really?” Jinx looks at the cover in her hands—Celebration. Then she looks back up at you. “Aww,” she coos mockingly. Ugh.

You think back to the many times you've been forced to listen to Madonna songs when visiting your grandmother. Even now you can almost hear Material Girl playing in your mind.

“Ehhh, well, you know how it is,” you say awkwardly. “My grandma loves Madonna, so...” you finish lamely, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

She slowly walks as she looks at a few other items around your room. “You know,” she begins, “when you said you had a massive collection of CDs, I kinda got excited. I was like, maybe she's got a band I don't know. Or some really underground artist only people with good music taste know about. But…” she holds up the CD again. “Madonna? really?”

“It's not like I actually ever listen to this…” you complain, gesturing to the CD.

Jinx smiles and lifts an eyebrow at you.

“Okay, fine. When I'm cleaning my room, I always listen to that CD, but—listen—only to remind me of my grandmother. Not because I actually like it,” you continue.

She snickers, opening the jewel case with a click and removing the CD. When she walks to your stereo, you suddenly realize what she's doing.

“Whoa, hey-!” you start, but Jinx is already inserting the CD into your stereo. You quickly rise to your feet, trying to stop her. “Maybe we should watch a movie or-”

A click echoes as Jinx closes the top of the stereo. A moment later, Madonna's Crazy for You begins playing, and you can feel yourself die inside.

You can imagine your grandparents dancing along to the music, singing along to the lyrics.

“God, no,” you say faintly, watching as Jinx moves to the center of the room and starts to swing her hips.

“Shh, come on!” she calls over her shoulder as she begins dancing. “Live a little!”

Is she drunk? no, she doesn't smell like alcohol, and you didn't see her drink anything. She's not exactly unsteady on her feet, either, her moves are too perfectly timed to the beat.

No, she's a hundred percent sober.

This was simply her.

‘Live a little,’ she says. Live a little.

Jinx is facing away from you, still dancing and moving her hips to the beat, but her head is turned to the side.

She looks… cute like that. Her eyes are closed, her face is upturned toward the ceiling, and she giggles as she dances.

She spins around, facing you at once. “Come on,” she says, a huge grin gracing her lips. She slowly extends her hand, reaching out to take yours in hers. “Dance with me.”

You know what? Screw it. You've come this far.

You may as well embrace the insanity.

She sees the moment you give in, and she takes full advantage of it, using her hand to pull you into the center of the room, where the light from outside is stronger.

She turns the volume up more. Her hands are still around yours, and she keeps them there for a moment before she lets go, leaving you to stand and dance awkwardly.

You have no idea what you're doing.

You're fairly sure your dancing is on par with drunken uncle at a wedding who hasn't been able to find the rhythm since the 80s, and if Jinx has noticed how terrible you are at dancing, she hasn't made any comment.

She just grins.

Despite your dance skill, or lack thereof, you're still dancing with Jinx.

Dancing with Jinx.

With Jinx.

This didn't even seem real.

Your mind starts to drift. You can picture yourself and Jinx, thirty years from now, old and grey, dancing around a family room in your future home.

You think about dancing with her, years from now. You think about growing old with her, dancing together around the room. Holding her hand, even as she's old and wrinkled and grey.

You wonder if your kids or pets or grandkids or whatever-the-fuck-you-have would be watching you two dance like crazy people like you are now.

You wonder what she'd look like decades from now, and you find yourself surprised at the fact that she'd be just as beautiful. Just as attractive. Maybe even more.

You think about how to make her smile like she's smiling now.

Because that smile is worth a hell of a lot.

You wish you could see that smile more. Every single day, every single night, all you want to do is see her smile.

No, not 'want'

Need.

Wait.

What are you thinking?

You're getting ahead of yourself. Way, way ahead of yourself.

Jinx is still dancing, completely oblivious to the strange direction your thoughts are taking.

But even as you try to focus on the present—on what's happening now—your mind is refusing to cooperate.

Your eyes move on their own, traveling over her.

On her hair. On her face. On her hands. On her hips. On her legs. Her body, silhouetted in the bright light from the outside world.

She grins at you as she does a turn and swings her hips, and you try your best to keep up. She's so… so… herself.

She's not scared. She's not angry. She's not hiding herself behind layers upon layers of sarcasm and anger and hostility.

She's happy.

Jinx is happy. Not just “kind of” happy—fully, completely, unequivocally, truly, honestly happy.

That smile. That laugh. How she's so damn effortlessly herself and how goddamn carefree she is.

And she's so… beautiful.

You've dated girls before. You've had girlfriends before. You know what it's like to get close to someone, to be intimate, to kiss and hold each other in private.

But was it like this?

You've never felt like this before.

Never.

Nothing all-consuming, or overpowering, or soul-destroying, or devastating. There was never an intensity to them. A rush. A drive. There was never a connection, never a feeling of need.

But with Jinx...

This felt completely different. This felt so much more.

Like you were standing in a room with destiny.

Like you'd just seen the face of God.

Like your stomach turned into an entire gymnastics team.

Like your chest started feeling like a furnace.

Like your heart was suddenly playing a beat with a hundred times more BPMs than before.

Is this...

This.

Is this what love feels like?

...

If it's not love, then it's definitely an early sign of a heart attack.

—

You drive to her house. Jinx rolls down the car window, letting the wind blow through her short hair.

The song ‘Chasing Cars’ plays from the car radio.

And of course, Jinx wore one of your jackets. She must've snatched it right out of your closet when you weren't looking.

Not that you mind.

She happily chows down on some cotton candy you'd bought her from the gas station earlier and glances over at you. “I kinda like this,” she says between bites.

“You really like everything, don't you?”

“Who doesn't like sweet, sugary treats?” She holds the cotton candy out towards you. “Want a bite?”

You keep your hands on the wheel as you drive. “I'm good.”

Jinx shrugs and returns to munching on her cotton candy.

The wind is still blowing through her hair, occasionally blowing a few strands into her face, and Jinx keeps pushing them back. She groans, gives up and just lets the wind blow her hair around.

She finishes her cotton candy and crumples the empty paper and tosses it into the cup holder between you two. She leans back in her seat, her head tipped back as she looks at the clouds through the open window. “One day, I'm getting away from here.”

Did she mean away from the city? or away from her life?

“I wanna see the world,” she continues. “See everything.”

“What's stopping you?”

“My sister.” Jinx turns to look at you. “She... she hasn't quite found her place yet. I don't want to leave her on her own.”

“That's kind of you.”

She looks back out the open window. “I guess. When you don't have a lot, you don't want to leave people.”

You turn onto a side street, the car bumping along the bumpy road. “So where do you wanna go, if you could go anywhere?”

“Anywhere.” Jinx's hand sticks out the window, her fingers spread like she's catching the passing clouds. “I have a list of places I want to see.”

The car turns onto another street, and you look away to watch where you're driving. “And what's at the top of that list?"

Jinx's hand slips back in through the window, and she holds up a single finger. “Northern lights.”

“Northern lights,” you repeat.

“Northern lights,” Jinx affirms. “Have you ever seen them?”

You haven't. “Just in movies.”

“They're beautiful, and... I guess I want to see something breathtaking. I want to see something that'll take my breath away, because…”

“Because?”

“I've been feeling kinda... suffocated,” she says finally. “Like... Like there's this... pressure in my chest, a weight on my shoulders.”

You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She's hunched over in her seat, her hair hiding her face. She's looking down at her hands.

“I just wanna see something that feels... I dunno. Freeing, I guess,” she says slowly. “Something that makes me feel light, like I can breathe without struggling or drowning.” Jinx glances up at the sky again. “Something that makes me feel like I can fly.”

You don't want to pry, so you keep your eyes on the road ahead of you. The car drives out of the city and onto the highway, the road much smoother under the wheels.

Suddenly, Jinx jerks forward and sticks her head out the open window. She holds herself up by grasping onto the edges of the windows, the wind ripping through her hair and clothes as the car gains speed. “YEEEEESSSSSSSS-”

“Wha—what the hell are you doing!?”

“I'M FLYING!” Even though you can't see her face, you can hear the grin in her voice.

“Get back in the car!”

“NOPE!”

You grip the wheel harder, trying to keep the car steady as Jinx lets one arm out the window. “You think I want to see you get decapitated by a passing semi-truck in the mirror?”

“Do you always think about me getting decapitated on the freeway?”

“It's what you'll end up like if you don't buckle up in the next three seconds!”

“YOLOOOOOOOO-”

“One-”

She leans out the window even further, now her stomach resting on the edge of the window rather than her head and shoulders.

“Two-”

She closes her eyes, a huge grin across her face.

“THREE-”

“OKAY OKAY! I'M DONE, I'M DONE!” She falls back into her seat, laughing as she throws her head back against the headrest. “That was fun!”

You glare at her through the mirror. “You're crazy.”

She scoffs. “I just want to live life to the fullest. Live fast, die young, and leave a pretty corpse.”

“The fuck? That's a bit morbid.”

“That's a lyric from a Social Distortion song, idiot.”

—

The two of you keep yourselves occupied by talking.

You've talked a lot. She has a lot of random and interesting information about a lot of topics that she seems to remember effortlessly. She's like a walking encyclopedia.

Eventually, the conversation turns to rumors about you two.

You twist the key, turning off the engine, and watch as Jinx steps out of the car and heads up to the front of her house. “None of that is true.” You follow her, shoving your keys into your back pocket.

She chuckles. “I've heard that you've broken several of a teacher's fingers.”

“Rubbish,” you respond, shaking your head. “Kicked out of your last school for setting the chemistry lab on fire?”

“Maybeee.” She grins. “Got it on with a teacher's daughter.”

“Rumor!”

“Mhmmm.”

“That was a rumor!” You throw your hands up in the air.

“Uh-huh.”

“Totally fake.” You groan. “I heard you beat up an entire football team by yourself at your last school.”

“Not entire,” she clarifies, smirking. “Just the quarterback. He started it.”

“Alright,” you say, climbing the steps and stepping onto the porch alongside her.

“I heard you've gotten an entire class to drop out.”

“True.”

“Oh yeah?”

You sigh. “Two years ago,” you clarify. “A couple of assholes decided they were going to prank me every chance they got. I got fed up and paid them a visit in the middle of a math class.”

“How many people?”

“Half the class.”

“God, you're terrible,” she says, “I like you.”

You both settle down on the porch steps, sitting side by side and facing one another. Your knees are touching.

“Tell me something true.”

“Hmm… something true?” you murmur, rubbing your chin. “I hate peas,” you state, glancing over to her with a smirk.

She chuckles. “No, not that. Something real. Like something nobody else knows.”

You nod, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Your hand trails down to her neck, fingertips brushing against her bare skin.

You press your lips to her neck, just below her jawline. “You're sweet,” you continue, moving to the other side of her neck. “And sexy.” Pulling back, your eyes meet hers. “And completely hot for me.”

Jinx scoffs. “You're wonderfully presumptuous,” she remarks. “Anyone ever told you that?”

“Every day,” you quip. “By myself in the mirror.”

You lean in, pressing your lips against hers. You pull back, foreheads touching, leaving just enough space between you to speak. “Go to the prom with me,” you whisper.

“Is that a request or a command?” she murmurs, bumping your nose with her own.

You rest a hand on her knee. “Come on,” you urge. “Just go with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It's just stupid. Prom is stupid.”

You sigh. “It's not stupid.”

“It really is,” she insists.

You press your lips together, trying to think of something to get her to change her mind. “People won't expect you to go,” you counter, scooting closer to her and bumping your shoulder against hers. “No one will bat an eye.”

She glares at you, leaning away from your touch. “Why are you so hellbent on this?”

“What? I'm not,” you protest with a chuckle, shifting awkwardly. “Come on,” you try, “it's not that big of a deal.”

“But it is to me,” she says. “What's in it for you?”

You scoff in response to her accusation. “So you think I need something to want to be with you?”

“You tell me.”

You turn away, avoiding her gaze. “You need therapy. Did anyone ever suggest therapy for you? Because if not, they should,” you blurt, struggling to maintain composure as your heart thrums in your chest.

“Answer the question,” she snaps, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing!” you exclaim in frustration, turning to face her again. “There's absolutely nothing in it for me, if that's what you want to know. I just-” you pause, catching your breath. “I just want to spend time with you, okay?”

You pull a cigarette from your pocket and raise it to your lips, fumbling with the lighter. Just as you're about to light it, Jinx snatches the cigarette out of your mouth and flicks it to the ground.

She heads towards the front door, and without looking back, slams it shut.

You rub your temples, seething at your own stupidity. You didn't mean to say those things to her—your frustrations were bubbling over, that's all.

You pull yourself up from the porch and kick the abandoned cigarette.

You really shouldn't have agreed to Caitlyn's deal.

taglist: @axolotl-arsonist, @crvcified-kinx, @axoluxy, @dyslexic-dreamer, @urdeadpoet, @iluvshifting, @shootingc, @freementallyillkid, @tr3nzit444s, @powderbomb-jinxed, @chickennuggetsaresootasty, @multiliker, @rick-grimes-girl, @angelsglitch

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