#AND THEN pulled out a book they had to read in their college course!

[carnalcrows]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[miirily]

Everything But Ordinary

Pairing — Suguru Geto x f!reader

Synopsis — Suguru has always watched people from a distance, seeking control in quiet observation. But when it comes to you, he finds that you somehow disrupt his carefully ordered world.

Content — college!au, Suguru has the biggest crush, denial is a river in Egypt, getting together, fluff, slight smut.

Word count — 4.5k

Suguru Geto has always liked watching people.

His earliest memories reach back to kindergarten, where he’d sit on the swing set, feet dragging lazy lines in the sand, or sometimes perched at the top of the slide if it wasn’t already claimed. While the other children screamed with delight, fought over crayons, or burst into tears over toppled blocks, Suguru simply watched. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t shy. He just liked the way people moved through the world when they thought no one was paying attention.

There was a certain rhythm to it all. Predictable, even poetic.

Watching has always given him a sense of understanding. Of leverage. Control.

And it has never really gone away.

All through elementary school, then middle school, he remains the quiet observer. Never a wallflower, but never quite the centre of attention either. He floats just outside the limelight, close enough to participate, far enough to see clearly. His classmates never notice the way he tracks their patterns, how Yu always scratches his ear when he lies, or how Mahito only laughs when someone else has already started. It isn’t nosiness. It isn’t perverse curiosity. It’s analysis. Behavioural study, if he wants to make it sound impressive.

Satoru, of course, thinks it’s weird.

“You’re like some creepy old Psychology dude,” his best friend says, sprawled across Suguru’s bed with a lollipop sticking out the side of his mouth. “Sitting in the corner like hmm yes, watch the humans in their natural habitat.”

Suguru simply raises a brow, folding another page of his book.

“I learn more watching than you do talking over everyone.”

“Yeah, but I have fun while doing it.”

It’s true. Satoru is the fun. He barrels into rooms like a living sun flare, loud, luminous and impossible to ignore. And Suguru? He’s the gravity that keeps things from spinning too far out of orbit. Satoru lives at the centre of every moment; Suguru lingers on the edge, collecting details like sand slipping into the creases of his palms.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to be part of it all.

He just likes knowing when to lean in and when to step back.

By his first year at college, Suguru would personally claim (without arrogance, just quiet certainty) that he’s become quite good at reading people.

It’s not a supernatural skill, not a sixth sense, but a culmination of years spent on the periphery, watching with keen eyes and sharper instincts. He can tell when someone’s lying, maybe not the words themselves, but the way their shoulders twitch half a second too late, or how their smile curves too far to the left, like it’s been practised. He can pick apart embellishments mid-sentence, the little hesitations between syllables, the way people tiptoe over truth like it's ice too thin to hold.

He doesn’t point it out. Not often. He files it away, categorises it, studies it like patterns in a deck of cards.

That’s why Psychology makes sense. Predictable, he knows. Satoru had grinned the moment he saw his application and said, “Knew you’d pick the major that lets you legally mind-read people.”

He hadn’t denied it.

And by the middle of his first semester, between personality theory lectures and endless papers on behavioural models, he comes to a quiet, frustrating realisation:

He likes watching you the most.

Not out of pure curiosity, and definitely not because he’s hopelessly smitten—not that he’s entirely blind either. You’re undeniably appealing. There’s a softness in your smile and a kind of unintentional magnetism in the way you carry yourself. You’re warm in a way that doesn’t announce itself. You don’t pull attention, you invite it. Suguru sees how people gravitate to you like moths to a flame, how you speak with that calm, unfussy confidence that makes others feel heard.

But that’s not what’s bothering him.

What bothers him is that he can’t read you.

Not easily, anyway.

You laugh at the right moments, your tone shifts exactly how it should depending on the context, your facial expressions are never exaggerated nor muted. You are, technically, perfectly normal. And that’s what drives him up the wall.

Because perfect normalcy is never real. Not truly.

People slip. They break character. Their real selves bleed through in the details. But you? You never show more than what you choose to. And Suguru suspects that you do it deliberately. Not maliciously, not even defensively. It’s just how you are. Carefully managed. Thoughtful. Intact.

Which means, while he’s deciphered the way his professor’s voice always gets sharp when he’s lying about grading papers, and how the guy three seats over adjusts his sleeves every time he’s nervous before speaking in class, he still can’t figure out why your eyes get glassy during lectures about childhood development. Or why your laugh tightens just a fraction too much when someone makes a joke about abandonment. Or why, when you think no one’s watching, you stare at your own hands like you’re trying to remember how they’re supposed to move.

Suguru doesn’t like not knowing.

And now he finds himself watching you, day after day, not from a place of judgment or infatuation, but with the same intensity he once reserved for puzzles he couldn’t quite solve. You’ve become his unsolvable equation.

And something about that is dangerously intriguing.

Suguru catches himself.

Not in the obvious way, not with some jolt of horror, not with heat flooding to his ears or anything embarrassingly dramatic. But it’s a quiet, sharp sting of recognition, the kind that creeps in just after the fact, when the moment’s already passed and it’s too late to pretend otherwise.

Because watching you was supposed to be clinical. Detached. An exercise in observation, like all the others before you. Just another case of controlled curiosity, his mind churning through cause and effect, stimulus and response, peeling back layers with surgical precision.

But now?

Now he realises he doesn’t just watch you. He looks out for you.

He notices the shift when your name appears on the class roster but your seat remains empty, and his gaze instinctively sweeps the lecture hall twice, first fast, then slower, methodically, just to make sure. When you finally show up, two minutes before the start of class, out of breath and with that pink flush blooming across your cheeks, your relief soft and radiant when you realise the professor isn’t there yet, Suguru catches his eyes lingering too long on the curve of your neck, on the way your shoulders fall from their tension.

It happens again. And again.

He tells himself it’s just pattern recognition. You're often late. That’s part of the profile.

Then he starts sitting next to you. Not always. Not enough to be obvious. But enough that it becomes habit, enough that he starts timing his arrival with yours, enough that he offers you one of his spare pens, blue ink, fine tip, when you pat your pockets with a mild curse and a sheepish smile.

And he notices your smile. That’s new.

He starts holding doors open for you without thinking. Starts remembering the kind of drink you like from the vending machine. Starts listening more attentively when you speak during discussion, even when what you’re saying doesn’t quite add up to any breakthrough insight, just so he can hear the cadence of your voice, measure it against the way you look when you say it.

It’s all still normal. Perfectly normal. He tells himself this often.

He’s just trying to understand you. You’re an outlier. A carefully balanced contradiction of warmth and restraint. Of light and opacity.

He wants to solve the puzzle that is you.

That’s all.

Right?

Right.

>>><<<

It doesn’t happen all at once. Suguru doesn’t wake up one morning with some grand epiphany, a bolt of lightning that shocks the truth into his bones. It happens slowly, the way snow melts in the first warmth of spring; imperceptible at first, until everything’s quietly wet beneath your feet.

He begins to understand that he no longer watches you just to decipher you. It's not a puzzle he’s trying to solve anymore. Not really. It's you he wants. Not your patterns or your logic, but your thoughts, your real laugh, the ones you bite back behind a hand when something truly amuses you. He wants to know what makes your eyes dull some days and glow on others. He wants to know your favourite music, if you sing in the shower, if you sleep with socks on or off. Mundane, gentle things.

He’s not an idiot when it comes to his own feelings. Not really. He’s just careful with them. Has always kept them wrapped in observation, tucked into silence like pressed flowers in a book no one’s meant to open. But now, with you, he’s stopped making excuses for seeing you, for seeking you.

You’re kind, in that quiet way that isn’t about performance but presence. You’re smart, always offering perspectives in class that he doesn’t expect, even when they’re wrong. And you’re lovely. Not just physically, though he’s not blind to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or the way your fingers move when you’re animated in conversation.

So when you casually drop an invitation to some frat party, one Suguru would never have attended otherwise, he says yes.

It’s the end of a long study session, your small group spilling out of the library into the muggy embrace of a summer night. The campus is dim and drowsy, lights humming, the sky still glowing faintly purple behind the trees. You’re laughing with one of the girls from class when you glance back over your shoulder and say, “Hey, you guys should come by Sukuna’s place Friday night. It’s nothing fancy. Drinks, music, people pretending they know how to dance.”

You don’t look at Suguru when you say it. Not directly. You look just past him, like you’re afraid of meaning too much.

You’re wearing that yellow dress again. The short one that cinches at the waist and clings to your hips like it was made to. Suguru isn’t watching the fabric move with your steps. Not really.

But he is watching you.

“I’ll come,” he says, almost before he thinks it through.

Your eyes lift to his, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Later, at the diner, the one with the greasy fries and sticky counters that he and Satoru always end up at after late lectures, they’re sharing a plate of fries when Satoru kicks at Suguru’s ankle under the table. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s well past midnight, slurping a strawberry milkshake through a red straw like some caricature of a delinquent movie star.

“You,” Satoru says, pointing the straw at him like an accusation, “are so whipped.”

Suguru doesn’t rise to it. Just reaches for another fry, dipping it slowly into the pool of ketchup and mayonnaise on the side of his plate.

“I’m not whipped,” he says evenly.

Satoru snorts. “You’re going to a frat party. Voluntarily.”

“Observation,” Suguru replies dryly, glancing out the window. “Purely academic.”

“Right,” Satoru grins, leaning back with that smug, knowing tilt of his head. “Make sure you take notes. On how her dress fits.”

Suguru doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. Because this isn’t about the dress. It’s about you and he’s done pretending otherwise.

And that’s how he finds himself at said frat party only days later.

The moment he steps through the front door with Satoru, who insisted on tagging along “for emotional support”, the noise hits him like a wave: bass thudding through the floorboards, too many voices talking over each other, someone screech-laughing from the second floor. There’s a faint smell of beer, sweat, weed, and perfume that clings to the air like humidity. The house itself looks like it's on the brink of collapse from sheer energy with students dancing half-heartedly in the centre of the living room, red cups abandoned on windowsills and side tables, and a guy on the sofa pulling hard on a bong like it's the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

Suguru’s gaze sweeps the room once, slow, measured, instinctive. It’s not paranoia. It’s just habit. Observation comes naturally. It always has.

He catalogues everything. The couple making out against the back of the staircase, the ceiling fan dangerously wobbling above the dance floor, the half-empty punch bowl in the corner. His eyes flick to the back veranda doors, open to let in the cooler night air, a few students spilling outside to smoke or just breathe.

Satoru elbows him with a smirk, all white hair and confidence in a black button-up he hasn’t bothered to button fully. “I see your antenna’s already up,” he shouts over the music. “You’re like a hawk. So romantic.”

Suguru doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s about to suggest they find a corner less likely to implode when Satoru claps his shoulder and disappears toward the kitchen, already calling someone’s name and weaving through the crowd like it’s his kingdom.

That’s when he sees you.

You’re standing near the open veranda doors, haloed by the golden glow spilling in from the hallway and the cooler light of the garden beyond. The breeze lifts a strand of your hair just so, your red cup dangling loosely in your hand. And you’re wearing black.

Sinfully black.

The dress hugs your frame in a way that’s entirely unfair, short but not scandalous, tasteful but toeing the line of dangerous. Suguru’s breath catches, and he hates himself just a little for it. For the way his pulse responds. For how hard it is to drag his eyes away.

But more than the dress, it’s the look on your face that holds him in place.

You’re biting your lip softly, not from nerves, but in that absentminded way that says your thoughts are elsewhere. The girl next to you, some chatty friend he vaguely recognises from your study group, is talking a mile a minute, gesturing with her own red cup like she’s explaining nuclear fusion.

But you? You’re not really there.

Your gaze flits across the crowd every few seconds, like you’re scanning the room without meaning to, your eyes searching for something or someone. Suguru watches the way your fingers twitch at your side, your posture too upright to be relaxed.

And then your eyes land on him.

For a moment, everything else dims. The lights, the noise, the chaos. Like someone’s turned the volume down just for a second.

Your face brightens, not dramatically, not in a way that screams movie-scene, but with a softness that he feels in his chest, a smile slowly blooming across your lips like you’re actually relieved to see him. You lift your hand, a casual wave, small and full of intention.

Suguru’s lips quirk into a rare, real smile.

He lifts his fingers in return, barely a wave, more of an acknowledgement, but he knows you see it. He knows you feel it. And in that moment, watching your smile, your eyes holding his across the sea of strangers and sound, Suguru thinks that maybe Satoru’s right.

Maybe he is a little whipped.

And he continues to look at you, of course he does. He always does.

But this time, it’s different. This time, you are watching him too.

From across the room, he sees the moment you gently excuse yourself from your overly talkative friend, nodding along to her final words before slipping away. You hold your red cup with both hands now, the hem of that black dress grazing mid-thigh with every step you take. Suguru's brows lift ever so slightly in surprise when he realises—you’re coming to him.

You’re weaving through the throng like you belong there, but your eyes never leave his. Not even once. It should be suffocating, maybe, the attention. But it isn’t. It feels like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then you’re there, right in front of him, the loud buzz of the party suddenly background noise to the way you tilt your head up at him with a smile that threatens to undo every thread of control he’s stitched around himself.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you say, voice light but somehow weighted, your eyes wide beneath the fan of your lashes.

Your cheeks are flushed. From the drink, maybe. From the heat of the room. Or maybe from something else entirely. Suguru isn’t sure. He doesn’t dare ask.

He shrugs, his own smile slow, deliberate. “You made the offer too tempting to decline.”

That earns him a laugh; your laugh, soft and easy and utterly beautiful, and he swears it echoes inside him louder than the bass that vibrates through the walls.

It starts there.

He tells himself it’ll just be for a moment. A quick chat, a drink, maybe a laugh. But one moment folds into the next like the warm press of dusk into night. Wherever you move, he follows, or maybe it’s the other way around, and he’s not sure when that shift happened.

You lead him to the kitchen at one point, letting him steal a sip of whatever too-sweet concoction you’re drinking from your cup. He grimaces and you laugh again, nudging him with your shoulder. He finds it hard to not smile in response.

Later, you both end up outside to escape the heat, the noise, the push of bodies inside the frat house. The garden is strung with fairy lights and half-hearted tiki torches someone thought were a good idea, but you both pass them for the darker part of the yard where a pair of mismatched sun loungers sit, abandoned.

You collapse into one with a sigh, letting your legs stretch out, toes pointed, hair fanned over the back. Suguru takes the seat next to you, more careful, more composed, but his posture softens the moment he hears you hum contentedly.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to stick around,” you say after a while, turning your head to glance at him.

“Neither did I,” he murmurs.

There’s silence after that. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that fills with night sounds and shared stillness. Somewhere, someone inside starts a new song and someone else cheers, but it all feels very far away.

Suguru doesn’t even remember where Satoru is, doesn’t care to look. Doesn’t sweep the crowd for details or observe the people stumbling past the open porch.

Not when you’re here. Not when you’re next to him, shoulders brushing, laughter still lingering in the air like perfume.

For the first time in a long time, he isn’t watching the world.

He’s just watching you.

>>><<<

Suguru leaves well past midnight.

The party has thinned by then. Only the die-hards remain, swaying drunkenly on the makeshift dance floor, and someone’s passed out face-down on the kitchen counter. Satoru gives him a two-fingered salute and a lopsided smirk from across the porch as he leaves with someone Suguru doesn’t recognise, mouthing “whipped” before disappearing into the dark.

But Suguru barely registers it.

He’s staring at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. It’s there, your name, glowing faintly in his palm like it’s something delicate, sacred. He must have checked it five times since you typed it in with a smirk and a quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

He stands on the sidewalk outside the house for a while, the hush of early morning curling around him, street lights flickering gold overhead. He stares at your name like he used to stare at you in those early weeks when you were still a curiosity, a riddle. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Maybe it’s still just seconds, but time stretches and bends in his chest until he makes a decision.

The next day, he texts you. Dinner? Just you and me this time.

You reply with a smiley face and an I thought you’d never ask.

From then on, it changes. Or maybe it finally begins.

Because Suguru has always liked watching people. It's what he's best at, what comes naturally, without effort. Reading the flicker of emotion across a stranger’s face, noting the subtle shift in someone’s posture when they lie, when they’re unsure, when they’re pretending.

But watching you? That’s different.

He likes how you dress up for him every time you meet, even when you pretend you haven’t. How your fingers smooth down your clothes absentmindedly the moment you spot him. He likes how your eyes soften the second they land on him, like the rest of the world fades in the periphery.

He watches how you bite your lip when you're nervous, like you did on your first official date when he complimented your earrings. He notices how you laugh with your whole body, your shoulders shaking, nose crinkling, joy unfiltered when he tells you stories of Satoru’s absurdities. He watches how you blush and giggle softly when he kisses you, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like you don’t want him to go anywhere.

You’re a puzzle, still. But not the kind he wants to solve and shelve away.

No, this puzzle, you, are one he wants to explore slowly, carefully, curiously. With affection. With intention.

You begin to draw him into your past, piece by piece. Stories about your childhood. About your father who abandoned your family when you were only five years old. About your mother who was broken but still tried to pretend, for you, for your older sister. The things that make you anxious. The things that make you you.

And he lets you into his. The quiet corners. The unspoken wounds. The reason why he’s always watched and never quite let himself feel. You listen like no one ever has.

In time, the line between watcher and watched fades entirely.

Now, when you walk beside him, it’s not about observation. It’s not about reading cues or analysing behaviour. It’s about being present. About feeling. About you.

Suguru comes to the quiet, almost amused conclusion one rainy evening, as you sit curled against him on his dorm bed, reading some highlighted article out loud and laughing at your own mispronunciations, that you are anything but perfectly normal.

And he berates himself, honestly, for ever thinking you were. Because how could he have been so blind?

You’re not ordinary. You’re everything.

He watches you the way one watches a masterpiece, something to admire, something layered and alive. He sees it in the way you treat people: your kindness is not performative, not for praise or reciprocation. It’s deliberate. Intentional. You speak gently to those who need it, but you don’t hesitate to call someone out when they cross a line. Suguru’s seen you stand your ground without raising your voice. You wield your dignity like a quiet weapon, and he finds it breathtaking.

You fit into his world like you’ve always belonged there, laughing loudly at Satoru’s stupid jokes, helping Shoko reorganise her mess of a dorm room while chatting about everything and nothing. And when Suguru meets your friends for the first time, he expects to feel out of place, the way he usually does in unfamiliar crowds. But you keep reaching for him, his hand, his sleeve, the subtle brush of your knee under the table. And he fits. You make sure he does.

But it’s at night, behind closed doors, when he sees the full, unfiltered truth of you.

And he can’t look away.

You unravel so beautifully beneath him.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, your hair spills like silk over the pillow, your breath hitches when he murmurs your name against your throat. He watches your face tilt toward the ceiling, your lashes fluttering as his hips roll into yours, slow and deep. Your skin is warm under his palms, soft and alive, and your body responds to him like it knows him, like it’s always known.

And when you whisper his name, Suguru, half-gasp, half-prayer, he feels like he’s the only one who’s ever truly heard it.

He watches your moans rise and fall like music, your fingers clawing for more, and it’s not just lust that tightens in his chest, it’s reverence. He’s never wanted anything the way he wants you. All of you. Not just your pleasure, not just your body, but your tired silences, your secret fears, your morning yawns and your late-night texts.

He wants to keep watching, keep learning, keep discovering. Because you are the exception. The most intricate, extraordinary thing he’s ever let himself love.

And it’s terrifying. Not in the way he once feared it might be.

Suguru’s not afraid of the feelings, those he’s long since accepted with the calm inevitability of someone walking into a tide that was always going to pull him under. No, the real fear, the real terror, lies in what those feelings have done to him. In what you have done.

Because for as long as he can remember, Suguru has liked to watch. It gave him a sense of detachment. A measure of control. People could be predicted. Studied. They had patterns, impulses, tells. If he could understand them, he could stay one step ahead. Always calm. Always composed. A master of silent leverage.

And now?

Now he’s given all of that up for you.

It terrifies him how easy it’s been. How willingly he’s handed over the control he used to grip with white-knuckled precision. All because of the way you smile at him. Not the polite kind. Not the pretty kind. But the one you reserve only for him, the one that lights up your whole face and makes him feel like he’s somehow suspended between heaven and earth.

It terrifies him when you curl up beside him on the sofa without asking, like it’s second nature now, your legs tangled with his, your head tucked beneath his jaw, one hand slipping beneath his sweater just to feel his skin. You hum when he wraps his arm around you, and Suguru feels it in his ribs like a soft implosion.

But it’s when you take control of him, truly, completely, that he understands just how far he’s fallen.

When you kneel between his legs like you belong there, looking up at him through lowered lashes, your hands slow and sure as they run along his thighs. And he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even think of stopping you. He leans back, legs parted, his breath coming shallow as he lets you touch him, guide him, claim him. Every inch of him surrenders. Every sharp, honed instinct to observe, to analyse, to dissect gone in the quiet press of your lips, in the way your voice goes soft when you say his name like it’s something sacred.

He lets you take him apart. Piece by piece.

And maybe that’s the most terrifying thing of all, because after years of watching people like puzzles, like patterns, like equations to be solved and sorted into neat mental files…

You are the one anomaly he never wants to solve. The one person he wants to surprise him. The only variable he doesn’t want to control.

Suguru Geto still likes watching people.

But he knows now, without hesitation, without shame, without fear: He likes watching you the most.

[bonefall]

Tbh the whole 'bloodclan bans families and hates Cat God' thing really reminds me of the anti communist bullshit I was fed in highschool history class.

Every day I count my lucky stars that I got educated in a well-funded school in a blue state. My teachers were shockingly good in hindsight, I didn't get half of the same propaganda some of my friends in other states got.

[jincapableoflove]

A Jar Full of Us | one-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: best friend! jungkook, best friend! reader, college! au, unrequited love (?), idiots to lovers, best friends to ??? to lovers, angst, fluff, implied smut.

Summary: You never meant for him to find them. Hundred little confessions, folded away, never meant to be read. But now, they’re in his hands. And Jungkook, your best friend, knows everything. But he doesn’t say a word. He just watches you, with that same unreadable expression, like he’s waiting for something. And this Valentine’s Day, you might just have to find out what.

Inspired by: To All the Boys I've Loved Before

Word count: 10.2K+

Warnings: arguments, jungkook is a jerk, misunderstandings (a lottt of it), angstttt, reader and jk are huge idiots, mutual pining, implied smut (its not too detailed so that the story maintains the emotional connectivity), romantic intimacy, tooth-rotting fluff.

MOODBOARD

A/N: HERE IT ISSS! this is the longest fic ive written! tysm for all the support yall have given me in the teaser of this fic. i put out a taglist thinking no one would actually want to be a part of it but so many of yall asked to be tagged 😭 im so grateful! tysm i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writng it. lmk ur thoughts abt it after u read too <3 ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYY (someone date me pls)

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the dorm, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night, one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to study.

Joy, your roommate, is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside your bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box. You pull it out carefully, as if it were a fragile secret, and place it on your lap.

A soft breath escapes you as you grab a nearby pen and a book, neatly tearing out a tiny slip of paper. The motion is second nature now. Without even thinking, you let your emotions spill onto the paper, crafting a fleeting moment into something permanent.

Tonight’s memory is simple, but it still tugs at your heart. Jungkook had sent you another blurry picture of the moon, captioned with a casual, “Looks kinda pretty, right?” He knew how much you loved the moon how it fascinated you in a way you could never quite put into words. And he had remembered. Of course, he had remembered.

A fond smile tugs at your lips as you write:

Jungkook remembers the little things.

Once the ink dries, you fold the note with care and add it to the collection. The box is almost full now, brimming with countless tiny confessions, whispers of feelings you’ve never had the courage to say aloud. A hundred little moments, a hundred little thoughts, all dedicated to the boy who had unknowingly stolen your heart.

Jungkook.

Jungkook, your best friend, who always saves you the last bite of his food, even when it’s his favorite. Jungkook, who sends you blurry pictures of the moon just because he knows you love them. Jungkook, who insists on studying with you, despite his major being entirely different from yours, just so he can make sure you actually open a book instead of procrastinating.

This little tradition of yours had started as a joke. One night, after an especially soft moment where Jungkook had wordlessly placed his hoodie over your head because you were shivering, you had scribbled on a piece of paper: Jungkook is warmer than the sun.

You had smiled to yourself as you rolled up the paper and dropped it into the box. It had felt oddly nice to preserve that moment, capturing the feeling of it in something tangible. So you did it again. And again. And again.

Until, one day, you realized you had written over a hundred of them.

You hadn’t meant to fall in love. And you certainly hadn’t planned to confess.

But each tiny slip of paper holds a truth your heart refuses to say aloud.

And you're going to keep it a secret forever.

You met Jungkook almost three years ago, during freshman year. The first time you met him, he had been infuriatingly kind.

You had been struggling under the weight of a precariously tall stack of books, barely able to see over them, when suddenly, a few disappeared from the top. Startled, you looked up to see Jungkook grinning at you, effortlessly holding the books you had nearly dropped.

"You looked like you were about to tip over," he teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

With a playful huff, you had responded, "Maybe I wanted it to tip over."

Jungkook had only laughed, shaking his head. "I'll catch you next time," he had promised.

That night, you had written a tiny note and slipped it into your box: He wants to catch me when I fall, even without me asking.

From that moment on, your friendship grew in ways you hadn’t even noticed at first. Midnight walks and late night study sessions became routine, pulling you closer together with every shared moment. What had started as swapping notes for the one class you had together turned into sharing secrets. Somewhere along the way, before you even realized it, Jungkook had become your favorite person.

The box was almost full now.

You had written so many things over the years, each note capturing a small piece of him, a fragment of your feelings. Some were simple observations:

Jungkook frowns when he eats something delicious.

His hair is always a mess in the mornings. He hates it, but I love it.

His eyes smile before his lips do.

But one night, you had written something different. Something deeper. Something that felt like the truest thing you had ever put to paper.

I love him.

The moment the ink dried, panic had set in. You had almost torn it up, almost removed it from the box as if keeping it there would somehow make it real. But in the end, you had left it. Because the box was safe. No one was going to see it.

Especially not Jungkook.

One afternoon, you came back from your classes, ready to relax and unwind before the stress of exams fully set in. You had been looking forward to a quiet evening, maybe even a movie marathon with Jungkook to take your mind off things for a while.

But the moment you stepped into your dorm, you felt something was off.

Joy was sitting on the couch, sipping her coffee, her expression smug... too smug. A knowing smirk curled at the corners of her lips as she watched you walk in, and instantly, your stomach twisted with unease.

You narrowed your eyes. "What did you do?"

"I did you a favor," she said casually, taking another slow sip of her coffee.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. "What favor?" you asked, dread creeping into your voice.

Joy grinned. "I found that little cute box of yours."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"Don't look at me like that," she waved a hand dismissively, as if what she was about to say wasn’t about to shatter your entire world. "It was just sitting there collecting dust, and I thought—what a perfect Valentine's Day gift for Jungkook. So…I wrapped it up and dropped it off at his place."

Silence.

A deafening, all-consuming silence as her words echoed in your head.

"You WHAT?!"

Your entire body froze in place, your breath catching in your throat as horror washed over you in waves. Your chest felt tight, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Joy merely raised an eyebrow, seemingly unbothered by the sheer panic on your face. "You're welcome," she said cheekily before promptly sprinting out of the room for her life.

But you couldn’t chase after her. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the ringing in your ears.

No. No. No.

This couldn't be happening.

Still desperate to deny the possibility, you dropped to your knees and scrambled to check under your bed, your hands shaking as you reached into the familiar space where you had hidden the box for years.

Empty.

It was gone.

The tiny wooden box that held a hundred little moments, a hundred little secrets—your secrets—was gone.

And now it was in Jungkook's hands.

Of all people… Jungkook.

Jungkook lived in an apartment a little further away from your dorm. The second the realization hit, you bolted out the door without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it nearly drowned out the sound of your footsteps against the pavement.

Your plan was simple. Get to his apartment before he did. You knew his habits well enough to guess that he was probably grabbing a late lunch at that fast-food place near campus. If luck was on your side, you still had time.

He hadn’t seen it yet.

He couldn’t have seen it yet.

As you ran, your mind spiralled into chaos, bombarding you with every possible scenario, each one worse than the last.

What if he had already opened it?

What if he read through every single note?

What if he found the one that said I love him?

Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

Jungkook was your best friend.

He was your person.

And now, he might know that you wanted to be more than just friends.

The mere thought made your chest tighten as memories of the two of you flashed through your mind. The times you spent together at the arcade, the countless movie nights, the time you and Jungkook had crashed Jimin’s birthday party with a ridiculous amount of booze.

And then…there was that moment.

The moment you almost confessed.

"I wish I could find someone who truly understood me," he had said one night, his voice softer than usual, lost in thought.

And you had almost said it. The words had been on the tip of your tongue, so painfully close—"I do."

But you swallowed them down.

Because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if saying those words ruined everything?

And now, thanks to Joy, you didn’t have a choice anymore. The truth was out there, sitting in a neatly wrapped box in Jungkook’s apartment.

The thought of his reaction sent your mind into overdrive.

Would he laugh?

Would he think it was weird?

Would he—

Would he reject you?

No. No. No.

You shook your head violently as you rounded the corner, lungs burning from the sprint. You’re going to get there before he does. You’re going to take the box back, and he’s never going to know about it.

That was the plan.

It had to work.

As soon as you reached Jungkook’s apartment building, you barely paused to catch your breath. Your legs ached from running, but panic kept you moving. You made a beeline for the mailbox section in the lobby, frantically scanning the names, searching for his.

Box 109.

You yanked it open.

Empty.

Your stomach sank.

Maybe his roommate took it upstairs? Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe it was sitting untouched on the kitchen counter, still wrapped, still safe, still unseen.

You latched onto that sliver of hope as you rushed up the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait for the elevator. By the time you reached his floor, your hands were shaking. You raised a fist and knocked on the door, urgency making your knuckles sting.

No response.

You knocked again, harder this time.

Then, finally, you heard shuffling from inside. A few footsteps. The creak of the floorboards. A pause.

The door swung open.

And there he was.

Jungkook.

Standing right in front of you, framed in the dim light of his apartment, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that draped over his frame in a way that shouldn't have been so unfairly attractive. His dark hair was slightly damp, messy from a shower, strands falling into his eyes. His lips were parted in surprise, his brows slightly furrowed, and the expression on his face—confused yet soft, dangerously soft—made your already erratic heartbeat lurch violently.

But then, your gaze dropped to his hands.

And the world stopped.

The box.

The open box.

Your box.

Your secret, sacred collection of unsent confessions, of words meant only for the safety of your own solitude. The pieces of your heart you had never dared to show him.

You felt like you were going to be sick.

No, no, no, no—

"You—" You gasped, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling rapidly as you fought for air. "You opened it?"

Jungkook blinked, holding the box loosely in one hand, fingers curled around the edges as if he had been going through its contents just moments ago. He tilted his head, his expression unreadable.

"Yeah," he said simply, as if the weight of the universe hadn’t just come crashing down on you.

Oh. Oh no.

Your legs wobbled. You had to physically stop yourself from collapsing right there in front of him.

His gaze flickered downward, and you followed it instinctively. In his other hand, he held one of the notes. One of your notes. The handwriting was unmistakably yours, a little smudged, a little rushed, but still legible.

He cleared his throat, then read aloud.

"I don’t know when it happened. But one day, he became my favorite person."

Silence.

It stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

You thought you might actually pass out.

"Jungkook, I—" Your voice cracked, but before you could even attempt to explain, he looked up and met your eyes.

And then, to your absolute horror—

He smiled.

Not a teasing smirk, not an awkward grimace, but a real, genuine, knowing smile. A little shy, a little amused, as if the weight of what he had just discovered didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it did you.

And then—oh god—he spoke again.

"So… do you still think my hair looks best when it’s messy?"

Your breath hitched.

Your brain went blank.

You wanted to scream.

The change was almost instant.

In the days that followed, Jungkook became… different.

Not in the way you had imagined, though.

You had been bracing yourself for a talk, a conversation where he’d tell you gently, maybe even apologetically, that he didn’t feel the same way. Or, at the very least, a moment of awkwardness before things slowly went back to normal.

But instead, Jungkook just… pulled away.

It started subtly at first. He stopped texting as much. The late-night calls that once lasted for hours dwindled into one-word replies and seen messages. The casual lunch meetups, the spontaneous arcade runs, the easy, natural way he used to gravitate towards you in a crowded room. all of it changed.

And yet, despite the distance, he never fully let you go.

Instead, he turned it into a joke.

Like today, when he leaned in far too close for comfort, during your shared class. His voice was low, teasing, the warmth of his breath fanning against your ear.

"So, I’m warmer than the sun, huh?"

You stiffened instantly, your hands tightening around your pen. He pulled back with a smirk, his dark eyes glittering with mischief as he watched your reaction unfold in real-time.

It was unbearable.

He kept doing it.

Whenever you tried to talk to him— really talk to him —he would either dodge the conversation entirely or turn it into something lighthearted, something unserious.

Like the time you finally found him alone, determined to just get it over with, to ask what had changed between you two. Before you could even get the words out, he cut you off with another one of those smirks, his voice laced with amusement.

"So I look best in black? Good to know."

And then he walked away.

That was when you finally got the message.

Jungkook had taken it as a joke.

He didn’t care about your feelings.

It was like the caring, affectionate boy you had known for years had vanished the moment your heart had been laid bare. Like now that the truth was out in the open, he didn’t know how to handle it so he chose to mock it instead.

And worst of all?

He was pulling away from you completely.

The time you used to spend together? Gone. He was hanging out with other people now, filling his days with anyone but you. And when you did manage to cross paths, he only acknowledged you through those insufferable little comments, those cruel reminders of the things you had never meant for him to see.

It hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

Because maybe you had hoped that if he knew how you felt…

He wouldn’t push you away like this.

The next week brought the on-campus career fair an event mandatory for all students. You weren’t particularly excited about it, but at least it was a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied.

Or so you thought.

Because that’s when you saw him.

And he wasn’t alone.

He was walking around with Hana, a junior from your college. They moved easily through the crowd, side by side, completely immersed in conversation. And then, to make things even worse... he laughed.

A real laugh. The kind that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle, the kind you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

Your stomach twisted.

You weren’t expecting him to make it this obvious.

If he wanted to reject you, fine. If he didn’t feel the same way, you could live with that. But did he really have to parade it around like this?

Maybe this was his way of sending a message. Maybe he wanted you to know, without actually having to say it out loud.

A silent rejection.

What a jerk.

These days, you barely have the motivation to attend classes. You go through the motions, waking up, dragging yourself to campus, sitting through lectures. But your mind isn’t really there.

Because no matter how hard you try to distract yourself, the brutal reality of rejection lingers like a shadow, following you everywhere you go.

Jungkook threw away your feelings like they meant nothing.

You should have expected it, right? You should have known this was how it would turn out.

Maybe you were never meant to be anything more than a friend to him. Maybe, the moment he realized you held deeper feelings for him, he got scared. Or worse, maybe he just didn’t care at all.

The thought makes your chest ache.

Jungkook has always been a romantic at heart. You’ve seen it in the way he talks about love, in the way he watches romance movies with a dreamy look in his eyes. But clearly, you were never part of that dream.

And now, because of your stupid feelings, you’ve ruined everything.

You used to be his best friend. The one he joked around with, the one he trusted, the one he leaned on.

But now?

Now he barely looks at you.

And if he does, it's only to throw some teasing remark your way like your feelings were some kind of joke.

The person you were most angry at was Joy.

Not Jungkook. Not yourself.

Joy.

Because none of this would have happened if she had just left that damn box alone.

That day after the box incident, the moment you stepped back into your dorm, she was there, lounging on the couch like nothing had happened. She glanced up as you walked in, a smirk already forming on her lips.

“I didn’t expect you to come back so early. I thought you guys would—” she wiggled her eyebrows—“get freaky after the whole confession, you know?”

She laughed, expecting you to groan or throw a pillow at her like usual.

But then she saw your face.

Her laughter faded. “Wait… what happened?”

You didn’t answer. You just walked past her and sank into the couch, staring at nothing, your mind still replaying every moment from earlier—Jungkook’s teasing, his smirk, his distance.

You heard Joy shuffle closer, her voice softer now. “I… I’m sorry. Did I send the gift too early? Did Jungkook not like it?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, no, he loved it.” You turned to her, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you so much for your help, Joy.”

Her expression faltered. “Wait… what do you mean?”

You shook your head, exhaling sharply. “Jungkook probably thinks I’m pathetic now.”

Joy winced. She sat beside you on the couch, guilt written all over her face. “I— I really thought—” she hesitated, chewing on her lip. “I was so sure, though. That boy always had heart eyes for you.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Well, now you know he didn’t.”

Silence settled between you both.

And for the first time, Joy didn’t have anything to say.

The next time you see Jungkook, he’s with Hana again.

They’re standing by one of the campus notice boards, deep in conversation. You don’t mean to eavesdrop you’re not even sure why you stop but the moment you hear them talking, something in your gut tells you to listen.

Hana tilts her head, her voice low but clear. “Are you sure she won't find out?”

Jungkook sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know… Maybe it's better this way”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your first instinct is denial maybe they’re not talking about you. Maybe it’s about someone else entirely. But deep down, you know.

As far as you’re aware, there isn’t another she in Jungkook’s life. Not before. Not when you were still close.

You’ve already been replaced.

Your chest aches as you piece it together. He doesn't want you to find out because he's probably in a relationship with Hana now. Because he doesn’t want to hurt you with a direct rejection, he thinks hiding his relationship with her is the kinder option.

It isn’t.

You swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to step back, turning away from the scene before you can hear any more.

You decide then that no matter how much it hurts, no matter how pathetic it makes you feel, you can’t bear being apart from Jungkook.

Even if he doesn’t love you back.

Even if he only sees you as a friend.

Losing him completely? That’s not something you’re ready for. Maybe you never will be.

So, you do the only thing you can think of.

You wait for him after class.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you watch the door, your hands clammy with nerves. When Jungkook finally steps out, your breath catches. He looks the same—same hoodie, same soft brown eyes—but everything feels different now.

Taking a deep breath, you step forward.

"I get it, okay?" you say, voice firm despite the way your throat tightens. "You don’t like me. And that’s fine. I hope she makes you happy."

Jungkook halts mid-step.

His jaw clenches. His fists curl at his sides.

"You don’t understand," he mutters.

"Then make me understand, Jungkook," you plead. You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to keep going, even as your last shred of dignity slips through your fingers. "Can we still be friends, at least?"

Silence.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

And somehow, that hurts more than rejection ever could.

There's a party happening, hosted by one of the biggest party animals on campus. Everyone is invited, and Joy insists that you go.

After much convincing, you finally give in. You've mended things with her and finally forgiven her. Maybe it wasn’t entirely her fault. Maybe you just needed someone to blame.

You decide to go, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the music, the drinks, and the endless chatter will help you forget, even if just for a night.

But you already know Jungkook will be there.

Probably Hana too.

And that's fine.

You'll just stay out of their way.

The party is in full swing when you arrive with loud music, flashing lights, bodies moving wildly on the dance floor, and the unmistakable smell of booze in the air. Bottles are being passed around, and the energy is electric.

A few friends from your classes spot you and pull you in, offering drinks. You take them all without hesitation, reaching for the strongest ones, letting the alcohol burn away the ache in your chest.

Jungkook is nowhere in sight.

Good. Maybe he didn’t come. Maybe you can actually enjoy yourself tonight.

With the alcohol settling in, your limbs feel lighter, your mind a little hazy. You dance to the outdated playlist blaring through the speakers, laugh with strangers, and let yourself let go just for a while.

But after some time, it all feels like too much. The heat, the noise, the overwhelming buzz in your veins. You slip away from the crowd and make your way to the rooftop, breathing in the crisp night air, letting it cool your flushed skin.

And then you sense someone else's presence.

You turn, your head spinning slightly, and there he is.

Jungkook.

You blink, wondering if you're imagining him, but his gaze is fixed on you, a slight furrow between his brows. There's something like concern in his expression as he watches you, taking in your drunken state.

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

The alcohol makes everything feel lighter, your body, your thoughts, your inhibitions. So when you see Jungkook standing there, looking at you with that unreadable expression, the words just spill out before you can stop them.

“I liked you, you know,” you mumble, swaying slightly. “But now I realize… I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook doesn’t react. No apology, no denial, not even a flicker of emotion across his face.

He just exhales softly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be fine,” he says simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Just like that.

The cool night air suddenly feels suffocating, the weight in your chest heavier than ever. You watch his retreating figure, your heart shattering all over again.

The next morning, you wake up with the nastiest headache ever. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your body feels like it’s been wrung out. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as the hazy memories from last night slowly piece themselves together.

Jungkook. The rooftop. The way he just… walked away like he didn’t care.

You shake the thought from your mind, dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point dwelling on it. Your exams are approaching, and you need to focus.

Deciding to get some studying done, you head to the library. The quiet atmosphere should help clear your head or at least distract you from the mess that is your life.

But the moment you step inside, your breath catches.

Jungkook is sitting at the table you both used to frequent, completely absorbed in scribbling something into a notebook. For a second, you consider turning around, but then something catches your eye.

He rips out a small piece of paper, folds it neatly, and without hesitation, slips it into a glass jar sitting beside him.

Your heart clenches.

Is it for Hana?

You don’t stick around to find out. Before Jungkook can notice you, you turn on your heel and walk away.

February 10th. Your birthday.

You wake up with a small flicker of hope. Maybe today would be different. Maybe Jungkook had been ignoring you all this time because he was planning something, some kind of surprise. That had to be it, right?

Surely.

So you wait.

By 3 PM, your phone is filled with messages from friends, family, even distant relatives reaching out to wish you. Everyone but Jungkook.

Not even a single text.

The hope that had carried you through the day starts to crumble, replaced by a hollow ache in your chest. You don’t go to class. What’s the point? This might just be the worst birthday ever.

That’s when Joy bursts into your room with a grin.

"You got a package!" she announces, holding out a neatly wrapped box.

Your heart leaps.

Jungkook?

You rush over, fingers fumbling as you tear open the wrapping, only for your stomach to drop.

It’s from your parents.

Disappointment washes over you, but you push it aside. They went through the trouble of sending you something, and you should be grateful. You take a deep breath, forcing a smile as you pick up your phone and call them.

"Thank you," you say, voice steady. Because at least someone remembered.

There was still time.

It was only evening plenty of hours left before midnight. Jungkook would surely text before then. He had to.

Joy, noticing your gloomy mood, tries to lift your spirits. "Come on, let’s go out drinking. Have some fun, at least for your birthday."

But you shake your head. "I’m not in the mood."

She sighs, clearly frustrated but doesn’t push you. Instead, she flops onto your bed, staring at the ceiling. "I hate this," she mutters. "I hate seeing you like this. And I hate him for treating you this way."

Her voice is laced with anger, but there’s something else there too—guilt.

Because deep down, Joy still blames herself.

If she hadn’t sent that gift early, if she hadn’t tried to play cupid, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe you wouldn’t be spending your birthday like this waiting for a boy who might never come around.

Jungkook didn’t text that day.

He forgot your birthday.

You waited all day, checking your phone every few minutes, hoping for a message that never came. Midnight passed, and still nothing.

The realization settles deep in your chest, heavier than you expected. You feel pathetic.

Pathetic for hoping. Pathetic for waiting. Pathetic for still caring.

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day.

You can’t afford to miss any more classes. You haven’t stepped foot on campus since your birthday, but today, you decide to go.

You have no motivation to see or talk to anyone. You tell yourself that you’ll just quietly attend your classes and head straight back home. No distractions. No unnecessary interactions.

But as soon as you reach campus, you notice a crowd gathering. There’s some kind of matchmaking event happening for Valentine’s Day tomorrow.

Great. Just great.

Everything about it feels like the universe is mocking you, rubbing salt on an already raw wound. Heart-shaped decorations, pink confetti floating in the air, and couples laughing completely oblivious to how suffocating it feels for you.

You try to move past the crowd, but suddenly, someone pushes forward, and you get caught in the chaos. You stumble, losing your balance and bracing for impact—

But you don’t hit the ground.

Because Jungkook catches you.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you out of instinct. His touch is firm and warm, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

For the first time in days, you look up at him. And for the first time in days, he looks right back at you.

He doesn’t let go of you immediately.

His grip stays firm, his fingers pressing into your arms like he’s grounding himself, like he’s hesitating. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something.

The music playing in the background fades into a distant hum. Everything around you slows. The laughter, the chatter, the festival lights it all blurs.

All that’s left is him.

Still holding you.

Your voice barely comes out, a whisper against the space between you.

“Do you even care, Jungkook?”

His hands tighten for a fraction of a second. His jaw clenches. And for a brief, fleeting moment, you think you see something something raw and unspoken flash through his eyes.

But then, like a switch flipping, he lets go.

So fast that you nearly stumble again.

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words cut through the air, sharp and merciless.

Then he turns. Walks away.

And you’re left standing there, alone in the middle of a festival meant for love.

This is it.

This is your answer.

Jungkook has made his choice.

And now, it’s time for you to make yours.

You have to move on.

That night, you decide. Jungkook was never meant to be yours.

It’s a painful truth, one you’ve been avoiding, but tonight, you accept it.

Needing a distraction, you start clearing out your closet, pulling out old clothes, forgotten trinkets, anything to keep your hands busy. That’s when you see it.

The pink heart-shaped box.

Your breath hitches.

You had snatched it from his hands that day, barely able to meet his gaze before bolting out of his apartment and driving straight back to your dorm. You had shoved it deep into your closet, hoping that if you buried it away, you could bury your feelings too.

For a moment, you consider throwing it away. What’s the point of holding onto it now? Jungkook knows. He read the notes, saw every piece of your heart laid bare. And in the end, it changed nothing.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid.

One by one, you pull out the little folded papers, unfolding memories you once held so close.

"I don’t know when it happened, but one day, he became my favourite person."

"His laugh is my favorite sound."

"I wish he knew how much he means to me."

Tears blur your vision.

You never wanted him to know.

Because you never wanted to lose him.

And now, you have.

The weight of it crashes over you all at once, and before you can stop it, the tears spill over, hot and relentless.

You clutch the notes to your chest as silent sobs wrack your body.

You’ve been holding the pain in for too long.

So tonight, you let the dams break.

And you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s Valentine’s Day.

You feel miserable.

Forget having a Valentine this year, you don’t even have a best friend anymore.

So you stay in bed all day, buried under the covers, refusing to acknowledge the world outside.

Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last year’s Valentine’s Day.

You and Jungkook had gone out for dinner not as lovers, not as anything more than friends, just two people who didn’t have dates. You remember how he laughed at the terrible restaurant music, how he stole fries from your plate like they were his.

You miss it.

No—wait. You shouldn’t be thinking about him.

Shaking off the thought, you grab your Nintendo Switch and start playing, trying to distract yourself.

Then the doorbell rings.

You ignore it. Joy is probably home she’ll get it.

But it rings again.

What is Joy doing?

Then it hits you that she probably stayed over at her boyfriend’s place last night.

With a groan, you push off the covers and make your way to the door. You swing it open, ready to shoo away whoever it is—

But there’s no one there.

Your gaze drops to the ground.

And then you see it.

A singular jar, placed carefully on the doormat.

You stare at the jar, a strange sense of familiarity creeping in, but you can’t quite place it.

Where have you seen something like this before?

Your mind scrambles for an answer, flipping through memories like pages in a book, but nothing surfaces.

With hesitant fingers, you reach down and pick it up, feeling the cool glass against your palm. It’s heavier than you expected.

That’s when you notice the writing on the lid, scrawled in red marker.

"To Y/N."

Your heart stutters.

You blink, trying to steady your breath, but the moment feels unreal—like you’ve stepped into a dream.

It’s only then that you notice the jar is filled with tiny rolled-up notes, crammed inside like secrets waiting to be unraveled.

Your mind starts spiraling.

What is this? Who left it? Why does it have your name?

Your hands tremble as you twist the lid open, the slight pop of the seal echoing in the silence.

You reach inside, fingers brushing against the countless little slips of paper.

With bated breath, you pull one out.

You carefully unroll it, eyes scanning the words scribbled in rushed, familiar handwriting.

"I lied."

That’s all it says.

Two words.

Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes trace the messy yet unmistakable handwriting.

Jungkook.

Your fingers tighten around the note as your pulse quickens.

It’s his.

The realization slams into you with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned.

Your breath turns shallow as the memory crashes into you—

Yesterday.

The crowd. The music. The overwhelming blur of people around you.

You had stumbled, nearly falling, only for Jungkook to catch you. For a fleeting moment, he held you close. His grip was firm, his expression unreadable.

You had searched his face, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you even care, Jungkook?"

You had wanted him to say yes. Even a little. Anything to make the ache in your chest feel less unbearable.

But instead—

"No, Y/N. I don’t."

His words had cut deeper than you ever thought possible.

And then he had let go. So fast, like touching you had burned him. Like you meant nothing at all.

You remember the way your heart had cracked, the way he had disappeared into the sea of people, leaving you stranded in the middle of a festival meant for love.

But now... Now you stand here, gripping a jar full of his words.

"I lied."

Your hands fumble as you reach into the jar again, pulling out another note.

Unrolling it with shaky fingers, you read:

"I thought if I pushed you away, it’d be easier for you to move on. But the truth is, I don’t want you to."

A sharp pang strikes your chest.

Your mind reels, and suddenly, you're back at the rooftop party—drunk, vulnerable, spilling your heart out in slurred words.

“I liked you, you know? But now I realize I was just wasting my time.”

Jungkook had stood there, silent, unreadable, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

No apology. No denial. Nothing.

And then, just as effortlessly, he had turned away.

"You'll be fine," he'd said before walking off, leaving you alone in the cold night.

The memory burns like an open wound, and yet, here you are, standing in your doorway, holding the truth he should have told you that night in the palm of your hands.

Your fingers tremble as you pull out the next note.

"I missed your birthday on purpose because I wanted to give you something that lasts longer than a text."

Your breath hitches.

He didn’t forget?

He chose not to text?

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips, but it fades just as quickly as the weight of his words settles in.

You reach into the jar again, pulling out another note, heart pounding against your ribs.

What you didn’t know was that Jungkook had spent hours writing your birthday note.

He had sat at his desk that night, a dozen crumpled papers around him, rewriting the same message over and over, never satisfied. His hands had been shaky when he finally folded the note and slipped it into the jar.

Because words were permanent.

Because he was afraid.

Because deep down, he knew that if he told you how much you really meant to him, he wouldn’t be able to push you away anymore.

And that terrified him.

Your grip on the jar tightens as you pull out the next note.

"I was scared you’d see me in the library that day. And you did. I almost stopped writing. But I wanted to finish this for you."

Your breath catches in your throat as a memory rushes back—

The library.

That afternoon, when you had finally dragged yourself back to campus to study for your exams, you had seen him sitting at your usual table, scribbling something into his notebook.

At the time, you thought nothing of it until you watched him tear out a tiny slip of paper and slip it into a jar.

A jar.

The very same one you now hold in your trembling hands.

Back then, you had turned away, assuming it was for Hana.

But it wasn’t.

It was for you.

Every note in this jar was for you.

Your vision blurs as you stare down at the tiny rolled-up messages still waiting to be read.

He had been writing to you all along.

By the time you reach the last few notes, your hands are trembling. Maybe you can’t even read them through the tears clouding your vision. The weight of all those misunderstandings, every ignored confession, every painful silence, every moment you thought he didn’t care, crashes down on you all at once.

Your breath is uneven as you unroll another slip of paper.

"You thought I didn’t care. But I did. I always did."

A sob escapes your lips, the ache in your chest unbearable.

You clutch the jar against you like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held because it is. Because it’s him.

Every unspoken word. Every hidden feeling. Every truth he was too afraid to say aloud.

And now, you finally know.

Your breath catches as you reach the bottom of the jar, realizing the significance there are exactly 100 notes, just like the box you once gave him.

With shaky hands, you pull out the 99th note.

“I was always bad at saying things out loud. So I wrote them instead. I just hope it’s not too late for you to read them.”

Your chest tightens.

You take a deep breath and reach for the last note, your fingers trembling. Slowly, you unroll it, heart pounding in your ears.

“Y/N, will you be my Valentine?”

The paper almost slips from your fingers as your vision blurs with fresh tears. A shaky laugh escapes your lips, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

After everything, after all the silence, the pain, the misunderstandings he’s finally saying it.

And suddenly, all that matters is what you’ll do next.

The moment the words register, you don’t think.

The jar nearly slips from your grasp as you scramble to your feet, your heartbeat hammering louder than the thoughts racing through your mind. Jungkook. He couldn’t have gone far he must have just dropped it off.

You fling the door open, barefoot, barely even stopping to grab your keys. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don’t care. You sprint down the stairs, nearly stumbling in your rush to get outside.

Your eyes dart wildly around the street, your breath coming out in frantic puffs. Where is he?

Then, you see him.

A few feet away, Jungkook is walking slowly, hands in his pockets, head low like he’s already bracing for disappointment. Like he’s already convinced you won’t come after him.

But you do.

“Jungkook!”

He freezes.

You don’t stop running until you’re right in front of him, breathless, clutching the jar close to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

His eyes widen when he sees you messy hair, no shoes, trembling hands still gripping his gift like it’s the most important thing in the world.

You swallow hard, voice shaking. “Did you mean it?”

Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, the night stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, barely above a whisper, “Yeah.”

Your chest heaves, breath uneven, voice shaking as you clutch the jar tighter.

"You absolute jerk." Your voice wavers, but the anger, the hurt, the sheer weight of everything he’s put you through spills out in every word. "You sat there, letting me think I meant nothing to you. And the whole time, you were—" You shake the jar, almost laughing in disbelief. "—writing these?"

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He just stands there, hands stuffed in his pockets, jaw tight, like he’s bracing himself for whatever you’re about to say next.

"You could’ve just told me, Jungkook. You could’ve just—" You pause, gripping the jar like it’s the only thing holding you together. "Why? Why lie to me?"

He exhales sharply, his voice rough, like he’s been holding it in for too long.

"Because I was a coward."

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to admit it so easily.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, looking away. "I thought pushing you away was the right thing to do. If I let you think I didn’t care, maybe you’d move on. Maybe you’d find someone who wouldn’t hurt you like I did."

Your throat tightens. Your fingers dig into the glass of the jar. "You were the one hurting me, Jungkook."

His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight of them almost knocks the air from your lungs. He looks wrecked.

"I know." His voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then why?" Your voice trembles, frustration bubbling over. "Why did you let me think I was chasing something that wasn’t even there?"

His jaw clenches, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. But then, his voice comes, low and raw.

"Because I was afraid you’d realize you deserved better."

Silence settles between you. A silence so thick it presses against your chest, making it hard to breathe.

You stare at him, your vision blurring. You should walk away. You should scream, cry, or do anything. But instead, you do the only thing you can think of.

You reach into the jar, grab a note at random, and shove it into his hand. "Read it."

Jungkook hesitates. Then, slowly, he unfolds the paper. His fingers tremble as he reads the words he once wrote.

"If I had been braver, I would’ve told you every single day how much you meant to me."

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the paper like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flick back up to yours, burning with something you can’t quite name.

"Say it now," you whisper.

Jungkook's breath catches. His grip on the note tightens like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

You wait. Trembling, heart pounding, eyes locked onto his. Daring him to finally, finally say it.

He exhales shakily. His voice is low, rough like it hurts to speak, but he does anyway.

"Y/N…"

You don’t look away. Don’t let him run from this.

His throat bobs. His hand curls into a fist at his side, then slowly unclenches.

"I love you."

A sharp inhale cuts through you. Even though you were waiting for it, the words hit like a tidal wave.

Jungkook shakes his head, almost laughing, but there’s no humor in it just raw, aching regret.

"I loved you then. I love you now. And I don’t think there’s a single version of me that won’t love you."

Your vision blurs, the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.

"Then why—" your voice cracks, "—why did you let me think you didn’t?"

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. His face twists with something close to pain.

"Because I was scared." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Scared that if I let myself have you, I’d ruin you. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth it."

Your hands clench at your sides. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

He nods. Swallows hard. Takes a step closer.

"I know." His voice is softer now. "And if I could go back, I’d do it all differently. But I can’t. All I can do is stand here and tell you—"

Your lips crash into his, years of longing and heartbreak unraveling in a single, desperate moment. Your fingers fist into his jacket, pulling him closer, closing the distance like you’ve been waiting forever. Because you have.

Jungkook catches you. His arms wind tight around your waist, grounding you, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. His grip is firm, unyielding, as if holding you is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The kiss isn’t soft it’s frantic, raw, filled with all the words you never got to say. It’s a confession, an apology, a plea. His lips move against yours with urgency, pouring everything into it, like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pushing you away.

Jungkook tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and a shiver runs through you as his fingers tangle into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand spreads against your back, pressing you impossibly closer, like even this isn’t enough, like he’d fuse you together if he could.

You melt. Every wall you built, every ounce of anger, every misunderstanding crumbling, dissolving into the heat of him. The way he kisses you feels like an answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking. Like a promise.

When you finally pull apart, neither of you lets go.

Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours, still uneven, still shaken. His hands remain on your waist like he’s afraid that the second he lets go, this will all disappear.

Your fingers stay curled in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His voice is raw when he finally speaks, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”

You exhale, shaking your head, the weight of everything still pressing against your chest. Your voice is quiet, but steady. “Then spend every day proving that you do.”

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh one that sounds broken and real, like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to have this moment with you.

“Deal,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you again.

The door barely clicks shut before Jungkook is on you again, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. There’s no hesitation now, no careful restraint only heat, only the raw, aching need that’s been simmering between you for far too long.

His body presses against yours, pushing you back into the door, and you gasp against his lips. He swallows the sound, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping over yours with slow, deliberate intent. He tastes like something addictive like want, like longing, like the kind of hunger that makes your stomach tighten and your knees go weak.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him closer. His hands roam down, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming along your bare skin. His touch is scorching, leaving a trail of fire wherever he moves. He pauses, his breath ragged, lips barely brushing yours.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice rough, uneven.

You shake your head, tilting your chin up until your lips ghost over his again. "I don’t want you to stop."

The words break something inside him.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you can feel the hard lines of his body, the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily against yours. One hand grips your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shudder, while the other slides lower, gripping your thigh and hitching it up against his hip.

A quiet moan escapes you at the feeling, and he groans in response, pressing harder into you. His lips leave yours, trailing a path down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, where he lingers. His teeth scrape lightly against your skin before he soothes it with his tongue, sucking gently, enough to make you arch into him, enough to make your breath hitch.

"Jungkook—" His name leaves your lips in a breathless whisper, and he exhales sharply against your skin, like the sound is enough to undo him.

His grip tightens as he lifts you effortlessly, hands settling under your thighs. Instinct takes over, and your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you across the room. He lays you down on the bed with care, but there’s nothing careful about the way he follows you down, covering your body with his own.

He hovers above you, his breath warm against your lips, his dark eyes searching yours. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then lower, tracing the curve of your bottom lip, his touch unbearably light.

"You’re sure?" he whispers, voice thick with something heady.

Your only answer is a whispered "Yes," breathless, certain.

Something shifts in him at your words. His lips find yours again, but this time, he takes his time exploring, savoring, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you. His kisses trail downward, along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone, his mouth mapping out a path of heat and sensation. His hands move with just as much purpose, slipping under fabric, pushing it aside, fingers tracing bare skin with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter.

Every brush of his lips, every slow, deliberate touch sends waves of electricity through you, igniting something deep and primal. Clothes are discarded in slow, teasing movements, the heat between you building with every layer that falls away.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, down your arm, over the curve of your breasts, his breath hot and uneven. He watches you, eyes dark with something intense, something almost reverent, as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along your bare skin.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmurs, voice filled with something deeper than desire.

You reach for him, pulling him back up, needing his mouth on yours again, needing more. He obliges, kissing you fiercely, like he never wants to stop, like this moment has been waiting to happen for far too long.

His hands explore moving towards your heat, his touch reverent yet possessive, like he’s memorizing every inch of you, like he’s making up for all the lost time. You arch into him, breath hitching, hands gripping onto his shoulders as heat coils low in your stomach.

"Jungkook," you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a plea.

His breath catches, and he exhales shakily. "I’ve got you," he murmurs against your skin, voice barely above a whisper. "I’m right here."

And then there’s no more talking only movement, only passion, only the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you both belong.

The air is thick with warmth, bodies tangled beneath the sheets, hearts pounding in tandem as the last echoes of your shared breaths settle between you. The world outside might still be turning, but in this moment, it doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him, skin against skin, the weight of what just happened pressing down like the softest, heaviest thing in the world.

Your body is spent, muscles trembling faintly from the aftershocks, but you don’t move. You can’t.

Jungkook is still holding you. One arm draped lazily around your waist, the other tracing absentminded patterns against your back. His touch is slow, soothing, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real. Like if he lets go, you might slip away.

You stay like that for a while, chests rising and falling in sync, your head resting just above his heart. The rhythm of it is steady now, no longer racing like it had been just moments ago. Still, there’s a softness to it, an unspoken question lingering in the quiet space between you.

It’s you who finally breaks it.

“So…” You shift slightly, fingers trailing absentmindedly along his chest. “Hana knew about the jar?”

His hand stills for the briefest moment before he exhales a small, breathy laugh. His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s amusement in it too.

“She didn’t just know about it.” His fingers resume their slow, idle circles against your bare skin. “It was her idea.”

You blink. “…What?”

Jungkook hums in confirmation, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Yeah. She was the one who told me to do it—to fill a jar with everything I wanted to say but couldn’t.” He pauses, then adds, “She also threatened to expose me if I didn’t.”

You scoff, though you can’t help the warmth blooming in your chest. “So let me get this straight… You couldn’t tell me how you felt, but you told Hana?”

Jungkook turns his head slightly to look at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the amusement in them is undeniable. “I didn’t tell her. She just… figured it out.”

Of course, she did.

You huff, feigning annoyance, but your fingers betray you, tracing soft, aimless patterns along his collarbone. “Still. She knew before I did.”

Jungkook grins, rolling onto his side to face you fully. One hand slips beneath the sheets, finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you jealous?”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

His laughter vibrates against your skin, rich and warm, before he dips down to kiss you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into it. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet.

Then, softer now, more serious, he murmurs, “Are you gonna answer me?”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Answer what?”

Jungkook leans over, reaching toward the nightstand where the jar still sits, its notes untouched except for the last one.

“The question,” he says, retrieving the single unfolded slip of paper. He holds it between you, and even though you already know what it says, your heart still stutters when your eyes skim over the words again.

Y/N, will you be my Valentine?

Earlier, you had left it unanswered, too overwhelmed by everything that had come before it. But now, after everything after confessions, after heartbreak, after finally finding each other again—there’s no hesitation.

You reach out, plucking the note from his fingers. Slowly, carefully, you fold it again, tucking it beneath your pillow like something precious, something worth keeping. Then, meeting his gaze, you whisper, “You never needed to ask.”

Jungkook exhales, slow and shaky, like something inside him has finally settled. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Because I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.”

Your breath catches. Not because of his confidence but because, deep down, you realize you’d never wanted to say no in the first place. Maybe you had tried to fight it. Maybe you had convinced yourself that the past had built too many walls between you. But now, lying here in the warmth of his arms, the truth settles into your bones like something that had been waiting for you to accept it all along.

It had always been him.

Your fingers tighten in the sheets as you search his gaze, looking for hesitation, for doubt for something to make this feel less like a dream. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. Just this moment you both fought so hard to reach.

Jungkook watches you, waiting, always waiting, his hand still resting against your cheek as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

So you close the distance.

You kiss him slowly this time, letting it sink in. The warmth of his lips, the taste of him still lingering, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same air, hearts beating in time.

And then, with a quiet, knowing smile, you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Jungkook’s lips part slightly, his expression shiftingas if those two words had knocked down every last barrier between you. And maybe they had. Because before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you against him again, tucking you close, his hand slipping into yours beneath the sheets.

Neither of you speak for a long time after that. You don’t need to.

Outside, the world keeps turning, time moving forward just as it always does. But here, in the hush of your dorm room, wrapped up in him, it feels like the universe has paused just for you.

Not to make up for lost time.

But to remind you that some things—some people—were never really lost at all.

And maybe, just maybe, they never would be.

EPILOGUE : Years Later – Valentine’s Day

The door clicks shut behind you as you step into the apartment, kicking off your shoes with a tired sigh. The evening air still clings to your skin, carrying traces of laughter and the lingering warmth of Jungkook’s presence.

It had been another perfect night one filled with inside jokes, stolen bites of each other’s food, and his usual exasperated attempts to get you to pick a restaurant instead of saying, “Anything’s fine.”

Jungkook is nowhere in sight, giving you the solitude you need. You don’t hesitate. Your steps are purposeful as you cross the room, crouching down beside the bed. With practiced ease, you reach under the frame, fingers brushing against the familiar surface of a small pink, heart-shaped box.

But this time, there’s something else.

Your fingers find the jar, the one that started it all.

You pull them both out carefully, as if they were a fragile secret, and place them on your lap.

Soft footsteps approach. Then, a familiar weight sinks onto the mattress beside you.

Jungkook’s voice is quieter now, fond. “Didn’t think I’d see those again.”

You smile, running a thumb over the worn edges of the box before glancing at him. “I don’t know what made me reach for them.”

He hums, gaze flickering between the objects in your hands. “Habit, maybe. Or fate.” Then, smirking, “You always did have a thing for digging up answers.”

Rolling your eyes, you pop the lid off the jar, fingers fishing out an old note. The paper is creased, the ink slightly faded, but you already know what it says.

"Y/N, will you be my Valentine?"

Jungkook watches you, expectant. “You never actually answered me, you know.”

You exhale a laugh, shaking your head. “Jungkook, we’re literally married.”

“And?” He leans in, teasing. “I’m just saying, a verbal confirmation wouldn’t hurt.”

You scoff but humor him anyway, fingers curling into his sweater as you whisper against his lips—

"Yes, Jungkook. I’ll be your Valentine."

His arms wrap around you, pulling you in. The jar sits forgotten on the floor, the pink box nestled beside it.

Once upon a time, you had pulled it out, searching for clarity. Looking for a sign.

You didn’t realize then you never needed the answers inside.

Because you’d already found them.

Because you’d found him.

And maybe that was the answer all along.

taglist: @iamstilljk @hirochan112 @withluvjm @amarawayne @jeon-has-left-you-on-seen @blueofocean @tattzjeon @tsick @stuti2904 @gukkiebabysblog @taekritimin123 @whisperingonyx @sadgirlroo @nerdycheol @hoshiskimchi @blueberriesm @kooksrqcer @minimoninini @dreamersparacosm @yok00k @whothefuckisthishoe @prxdajeon @darkangelfei @sunainasworld @kia091106 @khadeeeeej @welcometomyworld13 @noshametempo @bakuhoethotski @ohyeah35sworld

thank you so much for reading! let me know what u think about it <3

[barnesonly]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 11,6k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, fingering, oral (f receiving).

Part 1 | Next Part

You never really cared about grades. Not in the way people expected you to, at least.

What you cared about—truly, deeply—was the work. The texture of language. The way a well-written sentence could hold you still like a breath trapped in your chest. You loved writing, even when it didn’t love you back. Even when you stared at the cursor blinking on a blank page for hours, waiting for some elusive thread of brilliance to pull from your brain.

So naturally, when you got to college, you threw yourself into literature like it was a religion. You took every reading-heavy course you could find, submitted essays like confessions. And at the center of it all—without meaning to, without quite realizing—was him.

Professor Barnes.

James Buchanan Barnes to be exact. Your English professor.

He was the kind of man people noticed. Not just because he was handsome—though he was, undeniably, in a way that made your stomach twist. There was something else. A quiet intensity. The way he spoke, like he wanted every word to matter. Like he loved the stories he taught with a kind of reverence that made you feel something.

You didn’t mean to stare at him in lectures. But you did. Sometimes you’d forget to take notes, just listening to the way his voice dipped low while quoting a line from The Waste Land, or the way he’d tap his fingers—ringless—against the edge of the lectern when he was thinking.

And at first, it was nothing.

Just a crush. Harmless. Everybody had one. He was hot and he liked books. So what?

But it didn’t stay harmless.

It wasn’t just that you thought about him too often. It was the way your heart tugged when he read your essays aloud to the class—not by name, but you always knew it was yours. It was the way he looked at you sometimes, like he saw you, beyond the student mask. It was the slow, creeping realization that it wasn’t just a fantasy. It was him.

The moment you realized it was bad?

It was a Tuesday.

You’d just handed in your midterm essay the week before—something about grief and memory in Mrs. Dalloway, which you’d poured a piece of your soul into without meaning to. You weren’t expecting anything back yet. Not really. He usually took his time marking.

But that day, at the end of the lecture, Professor Barnes stood behind the desk with a stack of papers in hand. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow—again—and the ink smudge on his thumb made your chest ache in a stupid, ridiculous way.

“Some of you handed in… surprisingly good work,” he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t get used to me saying that.”

A few people laughed. You didn’t. You were too busy watching the way his eyes scanned the room—until they landed on you.

And then he said your name.

Like it meant something.

He held your paper out across the desk as you stepped forward. There were at least three people behind you, waiting to get theirs, but time moved weirdly slow. You reached out to take it—and his fingers brushed against yours.

Barely a second. A blink. But you felt it everywhere. Like heat crawling under your skin.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You mumbled something like “Thanks” and bolted back to your seat, heart pounding like you’d done something wrong.

You sat down, throat dry, fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded the paper. The front had his neat, tight handwriting in the corner: an A.

But it was the margins that ruined you.

Underlined passages, a few careful notes in blue ink.

“This line in particular—gorgeous imagery.”

“You really understand Clarissa. That’s rare.”

And, scribbled sideways along your final paragraph:

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

You stared at the words. You read them again. And again. Something bloomed in your chest—hot, sharp, a little terrifying because this wasn’t a silly little crush anymore. This wasn’t harmless.

This was the kind of thing that could burn you alive.

Now you were in class again. Third row, slightly to the left. The seat you always took, close enough to hear him clearly, far enough not to make it obvious.

Not that it helped.

Because the moment Professor Barnes started talking, everything else fell away.

He was walking back and forth now, quoting Heart of Darkness from memory like it was tattooed on his tongue. His voice—low, thoughtful, a little rough around the edges—seeped into you like warm honey. Every sentence he spoke felt deliberate, like he wasn’t just reciting, but feeling the words. Like he wanted you to feel them, too.

You stared at him. You shouldn’t, you knew that. You should’ve been taking notes, or at least pretending to. But it was hard to look away when he looked like that. Dark hair pushed back, strands falling loose over his brow. That perpetually rolled-up sleeves look like he just needed freedom for his hands—hands that moved while he talked, expressive and precise, like every thought had weight.

You wondered what those hands would feel like on your skin.

You blinked. Jesus.

Focus.

You looked down at your notebook, at the two words you’d scrawled nearly ten minutes ago: Existential dread.

Yeah. That sounded about right.

Because this wasn’t just a harmless crush anymore. This wasn’t butterflies. This was something else—deeper. Like longing. Like obsession. Like every inch of you was tuned to his voice, his movements, the way he smiled to himself when students actually engaged with him.

He laughed once—just once—and your heart actually fluttered. Like a goddamn cliché.

You weren’t even listening to what he was saying anymore. You were watching his mouth. His hands. The way he leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, shirt pulling tight across his shoulders.

It was insane. You were insane.

You bit your pen and tried to pretend your thighs weren’t pressed together.

He turned then, just briefly, his eyes scanning the room. And for the smallest second, you swore they landed on you. Held.

And then he smiled. It wasn’t directed at anyone. Not really.

But you felt it like a secret. Like a sin.

And you were so far gone, it almost felt holy.

You were still somewhere else—half in the lecture, half in your daydream—when the sound of his voice snapped you back to the present.

“So,” Professor Barnes said, closing his copy of the book with a quiet thud, “for those of you looking to earn a little extra credit, I’m assigning a supplementary essay. Optional. A close analysis of the text we just discussed. Two to three pages.”

A soft groan rolled through the room. A few students muttered under their breath. He smiled—just barely—and leaned his palms on the desk.

“It’s not mandatory,” he said. “But if you’re aiming for a higher final grade, this might help.”

He scanned the room again. A few hands went up. Maybe four. You didn’t think. You just lifted yours.

You felt your heart hammer as you did it, but you didn’t hesitate. If he gave you any reason to spend more time reading, writing, impressing him—you’d take it. You’d take it and run.

His eyes landed on you again. Just for a second.

He nodded, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll post the prompt later this evening.”

And then, like that, class was dismissed. A flurry of rustling paper and shuffling bags as students started rising from their seats.

But you stayed frozen for a moment, your hand already falling back into your lap, cheeks warm, notebook still open in front of you. You glanced down—your last note was a doodle of a heart you hadn’t even realized you were drawing.

Pathetic.

You began packing your things slowly, like you were in some kind of trance. You could hear his voice in your head. Good. Just that one word. Directed at the whole class, probably. But it felt aimed at you. Like it always did.

You glanced up again—he was talking to a student near the front, nodding, pointing at something in their book. He looked so natural in this space, like he belonged behind the desk, tucked into dim lecture hall lighting and surrounded by paper and ink and story.

You pretended to pack your bag longer than necessary. One strap, then the other. Notebook, water bottle, pen you never even used. You glanced up just in time to see the last few students trickle out of the room, footsteps echoing down the hall. He was still behind the desk, organizing his own materials—slow, methodical.

This was your chance.

To talk. To hear just a bit more from him.

Your heart was hammering again.

Now or never.

You walked down the steps toward him, every step feeling louder than it should. When you reached the front, he looked up—and God, why did his eyes do that?

That little flicker of recognition, the way his expression softened just a touch. It made your breath catch.

“Something you need?” he asked, calm as ever.

You nodded, gripping your notebook tight. “Yeah. Um—about the extra assignment. I just… wanted to ask if you had any specific direction in mind. Like, themes you’re hoping to see? Or…”

You trailed off, feeling ridiculous. You didn’t need clarification. You just wanted to hear him talk to you. Look at you like that again.

But he didn’t seem annoyed. If anything, his lips curved into something like amusement.

“I haven’t written the prompt yet,” he said. “But it’s not meant to trap you. I want to see how you interpret the material. That’s the whole point.”

You nodded again, trying not to look at his mouth when he spoke.

Then—he tilted his head, just slightly.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” he said. “You’re the best student I have.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m sure you’ll write something good. You always do.”

There was a pause. You looked up at him—really looked—and he held your gaze for a second longer than he should’ve. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But it was enough to make your stomach flip.

“I believe in you,” he added, softer this time.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you just nodded. Tried to smile. It probably came out wrong.

“Thanks, Professor,” you said, voice a little too quiet.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still clutching your notebook. Then he looked away, back down at his papers, like he hadn’t just lit a match and handed it to you.

“Any time.”

You turned before you could say something stupid. Practically floated out of the room.

And for the rest of the day, all you could hear in your head was his voice, low and steady, saying:

“You’re the best student I have.”

“I believe in you.”

And God help you, it meant everything.

———

You were halfway through folding laundry—something you only did when absolutely everything else had been avoided—when the notification pinged on your phone.

New Post: Professor J. Barnes | ENGL304

Your heart jumped.

You dropped the shirt in your hands without a second thought, practically diving across the bed to grab your phone. Your thumb hovered over the screen for half a second before you tapped it open.

Supplementary Essay Prompt: Choose a moment in the text where the internal and external worlds of the character collide. Explore how the author uses language to blur the boundary between thought and reality.

Your breath caught. Your fingers were already tingling.

It wasn’t just the prompt—it was him. You could see him saying it, hear his voice in your head. That same calm confidence, that steady rhythm of words that always made your chest feel too tight.

You should’ve taken a second. Thought about it. Planned.

But no. You opened your laptop and pulled up a blank document like your life depended on it. Because in that moment, it kind of felt like it did.

You wrote like you were possessed.

The ideas poured out of you, fingers flying over the keyboard. You didn’t even stop to fix typos—you’d come back later. Right now, it was about chasing the feeling, the adrenaline high of getting it just right. You were quoting lines from memory, twisting them around your own analysis, embedding yourself into the essay like he’d told you to.

“You write with so much feeling. Don’t lose that.”

God. You wanted him to read this and feel something.

Time blurred. Your tea went cold. Your laundry sat untouched. The sky outside your dorm turned dark, but you barely noticed.

By the time you finally paused, the document was nearly three pages long, and your hands were cramping.

You stared at the screen, pulse still racing.

You hadn’t written something like that in a long time. Maybe ever. And the worst part—the most dangerous part—was that the first person you wanted to show it to was him.

Not for the grade. Not even for the praise.

Just to make him see you.

———

You barely slept.

By the time the sun started bleeding through the blinds of your dorm, the essay had been proofread four times, margins adjusted, formatting obsessively checked. Every sentence felt like it carried weight—your weight. You’d polished it until it shined.

When you printed it out that morning, the warm paper in your hands felt fragile. Like a secret. Like something that mattered more than it should.

All through class, it sat in your folder, untouched. You could barely focus, barely breathe. He was talking about poetry now—some devastating line about longing and missed moments—and you were sitting there with a whole damn confession tucked between your notebook pages.

When class ended, you didn’t leave with everyone else.

You waited until the last of the students filed out. Waited until it was quiet again, just the low hum of lights and the soft sound of him gathering his things.

You walked down the steps slowly.

He looked up as you approached, brows raising in faint surprise. His expression softened like it always did when he saw you—like you were something familiar. Something good.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth. “Need something?”

You swallowed. Carefully slid the stapled essay from your folder and held it out to him.

He reached for it—and your fingers brushed again, skin against skin, just for a second.

He blinked down at the paper, then back at you. “Already?”

You nodded, trying not to look too proud. Or too desperate.

“I, um… finished it last night,” you said. “I know it’s not due until the end of the week, but…”

His eyes scanned the front page. Your name. The title. His lips parted just slightly.

“You wrote this last night?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “After you posted the prompt.”

He looked at you for a long second. Really looked at you and then he let out a soft, almost stunned breath.

“I’m impressed,” he said. His voice had dropped lower. “Most students would’ve just added it to their to-do list.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your cheeks were hot. Your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

“I wanted to do it while the idea was fresh,” you mumbled.

He smiled. Not the polite kind. The real one—the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle just a little.

“I’ll read it tonight and send the feedback on the class portal,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded, mouth suddenly dry. You were pretty sure you were about to black out.

“Thanks, Professor.”

He gave a small nod. “Have a good rest of your day.”

You turned, heart pounding, the edges of your vision almost fuzzy with adrenaline. The moment you got out you exhaled a breath you had no idea you’ve been holding.

———

You didn’t mean to start checking the portal that night.

You told yourself you weren’t that desperate. That you weren’t waiting on the edge of your seat like a lovesick idiot for a man who probably didn’t think twice after you left the room.

But still. Just after dinner—you peeked.

Nothing.

A couple hours later, again. Nothing.

Then again before bed.

And again in bed.

By the time the clock struck midnight, you’d refreshed the page more times than you could count, screen dimmed to its lowest setting, lying flat on your stomach with your chin pressed to the mattress and your heart pounding way too fast for someone checking a grade.

It wasn’t even about the points. Not really.

You just wanted to know what he thought. You wanted to see the words he would write in the margins, the tone he would use. You wanted to feel him reading it. Like somehow, through the feedback, you’d get a glimpse of his mind—of what you made him feel, even just for a moment.

You told yourself you were being dramatic.

But still, when you checked again the next morning, stomach in knots—

It was there.

You almost dropped your phone.

You opened it with shaky hands, eyes scanning too fast, breath catching before you even saw the score. Then you saw the comments.

“This is exceptional work.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Your insight is sharp, and your interpretation of the character’s interiority is more emotionally nuanced than what I usually see at this level.”

You blinked.

“You have a rare voice. Keep writing like this. Don’t hold back.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone. And then, at the very end, written beneath your grade:

“You think deeply. It shows. I hope you know that’s rare.”

You stared at the screen for a long, long time. The words swam a little. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to cry or scream or curl up under your covers forever.

Because he hadn’t just read it.

He’d seen you. And now? You weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

———

You barely heard a word during the next class.

He was lecturing about the structure of unreliable narration—something you usually loved—but today? Your brain was mush. All you could think about was his voice in those damn margin notes. The way he’d written you have a rare voice. The way it sounded like a compliment and a confession all at once.

You didn’t look at him more than usual. At least, you told yourself that. You definitely weren’t staring at his hands while he gestured, or at the way his jaw flexed when he read a passage out loud, or how the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled just enough to show the veins in his forearms.

Nope. Totally fine. Totally functioning.

By the time class ended, your pen had been frozen in your grip for at least fifteen minutes.

The students around you packed up their things, loud and casual. You moved slower. Not stalling. Just… composed. Careful.

You didn’t expect it when his voice stopped you mid-motion.

“Could I take a minute of your time?”

Your head snapped up. He was looking right at you. And it wasn’t the usual casual-professor look, either. It was steadier. Sharper.

Your stomach did a full flip.

“Sure,” you said, heart pounding.

He waited until the others were gone. The room emptied around you like it was routine now—just the two of you, a silence so heavy it hummed.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the edge of the desk, papers still in his hands, your printed essay resting neatly on top.

“I wanted to say this in person,” he began, voice low and even. “I meant every word of the feedback.”

You nodded, throat dry. “Thank you. That… meant a lot.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You have a voice most writers spend years trying to find. And you use it like you know something. Like you feel it before you write it.”

You swallowed hard. “I try to.”

He tapped his fingers lightly against the paper. “This isn’t just good for a student. It’s good, period.”

A pause.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

The way he said it—low, sincere—made your skin prickle.

You didn’t know what to do with the way he was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like he needed you to believe him.

“I… I think I am,” you said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’d hate to see talent like this go to waste.”

Another pause. The silence was a little too long.

Then he blinked, like he was shaking something off. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

But it didn’t feel like just that.

You nodded. Gripped your bag too tightly.

“Thanks,” you murmured again.

As you turned to leave, you could feel him still watching you. And this time? You didn’t try to tell yourself it was just your imagination.

You stepped out of the building and the sun hit your face, but it didn’t register. Your hands were clammy. Your breath felt shallow.

You walked on autopilot.

One foot in front of the other. Backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Wind pulling at your sleeves.

You couldn’t hear anything but him.

“I hope you’re taking yourself seriously.”

That voice. That look. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. Not even once.

It was just a compliment. Just praise. Just encouragement from a professor who cares about his students, right?

Right?

But your body didn’t believe that. Your chest was too tight. Your pulse kept rising in waves—like you were remembering something intimate, not academic. Like he’d touched you, even though he hadn’t. Not really. Not unless that one moment from a few days ago counted—the way your fingers brushed, the way his voice dipped when he said your name—

You blinked hard, trying to stop the flood of thoughts, but it was useless.

You’d gone overboard.

You knew that. It was a crush. That was all. A deep respect for someone brilliant and kind and… devastatingly handsome. Fine. So what if you’d fantasized a little. Everyone had a fantasy about a professor at some point, didn’t they?

But this wasn’t just a passing blush or an imaginary scenario you’d laugh off later.

This was… real.

And it felt dangerous.

You reached your dorm before you realized you’d walked the whole way without looking up. Your keys jingled like a warning as you fumbled them into the lock.

Inside, you dropped your bag. Collapsed onto your bed. Stared at the ceiling.

And when you finally closed your eyes, you didn’t see words on a page.

You saw him.

You saw the way he leaned on his desk. The way he looked at you like he meant every word he said. Like he saw something in you. Like maybe you weren’t imagining it at all.

Fuck.

———

The weekend nearly killed you.

It stretched on forever. Long, empty hours bloated with overthinking, every minute dragging its heels. You tried to distract yourself, tried to not reread his comments for the hundredth time, tried to not remember the way his voice wrapped around you like velvet, low and deliberate.

You failed, of course.

Every book you picked up made you think of him. Every sentence you tried to write dissolved into him.

You even caught yourself checking the class portal again—not for a grade, just to see if he’d posted anything. A new reading, a casual update, a breadcrumb.

Nothing.

By Sunday night, you were lying on your bed, wide awake, sick with anticipation. And when Monday morning finally came, it felt like surfacing after being underwater too long.

You barely registered the walk to class. Or the bodies shuffling into seats around you.

You just waited for him.

And when he walked in—tweed jacket, sleeves rolled, hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it too many times—you had to stop yourself from sighing out loud.

He greeted the class, the usual warm-but-firm tone, and started the lecture without ceremony. A discussion on characterization this time. You tried to listen. You really did.

But then—halfway through—his voice shifted.

“There was a line in one of the extra credit essays,” he said, “that struck me.”

Your heart stopped. Your head snapped up. You didn’t breathe.

He didn’t look at you. Not once. He just pulled a folded paper from his notes, cleared his throat, and read aloud:

“‘To want and to be wanted back—quietly, without performance or permission—is the loneliest kind of hope.’”

The words echoed in the room like a bell. Soft, sad, devastating. A few people hummed, clearly impressed.

You nearly sank through your chair.

“That,” he said, setting the paper down, “is an example of emotional precision. That kind of writing doesn’t come from talent alone. It comes from knowing what you’re talking about.”

He moved on after that. Smoothly. Professionally.

But you couldn’t hear a single word he said for the next fifteen minutes.

Because that line was yours.

He chose your words. Quoted them. In front of everyone.

And never once said your name.

But he didn’t have to.

Because when he read it aloud, he slowed down—just slightly. Let it hang in the air. Like it meant something more.

Like it meant everything.

———

After the lectures you made it back to your dorm in a daze.

Your legs moved automatically, your body going through the motions—door unlocked, shoes off, bag dropped—while your mind ran laps in circles.

His voice was still in your head.

That line. Your line. In his mouth.

And the way he read it aloud… like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t imagining all of it after all.

You sat down at your desk, heart still galloping. Opened your laptop. The blank document blinked back at you, waiting patiently.

You tried to focus. Tried to start something—anything. A short story. A paragraph. A line.

But nothing came out clean. Everything you wrote bled with him.

The way he looked at you when he said “I hope you know that’s rare.” The quiet authority in his voice. The pause before he moved on.

You blinked down at your screen and realized you’d written his name.

James.

You hit backspace like it had burned you. You buried your face in your hands and let out a groan of defeat.

That was when your roommate’s voice cut through the haze.

“Okay,” she said slowly, from the other side of the room. “I’ve let you spiral in peace for like… three days. But I’m asking now.”

You looked up.

She was sprawled on her bed with a book in hand, but she wasn’t reading anymore. She was watching you like a detective piecing something together.

“You good?” she asked. “Because you’ve been—sorry—weird as hell lately. And I’m trying to be chill but you’re kinda giving haunted Victorian woman who’s in love with a ghost and journaling about it nightly.”

You blinked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen? Like in class? Or is it a boy?”

Your breath hitched.

She squinted. “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you muttered.

“You didn’t have to.”

You groaned and fell back dramatically onto your mattress. “Please don’t look at me,” you said into your pillow. “I’m not okay.”

She snorted. “Clearly. Do you want to talk about it, or should I just keep making passive observations until you break?”

“…Just keep talking. I’m almost there.”

“Got it,” she said. “So. Whoever he is… you look like he read your diary out loud and then kissed your brain.”

You let out a muffled scream into the pillow.

She threw a pillow at your back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You stayed facedown on the bed for a full minute, motionless, trying to pretend you could melt into the mattress and disappear entirely.

Your roommate waited. Patient. Quiet, but unrelenting.

Eventually, you flipped over with a sigh, eyes to the ceiling. “Okay,” you muttered. “I’ll talk. Kind of.”

She sat up like she’d just won a prize. “Knew it.”

You stared at the ceiling a second longer. “It’s not… anything. Nothing happened. Nothing could happen.”

That got you a raised brow. “That’s how all great breakdowns start.”

You let out a small laugh. Hollow. “It’s just—I think I like someone. More than I should. And it’s… complicated.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Complicated how?”

You paused.

How do you explain to your roommate from the same college that you have a crush on a Professor?

How do you explain that the person you’re obsessed with stands three feet away from you every week and looks at you like you’re made of lightning? That he said your words out loud like they were precious? That you see him in every sentence you try to write?

You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted.

“…He’s older,” you said finally. “Smart. Confident. The kind of person who makes you want to be better without even trying.”

“Hot,” your roommate said knowingly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

“I take it this isn’t someone you can just—ask out,” she added.

You gave a miserable laugh. “Not even close.”

“Right,” she said, sitting back. “So. A forbidden crush.”

“It’s more than that,” you said, before you could stop yourself. “It’s not just that he’s… beautiful. Or that I’m, like, physically gone for him.”

You paused, chest tight.

“I think he sees me,” you whispered.

That silenced her. You could feel it—her shifting slightly, blinking slow, suddenly understanding the depth of this.

“Shit,” she said softly.

You smiled. Sad. Tired. “Yeah.”

———

It was later that night when you saw it.

You were curled up at your desk again, doing anything but concentrating. Notes open, highlighter in hand, but your brain was still stuck on him. On your roommate’s words echoing back at you. A forbidden crush.

You hadn’t checked your email in hours. You clicked into it on instinct—more to feel productive than anything else—and there it was.

Subject: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

Your pulse stuttered.

You stared at it for a long moment before you even opened it. Just the sight of his name—his full name—was enough to make your lungs tighten.

You clicked.

Hi, I just finished rereading your extra credit piece. I keep coming back to the line about “the loneliest kind of hope.” I’m curious—do you normally write personal pieces like that? Or was this a one-off? Either way, you have a voice worth nurturing. Don’t stop. —J. Barnes

You reread it five times.

I keep coming back to that line.

You had to press your thighs together beneath the desk. You were going to lose your mind.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might give you answers, trying to breathe through the way that one question knocked the air from your chest.

Do you normally write personal pieces like that?

He was asking. Inviting. Gently. Carefully. Like he wanted more from you—your words, your mind, your insides.

You stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box for a full minute before typing:

Sometimes. That one came out all at once. I didn’t mean for it to be personal. But it was.

You stared at it, then added:

Thank you. That means more than I can say.

You didn’t sign it. You didn’t need to.

You hit send with a trembling hand and then you just sat there, waiting. Heart pounding.

Your inbox chimed.

You opened it so fast it was almost embarrassing.

Got it. Looking forward to seeing you in lecture tomorrow. —J.B.

That was it.

No comment on how personal it was. No follow-up question. Just that.

And yet somehow it made your skin feel too tight, like he was right behind you, saying it low into your neck.

The heat of it stayed with you all night.

You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t.

You just kept rereading those twelve words like they meant something more—like maybe, tomorrow, he’d look at you the way he wrote to you.

And if he did—

God help you.

———

The lecture hall was already half full when you slipped into your usual seat, nerves jangling in your chest like wind chimes in a storm. You told yourself to be normal. Be chill. Pretend this was just another class.

It wasn’t.

You felt it the moment he walked in. He didn’t look for you. Not at first. He dropped his leather bag by the desk, rolled up his sleeves, and started sorting through his notes. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn’t sent that email. Like he hadn’t singled you out with a line that still echoed in your ribcage.

And then he looked up.

His eyes found you instantly. It was only a second. Maybe two.

But it hit you.

The look. Low. Deliberate. Like he was checking if you’d seen the email. Like he wanted to see how it landed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

You didn’t breathe until he looked away.

And then he spoke—cool, composed, voice smooth like water over stones.

You didn’t retain a word. You tried to. Really.

But every time he paced near your row, every time his hand brushed through his hair, every time he turned toward the whiteboard with that low, thoughtful hum—your mind lit up like a match.

By the time class ended, your pulse was a slow, burning ache in your throat You started packing up, hands shaking slightly, when his voice cut through the air.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

You.

Not someone.

Not a few of you.

Just you.

You froze. Looked up. He was watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that looked polite to anyone else—but to you? It felt like gravity.

You nodded slowly.

Your classmates filtered out one by one. Chatter, laughter, sneakers on tile. Then the door clicked shut behind the last of them.

He waited until the room was empty.

“You know… As I said the last time… You’ve got a gift,” he said quietly, leaning a little against the desk. “The kind that doesn’t come around often.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’ve got instincts I can’t teach.”

You swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “But if you ever want to take on a few extra assignments—off the record, nothing for credit—I’d be happy to give you material. Just something to help you grow. Expand your style.”

You blinked. “I—really?” you said. “You’d do that?”

“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “I believe in you.”

That did it. That ruined you.

You nodded, barely holding it together. “Okay. Yeah. I’d… like that.”

His mouth twitched—just the ghost of a smile.

“I have office hours on Thursdays. Drop by anytime.”

He said it simply. Lightly, but his eyes held yours just a little too long.

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your neck.

“…Thank you,” you said softly. “I’ll be there.”

———

Thursday

You finished your last lectures early, but your heart had been racing since breakfast.

All day, you’d told yourself it was just office hours. Just a writing meeting. Just a professor offering support.

But your outfit said otherwise.

The black skirt had felt like an indulgence when you pulled it on. Not too short—just enough to ride up when you sat. The knee-high socks. Soft. Your favorite pair. And the sweater you chose had a neckline that technically counted as academic, but dipped just low enough to make you wonder if he’d notice.

Your coat went over it all, of course. You told yourself it was just because of the weather.

You kept checking the time. Fixing your hair. Touching your lips.

At one point, you even considered not going.

But then you thought of his voice.

“I believe in you.”

And that was that.

You walked across campus with your coat cinched tight, thighs already tingling from nerves. His building was quiet this time of day—long halls, soft echoes, your boots the only sound on the floor.

You reached his door and paused.

Office hours: Thursdays 3:30–5:00

Prof. J. Barnes

You checked your phone.

3:27.

Close enough.

You knocked.

His voice came from the other side. “Come in.”

You opened the door slowly.

He was at his desk, reading—his reading glasses on, sleeves rolled, jaw resting on his knuckles like some kind of literary daydream.

And when he looked up—

God.

That look.

A flicker of surprise. And then something else. Something slower. Deeper.

“Hi,” you said softly, stepping in and closing the door behind you.

“Hey,” he murmured, setting his papers down and taking the glasses off. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Had a break between classes. Figured I’d stop by.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then his eyes dropped. Just for a second.

Skirt. The knee-high socks. Sweater.

And then back to your face, like nothing had happened.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk. “Let’s talk writing.”

You sat down, trying to look casual—crossed one leg over the other, smoothed your skirt out just enough to look natural, not like you were stalling for time. Your hands were cold. You pressed your thighs together to ground yourself.

He stood up, slow and unhurried, and reached into the stack of papers on his desk.

“I printed a few prompts for you,” he said, flipping through them. “Just exercises. Things to stretch your style a bit. Narrative voice, intimacy, sensory detail…”

You hummed some kind of agreement, but your heart was pounding too loud to think.

He found the one he wanted.

Then he moved.

He walked around the desk—behind you.

And then he leaned in.

He bent slightly, one hand bracing the desk beside your chair, the other holding the printout in front of you—and fuck, he was close.

You felt it before you even looked.

The heat of his body just barely grazing your back. His breath ghosting across your cheek. The way his sweater brushed your shoulder like he didn’t notice—or maybe he did.

“This one’s interesting,” he said, voice low by your ear. “Write a short piece in second person. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe a moment. Make the reader feel it.”

You could barely hear him.

Because all you could feel was him.

The warmth of his voice. The quiet scratch of his stubble. The scent of coffee and old paper and something darker, something sharp and male that made your stomach twist in heat.

He didn’t move away.

You stared at the paper, not taking in a single word.

He was still talking, still explaining—but your brain had gone soft. Liquid.

Your eyes tracked the paragraph at the top of the page, but all you could think about was how easy it would be to lean back just slightly. To tilt your head, to feel him against you—

“Think you can work with that?” he murmured.

Your lips parted. Your breath stuttered.

“Y-Yeah,” you said. “I… yeah.”

His hand lingered for one more second. And then he stepped back. Just like that. Like he hadn’t just undone you with his proximity alone.

“Take your time with it,” he said, settling back at his desk. “No deadline.”

You nodded, gripping the paper like it might float away otherwise.

But he was still watching you. And that look in his eyes said he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You made it out of his office.

Barely.

You didn’t even remember saying goodbye. Just some stammered “thank you” and a smile you couldn’t control—tight, awkward, desperate to seem unbothered.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

You walked fast. Your boots hit the tile harder than you meant them to. You didn’t breathe until you were out of the building and even then—it was shallow.

Your heart was hammering. Your face was flushed. And between your thighs, a slow, aching pulse had taken up residence, insistent and low, like your body was mocking you for pretending this was just academic.

You leaned against the nearest wall and closed your eyes.

His voice was still in your ear.

“Make the reader feel it.”

You could still feel him.

The brush of his sweater. The warmth of his chest behind you. His breath, low and smooth, brushing the shell of your ear like he’d said something filthy.

You pressed your thighs together.

It didn’t help.

You needed to do something. Walk. Call a friend. Throw yourself into traffic.

Instead, you pulled out the prompt he’d given you.

Second person.

A moment.

Make the reader feel it.

And all you could think was:

You can feel him behind you. You don’t move. You’re afraid if you move, you’ll do something you can’t undo.

You stared at the paper, your pulse thudding behind your eyes.

You were going to write this.

———

You made it back to your dorm.

Dropped your bag by the door, kicked your shoes off, ignored your roommate’s “hey, you okay?” from the other side of the room. You muttered something vague, shut your door, sat at your desk like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the Earth.

The prompt was still in your hand. You smoothed it out on the desk. Read it again.

Second person. A moment. Doesn’t have to be plot-heavy. Just describe. Make the reader feel it.

You opened your laptop. Opened a fresh document.

You weren’t going to make it about him.

You weren’t.

You were going to be neutral. Abstract. Maybe something about being in a crowd. Something literary. Polished.

Your fingers hovered over the keys.

Nothing.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

And then—like heat slipping down your spine—his voice came back. Low. Calm. Right next to your ear.

“Think you can work with that?”

Your hands moved before your brain caught up.

You feel his presence before he speaks. You don’t see him, not yet. But the air changes. The space behind you goes warm. Heavy. You pretend to read what’s in front of you, but you’ve forgotten the words. You’ve forgotten everything. Then his voice comes—low, deliberate, meant only for you. And suddenly you’re aware of every part of yourself. Your mouth. Your throat. Your thighs. The way your breath stutters and your hands twitch and you hope to god he doesn’t notice, even though some small part of you wants him to.

You froze. Your mouth was dry.

You hadn’t meant to write that.

You tried to steer it back—tried to fix it, smooth it out, make it sound less hungry—but it was no use.

The words kept coming.

And it was him. All of it. The desk, the breath, the sweater, the feeling of being looked at like he saw something in you.

You weren’t writing an exercise anymore.

You were writing a confession.

———

The next class passed in a blur.

You barely heard a word.

You tried, really—but his voice was like a siren’s call, and every time he turned to write on the board, every time he paused to take off his glasses, every time he looked at the class and let his eyes linger just long enough…

You lost your mind.

You held the printed pages in your folder like they were made of glass—carefully tucked between notes and old handouts, like hiding them there could somehow protect you from how exposed they made you feel.

When the lecture ended, students packed up. Loud chatter, chairs scraping, the usual rhythm.

You lingered. You always lingered now.

He was tidying his desk. Straightening papers. Tucking chalk into his pocket like it was something soft, something thoughtful.

You walked up slowly, your heart in your throat.

“Hey,” you said, almost too quiet.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And there it was again. That flicker.

Like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to—but didn’t mind.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

You slid the pages from your folder. Held them out to him.

“Just… the second person piece. The prompt you gave me.”

He reached for it—fingers brushing yours in that now-familiar way that made your pulse spike.

“You didn’t have to bring it today,” he said, glancing at the clock. “Still plenty of time.”

You shrugged, trying to seem light.

“I wanted to.”

He smiled—small, quiet. Like he liked that answer.

“I’ll read it tonight,” he said. “Looking forward to it.”

You nodded.

But he didn’t look away. His fingers lingered on the edge of the paper. And then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“Second person’s tricky. It only works if it feels real.”

Your mouth went dry.

“It’s… pretty real,” you said. “I think.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. Then he tucked the pages into his folder. Neatly. Carefully. Like they were something worth saving.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, voice lower now. “What I think.”

You nodded again, then turned and walked out of the room—fast.

You didn’t breathe until you were halfway down the hall. You didn’t even realize you were smiling.

———

You didn’t sleep. God, you tried. You tried so fucking much but literally couldn’t.

Your brain was too loud—buzzing under your skin, humming with thoughts you couldn’t shake.

He said he’d read it. He said he was looking forward to it. And still…

Nothing.

You kept your phone next to your pillow. Woke up every hour to check it. Opened your laptop in the dark at 3am just in case he’d replied by email instead. You refreshed the page so many times the school’s server locked you out temporarily.

Nothing.

By morning, your chest hurt.

Last time, he’d responded so fast.

A message just before sunrise, margins full of praise. Little notes like: “this is exceptional work” and “your insight is sharp,” and “you have a rare voice.”

But now—silence.

You tried to be rational.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he didn’t get a chance. Maybe he wanted to take his time.

But that part of your brain—the quiet, clawing part that knew exactly what you’d written between the lines—whispered something else.

You went too far.

He knows it was about him.

He read it and felt uncomfortable.

Disappointed.

Maybe he won’t speak to you again.

Maybe you ruined it.

You stared at your inbox.

The cursor blinked back at you.

Still nothing.

You sat there, wrapped in your blanket, the morning light slowly spilling through the blinds—and it felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

Just waiting.

———

You thought about skipping.

Just once. Just this class. Just until the ache in your chest faded and the memory of what you’d written stopped clawing at the inside of your skull.

But your body moved on its own.

Because it was his class.

And no matter how sick or nervous you felt, you couldn’t stay away.

You walked in a few minutes early. Sat near the back. Not in your usual spot—not where he’d see you first.

He didn’t look at you when he entered.

Not once.

He started the lecture like nothing was different. Same tone. Same rhythm. A few light jokes, a few questions thrown out to the class. He even brought up second person again, said something about how intimacy could be built through subtlety.

And you could’ve sworn, for one blistering second, that his eyes flicked toward you.

But then they moved on. He never called on you. Never addressed you directly.

And by the time class ended, your chest felt hollow. You stayed frozen in your seat as students packed up, dragging bags and papers and noise around you, like you weren’t there at all.

Until you heard him speak.

“Could you stay a moment?”

You looked up.

His eyes were already on you.

Everything in your body screamed to run but your feet carried you forward, slowly, until you were at his desk again—like always.

He waited until the last student left. Then he sat on the edge of his desk. Crossed his arms. Looked at you.

Not angry. Not cold. Just… Careful.

“I read your piece.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it hurt. You nodded, eyes on the floor. “Okay.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You know I asked for a moment. Not a confession.”

You flinched.

It wasn’t cruel, not even sharp. Just honest.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence hang, heavy between you.

And then, his tone was softer. “It was good,” he said. “Really good.”

You looked up. His eyes were darker now. Not unreadable—but serious.

“That kind of writing takes… nerve,” he said. “A lot of people hide behind the exercise. You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, voice too thin, too small.

“I know,” he said. “But I also know what it was.”

Your mouth was dry.

He stood up.

Walked around the desk, slowly, until he was standing beside you—close, but not too close.

“You’re my student,” he said, low. “This stays between us. Do you understand?”

You nodded, pulse loud in your ears. “Yes.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer.

Then—like a knife slipped under your ribs, deliberate and impossibly gentle:

“You should keep writing like that.”

He turned back to his desk. Pulled out a folder. Began sorting papers.

And you stood there, stunned, body humming like a live wire.

You didn’t know what any of it meant.

But you knew one thing for sure:

He didn’t want you to stop.

———

You were shaking the whole way home.

You didn’t even realize it until you dropped your bag on the floor of your dorm and your fingers missed the zipper. You had to sit down. Catch your breath.

The echo of his voice kept replaying in your head.

“I know what it was.”

“You should keep writing like that.”

Like what?

Honest?

Obsessed?

So turned on you couldn’t breathe?

You opened your laptop without thinking. Fingers moving before your brain could catch up. A new doc. A blank page.

And then—nothing.

You stared at it, your thighs pressing together, your pulse still high. You remembered the way he looked at you. The heat behind his eyes. The calm restraint in his voice.

You typed:

You shouldn’t want this.

Backspaced.

Typed again.

You feel his eyes before you see them. The way they linger. The way they burn.

Pause.

You swallowed hard and kept going.

He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown. You imagine what it would be like if he gave in. If he broke. You imagine it—how easily he could ruin you. How his hands would feel pressed between your thighs instead of paper and pages. How his mouth would sound gasping against your skin instead of quoting dead poets. If that voice of his sank low—not for the sake of analysis, but to whisper your name like a sin. And when you close your eyes at night, you let yourself beg for it. Let yourself ache. Because the thought of his discipline breaking is the sweetest torment you’ve ever known.

You stopped.

Chest rising too fast. Your thighs clenched so tight it almost hurt. Heat spreading beneath your skin like ink in water—bleeding, blooming, unavoidable.

You deleted the last paragraph. Tried again.

But everything that came out was worse. Dirtier. More desperate. Raw in a way that scared you.

And still— You couldn’t stop.

You rewrote it.

Because now every word felt like something he might read.

And maybe—maybe—he’d understand.

———

The classroom felt different now.

It wasn’t that anything had changed—he still walked in with the same ease, still set his notes on the desk like the weight of them mattered, still spoke with that velvet voice that made every line of literature sound like scripture.

But he kept looking at you. Not obvious. Never for too long. But enough.

Enough to make your chest tighten. Enough to make your fingers itch to write more.

You tried to focus. Really, you did. But it was impossible with the way his eyes flicked to you mid-sentence. The way he slowed just a little when reading a line about forbidden want, about restraint, about something unsaid.

You swore you stopped breathing when he said:

“Sometimes what’s not written on the page is more powerful than what is.”

And he looked straight at you.

Your thighs pressed together automatically.

When the class ended, you were already moving. You didn’t even think about it.

He didn’t ask you to stay this time—but you did. You walked straight up to him, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

He looked up when you approached, closing his folder slowly.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled the paper from your bag—folded once, printed, still warm from your hand—and offered it to him.

“I wrote something,” you said quietly. “Again.”

His eyes dropped to the page. Then back to you. His jaw ticked. Slowly, he reached for it—his fingers brushing yours, warm and deliberate—and the way your pulse jumped didn’t go unnoticed.

His voice stayed low. “You wrote this last night?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“It wouldn’t let me sleep.” You added, softly.

Something flickered behind his eyes at that. A shadow of something deeper. Something not professional.

He took the page. Folded it once more. Slipped it into the folder with the rest of his notes.

Then he looked at you. Steady. Measured.

“I’ll read it,” he said.

You nodded, trying to swallow the way your pulse had picked up again.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His gaze lingered for a half second longer. Then he gave a small, polite nod.

“Have a good afternoon.”

And just like that—it was back to normal.

———

Your evening was supposed to be normal.

Laundry. Ramen. Pretending to study with music too loud in your headphones. Maybe reading through your notes and trying not to think about him. Trying to pretend last night’s words weren’t still burning beneath your skin.

You were halfway through a playlist when your phone buzzed.

You didn’t expect to see his name.

Not in your inbox.

But there it was.

Subject: RE: Your Essay

From: Prof. J. Barnes

To: You

I’ve read your work. Come to my office hours tomorrow. We’ll discuss it.

That was it.

No greeting. No feedback.

Just an invitation.

You stared at it for a full minute.

Your stomach flipped. Your mouth went dry.

Your legs curled tighter beneath your blanket, and still—it felt like there was no safe position. No angle where the heat didn’t spread between your thighs like fire licking the edge of paper.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, itching to respond. To ask what did you think or what do you want from me or what the fuck are you doing to me.

But you didn’t.

You just read it again.

And again.

And all night long, it echoed in your head.

“We’ll discuss it.”

———

You were early.

Standing outside his office door with your pulse in your throat and your thighs already pressed together beneath your skirt. It was black. Tight. You’d worn it on purpose—just like the sheer black tights, just like the blouse with one button undone too many. Casual, but careful. Calculated. You didn’t need to tease him.

But you wanted to.

You knocked at 3:30 sharp.

The door opened.

He was alone. As always. He didn’t smile.

“Come in.”

You stepped inside. The room smelled like leather and old books and something faintly sharp—his cologne, probably. It clung to the air like static.

He closed the door behind you.

Locked it. You pretended not to notice.

He moved behind his desk, reached for the folder already laid open—your paper sitting neatly at the top, marked in pencil. His sleeves were rolled up. His fingers steady. His eyes unreadable.

“Have a seat.”

You did.

But your knees wouldn’t stop bouncing, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes dragged down your legs and back up.

He picked up your page. Cleared his throat.

And then—he read aloud.

“He never touches you. Not really. But the space between you is thick enough to drown in. And you want to fall forward. You want to drown.”

Your breath stuttered.

His voice was low. Deliberate.

And when he looked at you again, it was different.

Not careful. Not kind.

Hungry.

“Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “To drown?”

Your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

He stepped around the desk.

You watched him move like you were in a dream. His shoes slow against the floor, the air tightening with every step.

“I told myself I wouldn’t cross a line,” he said. “But you keep writing it. Begging for it.”

He stopped in front of you. Held out a hand.

“Come here.”

You stood slowly. Heart pounding.

He didn’t touch you right away.

Just looked.

Then, finally—finally—his hand came to your thigh.

And it was so soft at first. Just a graze through the sheer fabric. His fingers dragged up slowly, until his palm cupped the side of your leg and his thumb pressed in, feeling the tremble there.

“So… Is this what you want?” he murmured.

You nodded but he shook his head.

“No. Use your words.”

Your voice came out barely more than a whisper. “Yes. I want it.”

He exhaled—low, rough, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

“Good girl.”

His palm pressed more firmly into your thigh now. He was still watching your face as he dragged his hand up—under your skirt, over your tights, to the seam at the top where your heat radiated like fire.

He let his thumb brush over your center—barely—but it was enough to make you jolt.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re already this wet?” He chuckled, voice dark.

Your thighs clenched, and he smiled—cruel and soft.

“All that pretty writing,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “But you still couldn’t describe this right, could you? How it really feels.”

You whimpered, and his eyes darkened.

He leaned in—lips grazing your jaw as he hooked a finger into the band of your tights. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled them down just enough, letting the waistband settle below your ass before his hand slipped back up and under.

Hot skin. Calloused fingers. Finally touching where you needed him most.

He hissed through his teeth the moment he felt you. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

Two fingers slid between your folds, and your whole body shuddered.

He didn’t push in yet. Not right away.

He toyed with you first—rubbing slow circles, slick and lazy, watching your mouth fall open and your grip on the desk tighten.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let me see it.”

And you did.

You tipped your hips forward instinctively, searching for more friction. More pressure. More of him.

He pressed the pads of his fingers right against your clit and moved in slow, torturous circles.

Your breath caught.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

A moan escaped—soft and broken.

His fingers teased lower now, circling your entrance.

“Still want to drown?” he asked, voice ragged.

You nodded, eyes heavy.

“Say it.”

“I want to drown,” you whispered. “Please—Professor—”

That name did something to him. His composure frayed. Just slightly.

Then he pushed in—one finger, slow and firm, filling you so good it made your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck. So tight for me.”

You whined—hips shifting, trying to take more.

He gave it to you. A second finger joined the first, and he curled them just right, stroking that spot deep inside that made your thighs shake.

You clutched the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding you up.

And then—his thumb returned to your clit.

Slow circles. Firm strokes. Just enough.

Your whole body arched into his hand.

“You’re gonna come for me like this,” he murmured. “Messy and shaking and quiet, just like I knew you would.”

You were panting now, close—so close your legs were trembling, your head falling forward onto his shoulder as heat coiled tight in your belly.

And he knew.

He caught your chin with his free hand, made you look at him.

“Don’t forget it,” he murmured. “Next time you write… I want you to describe this.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“Come on. Let go.”

You fell apart. Silently. Violently.

Your body clenched around his fingers and your breath caught in your throat as your orgasm crashed over you—deep and dizzying, the kind that left you floating.

He kept his fingers moving, working you through it, murmuring praises against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d be this perfect.”

When you finally came down, chest heaving, he slid his fingers out gently.

You could feel how wet your thighs were, how your tights clung where they shouldn’t.

And then—fuck—he brought his fingers to his mouth. Sucked one clean. Watched you while he did it.

“I’ll be thinking about this,” he murmured. “Next time you write me something.”

The air was thick—soaked in sex and tension and the sound of your breath still stuttering in your chest.

He watched you recover, watched your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

And he didn’t let you go. Not yet.

He stepped even closer, crowding you between his body and the desk. His hands settled on your hips. His voice, low and rough, curled over your spine like smoke.

“Sit up there for me.”

You blinked—still dazed.

He lifted you before you could obey. Hands strong beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. The wood was cool under your skin, but he was warm, grounding, overwhelming.

He parted your knees. Looked down.

Your tights were still half-on, messy and clinging to the tops of your thighs. Your skirt was bunched up. And your cunt? Glowing. Glazed. Absolutely dripping.

He groaned when he saw you.

“God, look at you.”

You squirmed under his gaze. Tried to close your legs.

But he stopped you with a look. And then—he sank to his knees.

Your breath died.

Professor Barnes—on the floor—between your legs?

That should have been illegal. (…it probably was.)

But you couldn’t care. Not when he gripped your thighs and leaned in with that heat in his eyes. Not when he pushed your legs wider and stared like you were a feast he’d been denied too long.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “If you want me to.”

You shook your head, frantic. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

His tongue touched you—and everything ended.

The first stroke was slow. Deep. A long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that made your whole body jolt.

“Oh—fuck—”

He groaned into you.

You could feel it. The vibration of his mouth, the grip of his hands keeping you spread for him as he dove back in.

He ate you like a man possessed.

No teasing now. No pretending to be composed.

Just messy, desperate hunger—his mouth hot and wet, his tongue flicking your clit before he sucked it between his lips, just enough pressure to send you spinning.

Your hands flew to his hair.

You shouldn’t have done it but you did. You tangled your fingers in the dark strands and pulled, and he moaned.

Moaned into you.

Ground his face harder against your cunt like he wanted to bury himself inside it.

“Oh my god—“

You choked on a moan.

“Professor—please—fuck—”

He smiled into your pussy.

That was when he started to devour you.

Tongue lapping. Lips sealing. Chin soaked. One hand released your thigh and slipped back between your legs, fingers thrusting in deep while his mouth never stopped, never relented, never fucking slowed.

You were going to lose your mind.

Your vision blurred. Your hips stuttered and your heels dug into the edge of the desk, your cries broken and high and helpless as he coaxed your orgasm out of you with no mercy.

You came like a wave crashing.

Loud. Shaking. Gasping his title like a prayer you couldn’t stop whispering.

“Professor—Professor—fuck, please—”

He held you down, kept his mouth on you while you rode it out, licked you through it like he lived for the taste of you falling apart.

And then—only then—he pulled back.

You were soaked. Ruined. Boneless.

He kissed your thigh and rose slowly from his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were wet. His cheeks flushed. His eyes dark.

When he leaned in again, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck—gentle, almost affectionate.

And then he whispered, low and hoarse:

“You taste even better than you write.”

His hands were steady as they slid under your thighs, lifting you down from the desk like you weighed nothing at all. Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you—pulled you close, flush to his chest.

And he held you.

Not like he’d just fucked the soul out of you with his mouth.

Like he was afraid to let go.

His palm cradled the back of your head, and you breathed him in—cologne, paper, heat—and then you felt his lips brush the crown of your head, a kiss so soft it nearly undid you again.

“My good girl,” he murmured, voice rough with praise and something too raw to name.

Your breath caught.

“You did so well for me,” he continued, whispering it just for you. “So sweet, so responsive. You listen so well. Always such a quick learner.”

His hand traced slowly down your back, fingers splayed wide like he wanted to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re my favorite student,” he said—low, like a confession. “My brightest. My best.”

You felt heat bloom behind your eyes.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was a dangerous, stupid thing to say. But right then? You needed it. You drank it in like oxygen.

He pulled back enough to tilt your chin up, eyes locking with yours—blue and burning.

“God, you are so sweet,” he breathed. “My sweet girl.”

Your lips parted—but nothing came. No words, no sound. Just the soft thudding of your heart against his chest and the brush of his thumb stroking over your cheek like he worshipped you.

Then—

A kiss. Slow. Deep. A little shaky.

Not hunger—hunger came first.

This was something else.

Possession. Affection. Reverence.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he knew it was a line too far—but he’d already crossed it, and he was never going back.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breath unsteady.

He smiled. Just faintly.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “You want to write something beautiful—come to me. I’ll make sure you find the words.”

Your legs felt weak. Your pulse was a flutter in your throat, your heart pounding like it was trying to break free—and still, his hands were gentle. Grounding. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

You lifted your eyes to his.

“Professor…” You whispered.

His title on your lips made him still.

He watched you. Quiet. Waiting.

And that was when it rose. That slow, hot swirl of everything you’d been trying to ignore—craving, confusion, want. Not just for this—not just for his hands, his mouth.

You wanted him.

All of him.

So you asked it, soft and broken. “…What is this?”

His brows pulled together. Not harsh. Just quiet confusion, maybe even guilt. His fingers shifted on your waist, and you almost thought he’d pull away.

You didn’t let him.

“I need to know,” you said, a little stronger. “Because I can’t pretend this is just about… writing. Or just about today.”

You breathed in.

“I want it,” you confessed, voice low and fierce. “I want you. I don’t even know what that means yet, or what we’re doing, or if I’m crazy—but I want all of it. And if this is just a mistake to you, then—”

“No.” His voice cut in—firm and certain. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked up at him.

His jaw was tight. His eyes a storm. One of his hands rose to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing under your eye like he was trying to soothe something raw.

“This isn’t a mistake,” he said, quiet but intense. “It’s the farthest thing from it.”

“But it’s—wrong,” you whispered. “Isn’t it?”

“Too late for that,” he murmured.

And then, softer:

“I think about you all the time.”

The admission landed heavy in the space between you.

He stepped even closer, like he couldn’t help it.

“When you speak in class, when you smile… when you hand in work that’s so beautiful it fucking hurts to read—I think about what it would be like to touch you. To hold you. And now that I have…”

He swallowed hard.

“Now I don’t know how I’m supposed to stop.”

Your breath hitched. He leaned in again—his lips just a breath from yours and asked:

“Do you still want it?”

Your answer was instant.

“Yes.”

You said yes, and it was like something inside him broke loose.

Not with urgency. Not with hunger.

But with relief.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb sweeping along your cheek as he leaned in—eyes locked on yours like you were something holy.

And then, he kissed you. Slow.

Like a promise.

His mouth moved with reverence, not desperation—like he was savoring every second of it. Like kissing you was something he’d imagined too many times, and now that it was real, he was terrified to ruin it.

His other hand pressed to the small of your back, drawing you close again. Closer than before. His body warm and steady against yours.

He broke the kiss only barely—his lips still brushing yours, breath hot, voice low.

“Good girl…”

The words settled into your skin like silk.

You shivered, but it wasn’t from cold.

It was from being seen.

Wanted. Praised. His.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the feeling.

Warm in his arms. His voice still echoing in your ears. And your heart beating a little too fast for something that had only just begun.

Part Two

tags: @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae (dm or comment If you wanna be added to my tag list) 💋

[fairy-angel222]

Dilf! Toji helping his college gf study.. with his cock

Leaning against his door frame as he pushes it open wider. A smirk on his face as you shyly squeeze in past his frame.

You’re holding tons of books in your hands, peering up at him through your lashes as you hand them over. “So.. where do we start?” It makes his cock strain when you tilt your head with your lip nudged between your teeth. Curious as to how he of all people could actually help you study.

“You’ll see, doll.”

He sits you down on his lap with a silent groan. Flipping through pages in front of you as he watched your eyes barely scan over the page.

You huffed, turning around with your arms over his shoulder and a pout. “Come onnn, this is so boring.”

“Study, now.” His voice held no trace of playfulness, the deep rumble making you sigh as you turned back around. “Fine.”

You were so restless, twisting and turning in his lap making his grip tighten on your hips. The man’s breath hitching as his cock hardens.

“You know what doll? Change of plans.” You find his fat cock buried inside you instead. Your thighs twitching as you held back the urge to move, to grind, anything. You were so full, and he was so deep. You needed it.

“Please can i move?” You whimpered, arousal leaking lewdly out his thigh at the feeling of him sat directly against your spot. “P-plea.. haah— please.”

Toji grinned, his breath against your ear as he chuckled meanly. “How about this? For every question you get right, one point gets added to me absolutely ruining that tight little pussy of yours.”

Another whimper, “A-and if i get it wrong?”

“Minus one point of course. Hmm.. and let’s just say when i do fuck you. You won’t be cumming for a while.”

Question after question. Wrong answer after wrong answer. You were probably in the negatives already.

“T-toji ple-ase,” you hiccuped, small drops of tears threatening to spill at simply your neediness. You were so desperate for him to fuck you. Your pussy aching each time he turned you down.

Toji watched as you frustratedly wiped away your tears, pulling the book to you for you to read. Actually read. He was impressed, all so you could get a little bit of cock.

You spend at least thirty minutes studying the pages. Confident when Toji started asking questions. And you had every right to be, answering questions correctly after correctly. Your sniffled voice now turned smug making Toji’s eyes widen. That was hot and he fucking loved you.

“Now. Please fuck me,” you breathe.

“As you wish, doll.” He has you flipped over in an instant. Skirt bunched at your hips as he begins fucking into you. Veiny cock dragging against your walls with each starting thrust.

“Ahh— faster.”

Toji swore he could cum right there, speeding up the pace of his hips until he was ramming into you. Your body being rocked roughly against the couch’s fabric as you moaned loudly. Lips parted in thankful cries each time his hips met yours meanly. “So good, so fucking good.” You mewled, stomach tightening as tears welled in your eyes. Good tears this time.

Your back arched, hands hooking around his torso when your body began to tremble. So close to falling apart. “Nngh— Toji, ‘m so close.” You were right there at the edge, letting out a short scream when he reached down to rub at your clit.

“Yeah? Gonna cum f’ me doll? That’s it.. look at that.” He grunted, watching your eyes roll back with the blissful chant of his name. “It’s too bad i said you wouldn’t cum.”

You whined loudly when he slipped out of you, your hips bucking up towards him as your orgasm died down, adjusting to the new found emptiness. “You’re so mean Toji.”

He swiped his finger along your puffy lips. “I know. Now let’s try this again shall we?”

[heavenlybodies333]

No Body, No Crime -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

You weren't spoiled. You were just… strategic.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Because if your dad—Aaron Hotchner, SSA and reigning king of emotional repression—was going to bury himself in work and try to parent you like you were one of his agents, then he didn’t get to be surprised when you played the game better than he did. You didn’t ask for much. Just little things.

Like getting to “shadow” him at the BAU during your gap semester. Like choosing Quantico over Georgetown for undergrad because it kept you closer. Like getting him to increase your credit card limit when you maxed out the card. Or convincing him to overlook the tiny infraction of “borrowing” his SUV for a weekend road trip with friends.

You knew exactly how to tilt your head, how to time a tear, how to nudge just enough guilt into your smile that your dad would cave—every time. You weren’t evil. You weren’t even selfish. You were just surviving. Managing the rules of your world. And it wasn’t your fault he adored you too much to see the game for what it was.

But the one person who never seemed to fall for your act?

Dr. Spencer fucking Reid.

He always saw right through you, sharp eyes flicking up from some obscure case file or book you couldn’t pronounce, narrowed in suspicion like he was mentally cataloging your every sin. Which, knowing him, he probably was.

You noticed it the first time you visited the BAU after college started—your dad had you shadowing agents over the summer like it was some kind of behavioral bootcamp, as if watching grown men argue over blood spatter was going to build your character.

You tossed him a saccharine smile. “Hi, Spencie.”

His eyes narrowed at the nickname. “What do you want?”

“Relax.” You took a slow sip of your coffee. “Can’t I just come say hi to my dad?”

“Sure,” Spencer muttered, turning back to his paperwork. “After you manipulate him into giving you whatever you want.”

You blinked, still smiling—but your jaw tensed beneath it. There it was. You stepped closer, heels clicking deliberately against the floor. “Excuse me?”

"Shouldn’t you be at Georgetown?" he said, deadpan. "Or did you drop out to ruin your father's life full-time now?"

"Oh, Spence," you said sweetly. “Love the hostility. You been working on that in therapy?”

He exhaled slowly, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t let himself. “I just don’t get what you’re doing here.”

“I’m taking Dad to lunch,” you said innocently, ignoring how his jaw flexed. “Thought I’d cheer him up. He’s been tense lately.”

Spencer’s eyes were sharp. "Tense because he's dealing with cartel-level stress and also trying to keep you from wrecking yourself."

You stepped closer, tilting your head, faux-thoughtful. “You always get this mean when you’re jealous?”

“You know,” he said, folding his hands on the desk like he was about to read you your psychological profile, “most narcissists hide their manipulation better. But I guess you wouldn’t need to when your dad’s too busy trying to keep you from falling apart.”

He pushed. Of course he did. He had to. It was how he coped—with rules, with logic, with little glass jabs that he didn’t even know were personal until you cracked him wide open with a look.

“Maybe if you stopped playing the victim in your own fantasy,” he snapped, “you’d actually see that you’re hurting him.”

That one stung.

So you stepped closer, toe to toe, until your perfume hit his senses and he realized too late you weren’t backing down. Your voice dropped. “And maybe if you pulled your head out of your Harvard-educated ass, you’d realize not everyone had a dad to hero worship growing up. Some of us had to learn to survive by being clever.”

His breath hitched. You were so close.

“Now if you’re done psychoanalyzing me for sport,” you whispered, “I have files to copy. And a lunch to guilt out of my father. So kindly, fuck off.”

But Spencer didn’t fuck off. Not ever.

You turned on your heel, hips swinging with righteous satisfaction, fully expecting Spencer to do what he always did: grit his teeth, stew in silence, and pretend he wasn’t dying to argue with you.

But not today. Spencer followed you—faster than expected, footfalls hot behind you—and grabbed your arm just as you stepped into the copier room. The door clicked shut behind you like it had been waiting for a showdown.

You spun, voice sharp. “Touch me again like that and I’ll scream HR.”

He scoffed. “That’d be rich, considering you’ve probably got them all under your spell too.”

“Oh, right,” you snapped. “God forbid someone actually likes me.”

Spencer’s eyes were wild now—glinting, furious. “This isn’t about being liked. This is about watching you twist the knife every time your dad tries to connect with you.”

You folded your arms. “Is that what this is? Some weird Freudian thing where you can’t stand me because I have the relationship with him you always wanted?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smiled like it didn’t sting. “Don’t project, Spencie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” You leaned in close, almost smug. “You hate it?”

You were standing close enough to Spencer that you could see the gold flecks in his eyes, close enough that your voice was barely above a whisper when you hissed:

"You know what your problem is, Spencer? You're so desperate to be the smartest person in the room that you can't stand when someone else plays the game better than you. So why don't you take your three degrees and your superiority complex and shove them up your—"

"What's going on in here?" Your blood turned to ice. That voice. That tone. The one your dad used when he walked into interrogation rooms and needed immediate answers.

You spun around, and there he was. Aaron Hotchner, standing in the doorway with case files in his hand and an expression that made your stomach drop to your shoes. His eyes moved between you and Spencer—taking in the proximity, the tension, the way Spencer looked like he'd been slapped.

"Dad—" you started, but he held up one hand.

"I asked what's going on." His voice was deadly quiet. "And I'd like an answer."

Spencer cleared his throat. "We were just—"

"I wasn't talking to you, Reid." Hotch's gaze never left your face. "I was talking to my daughter, who I'm hoping can explain why she just told a federal agent to shove his degrees up his ass."

Your cheeks burned. "You didn't hear the whole—"

"What did you just say?"

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish. "I didn't—that's not—"

"You didn't what?" Hotch stepped into the small room, and suddenly the space felt suffocating. "You didn't just curse at Dr. Reid? You didn't just tell him to shove his education somewhere anatomically impossible?"

Spencer had pressed himself against the copier, looking like he wanted to disappear into the machine itself.

"Dad, you don't understand," you said, hating how young you sounded. "He was being—"

"I don't care what he was being." Hotch's expression was stone-cold professional now, the same look he gave suspects who tried to lie their way out of evidence. "What I care about is the language that just came out of my daughter's mouth."

You tried a different approach, the one that usually worked. Eyes wide, voice small. "Daddy, it wasn't what it sounded like—"

"Don't." The single word cut through the air like a blade. "Don't you dare try that with me right now."

Your stomach dropped. He'd never spoken to you like that before. Never looked at you like that—like he was seeing a stranger wearing his daughter's face.

"Apologize," he said quietly. "Right now."

"But he—"

"Right. Now."

The authority in his voice made you flinch. This wasn't your dad who let you get away with borrowed cars and extended curfews. This was SSA Aaron Hotchner, and he was not playing games.

You turned to Spencer, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "Spencer, I—" Your voice caught. "I'm sorry. What I said was... it was uncalled for and rude. And you didn't deserve it."

Spencer nodded quickly, clearly uncomfortable. "It's fine—"

"No," Hotch interrupted, his voice still that terrible, unfamiliar cold. "It's not fine." He looked at you, and the disappointment in his eyes made your chest ache. "I have never—not once—seen this kind of behavior from you. The language, the disrespect, the complete lack of professionalism."

Your eyes were starting to burn. "Dad—"

"I'm talking." He stepped closer, and you automatically stepped back until you hit the wall. "I don't know who that was, but it wasn't my daughter. My daughter doesn't speak to people like that. My daughter was raised better than that."

The words hit like physical blows. You could feel tears threatening, but his expression told you they wouldn't help. Not this time.

"I hope," he continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "that I never see that person again. Because if I do, we're going to have a very different conversation about respect and consequences."

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice.

He walked out without another word, leaving the door open behind him and a silence so thick it felt like the air had turned solid. Spencer didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. The copier let out a mechanical sigh, like it too had been holding tension.

You wiped your face before the tears could fully form, dragging your palm across your cheek and hating yourself for letting any of this get under your skin.

Spencer shifted.

You turned on him before he could speak. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

He held up his hands like he was surrendering, but his eyes didn’t lose that look—half apology, half the same sharp scrutiny that started this whole mess.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” he said quietly.

You laughed, short and bitter. “Oh, congratulations then. Mission unaccomplished.”

You were still smoothing down your skirt when your phone buzzed with a message from your dad.

Dad: “Reid needs your help pulling Rhode Island cold case files from storage. Top floor file room is incomplete. Check sublevel 3. Serial code #R-0449 through #R-0510.”

You stared at it for a second. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Spencer peered over your shoulder. His lips twitched. “Cold case hell. Sublevel three.”

You groaned. “That’s like ten miles of asbestos and dust.”

Spencer shrugged, already buttoning his shirt. “Hope you wore comfortable shoes.”

Cold case hell lived up to its name.

You followed Spencer down a staircase with cracked linoleum and flickering fluorescent lights, the walls narrowing like they were intentionally trying to squeeze all the joy from the room. It was ice-cold, the hum of neglected air systems echoing like ghosts. Filing cabinets lined the walls like a maze of bureaucratic tombstones.

“Jesus,” you muttered. “Is this where joy goes to die?”

Spencer, already scanning labels, didn’t respond. You took that as a challenge.

The first few shelves were just wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, which was—of course—why you didn’t wait your turn. Every time Spencer found a section he wanted to comb through, you slid in behind him, brushing close, your chest grazing his back or your ass brushing low and deliberate against him as you squeezed by.

The third time you did it, you felt it. He was getting hard.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, eyes gleaming with delight as you bent to “check” a lower shelf, ass pushed back just slightly more than necessary.

Spencer hissed softly behind you. “Could you maybe not—”

“What?” You looked back over your shoulder with mock-innocence. “You’re in the way.”

“It’s a single-person aisle,” he said through gritted teeth. “You could wait.”

“But waiting’s so boring,” you whispered, brushing past him again—and this time you pressed. Hard enough to make him swear under his breath.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, voice wrecked. His hands were gripping a cabinet drawer like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You paused beside him, lips parted like you were about to apologize—but your eyes were anything but sorry. You stepped in closer, chest brushing against his arm, and leaned down low, voice a feather-light whisper against his ear.

“I know.”

He turned to face you, jaw tight, eyes scanning you like he was trying to build an FBI profile just to survive the next five minutes.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

You smiled slowly. “Doing what?”

He exhaled through his nose. Controlled. Like he was counting prime numbers in his head. “You’re not even pretending to be subtle.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Why would I pretend, Spencie? You’re clearly enjoying it.”

His eyes dropped—traitorously—to your lips, then lower, to where your shirt had ridden up just enough to flash skin. Then he clenched his jaw and looked away again.

You brushed past him again, this time even slower, your hip grazing the front of his slacks—and there it was: a low, stuttered inhale. You bit your lip to keep from moaning just at the sound of it.

You turned back around with mock concern, fingers lacing behind your back. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, just opened another drawer. His hands were shaking a little.

You let the silence build as you stepped into another tight aisle. Then, just as he turned to join you, you stopped right in front of him, pretending to scan the file tabs with exaggerated care.

He had to halt, nearly colliding into you—and there it was again: the perfect excuse.

You bent forward painfully slow, ass grinding deliberately against the hard line you could feel pressed into the front of his pants.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You pretended not to hear. But when you straightened up again, you didn’t move. You stood there, flush against him, your back pressed to his chest, swaying slightly like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.

And his hands—God, his hands—hovered just shy of your hips like he was one second away from giving in.

“You gonna move?” he asked, voice strained.

You turned your head slightly, letting your breath ghost against his cheek. “Are you gonna ask me to?”

“Don’t push me,” he said, barely audible.

You reached back—just enough to brush your fingers over the bulge in his pants like it was an accident.

He flinched.

You turned around slowly, chest pressed to his now, face smug. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were so uncomfortable down here.”

“I swear to God,” he whispered, “you’re fucking playing with me.”

You tilted your head. “You haven’t stopped me.”

You reached for a box just above his head, your body stretching, back arching—fully pressing against him as you rose on tiptoe.

His hands snapped to your waist. Tight. Finally. “Enough.”

You barely had time to gasp before he had you pressed against the shelving unit, cold metal biting into your back as his hands roamed lower, greedy and impatient.

“You really want to do this here?” he rasped against your neck. “Where anyone could walk in?”

“Only if you stop talking.”

He hiked your leg around his hip and you felt the sharp edge of him through his slacks, all that brainpower suddenly laser-focused on ruining you.

“God,” he muttered, “you are so fucking infuriating.”

“And you’re still hard,” you whispered.

His laugh was low and wrecked, right against the shell of your ear. “Of course I am. You’ve been torturing me for the past twenty minutes.”

You grinned, lips grazing his jaw. “You make it too easy.”

Spencer’s grip tightened on your thigh as he rocked his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how not sorry he was.

He kissed you then—finally—mouth crashing against yours in a way that made you forget your own name. His hands tangled in your hair, his body caging yours against the shelf, and God, he kissed so well. All that precision and focus he used at work? It translated perfectly. His tongue was slow, deliberate, coaxing rather than demanding—like he was tasting you, cataloging you, memorizing every reaction.

You whimpered into his mouth and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

He pulled his hand away just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his slacks down. The second he was free, you reached between you both, fingers curling around him with a sinful smile.

“You always this hard when someone calls you Spencie?” you teased, stroking once—slow.

He bit your shoulder in retaliation, and you moaned at the sting. His hand found its way down your panties as his fingers softly teased you before sliding one through your slick. You moaned as he added a second finger.

“Shh,” he whispered, mouth at your throat, “unless you want your dad to hear.”

That shut you up fast. He curled his fingers inside you like he knew exactly what he was doing—because he did. Years of behavioral profiling, pattern recognition, hyper-observance… all of it was focused on you now. On every stuttered breath, every tremble of your thighs, every twitch of muscle.

“Say please again.”

You whimpered. “Spencer—”

“Say it.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please.”

He pulled his fingers out and you didn’t get a chance to look—just feel as he slid in, slow and devastating, one hand braced against the wall above your head, the other gripping your hip like an anchor.

“Oh fuck—” You tried to stay quiet. Failed.

His hand slipped around to cover your mouth as the sound of skin on skin echoed in the hallway.

“If you get us caught,” he whispered into your ear, “I swear I’ll finish and leave you dripping.”

You bit his palm. He fucked you harder pulling your leg higher, adjusting the angle until he hit that perfect spot, and you gasped so sharply he had to press his hand harder to your mouth to muffle it.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he gritted out, sweat dotting his temple as he drove into you. “So goddamn tight—been teasing me like this for weeks. Thought you were so clever.”

You moaned into his palm, squeezing around him at the praise and the venom twisted into it.

Spencer chuckled darkly, breathless. “Oh, you like that? That I’m pissed off and still this deep inside you?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling as he hit that spot again and again. You came—hard and fast, clenching around him with a choked cry into his palm. Spencer groaned, buried deep, and followed with a stuttering curse, hips jerking once, twice more before stilling completely.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you moved.

Then Spencer let his hand fall from your mouth and pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, unexpectedly sweet.

“I still hate the nickname,” he muttered.

You snorted, breath catching on the tail end. “Sure, Spencie. Whatever you say.”

Then, slowly, carefully, he withdrew—gently fixing you up, tugging your skirt down with more care than you'd expected from someone who’d just railed you in an FBI basement.

You leaned back against the cabinet, trying to catch your breath, your pulse still skittering wildly.

“So,” you said finally, voice wrecked. “Still think I’m a narcissist?”

Spencer gave you a look that was somewhere between exhausted and exasperated.

“I hate you,” he mutters, zipping his pants with shaky hands and avoiding your victorious smirk.

“You came,” you counter sweetly, hopping off the BAU filing cabinet you’d just been railed against. “Twice, technically. So who really won?”

He gives you a glare that says this is not over —but you’re already smoothing your hair, grabbing the manila folder that started this entire mess.

You hand it to him with a grin. “C’mon, Doctor. Let’s go give Daddy the files.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Don’t say it like that.”

You’re halfway to the stairs when he groans, voice sharp with dread. “You have a hickey.”

You glance over your shoulder, wicked. “You gave it to me.”

And before he can argue, you’re already opening the conference room door.

Hotch doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “You two took a while,” he says flatly, holding out his hand for the file.

You drop it into his palm, unbothered. “We were being thorough.”

Spencer chokes beside you. Hotch flips open the folder. Doesn’t even blink. “I expect better time management in the future.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer says, voice hoarse. He sounds like he’s about to vomit.

You turn to leave and catch your reflection in the glass wall—lipstick smeared, collar wrinkled, pupils still dilated. You wink at Spencer just as the door shuts behind you.

And that’s when Hotch glances up. “Reid.”

Spencer freezes mid-step. “Sir?”

“You missed a button.”

Spencer swears under his breath. You keep walking.

You weren’t spoiled. You were just… strategic. And damn, it worked every time.

a/n: anytime anywhere baby

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[serinic]

GRADES DO MATTER | JJK

ONESHOT

Summary: You were always the grade-conscious type—where others would brush off a single mistake, you couldn't. One wrong answer was enough to haunt you, let alone a low mark on something you poured your heart into, like your essay. You mustered the courage to raise your concern, but your approach to Professor Jeon wasn’t exactly the best. And unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the kind of teacher to let things slide either.

pairing: professor jungkook x college student reader

warnings: unprotected sex, professor jk slapping y/n with reality, y/n thinks highly of herself, cold and strict jk

word count: 3.8k+

When you were a child, people would often tell your parents that you were destined to become a bright young woman—all because of your endless curiosity.

You asked questions so relentlessly, it could wear out even the most patient adult. And they were right. By the time you were barely in your teens, you had already collected a string of academic awards.

The most unforgettable one? The math quiz bee you joined when you were just ten. Two boys had bumped your shoulder before the contest, sneering and telling you to get lost.

You remembered clenching your fists, resisting the urge to retaliate—because you knew your mind was sharper than your fists would ever need to be.

The memory of their faces twisting into disbelief still lingered, especially when your name was announced as the winner. Just two mistakes—while the rest of them struggled.

You made sure to lock eyes with them as you walked up to the stage, proudly receiving your certificate and holding your trophy high. And, of course, you flipped your hair with just enough flair to make sure they never forgot who beat them.

Back in high school, you were practically at war with everyone—for the top spot. If it meant studying eight hours a day just to ace every exam, quiz, assignment, and seatwork, you didn’t hesitate.

You graduated as valedictorian, but even that didn’t satisfy you. It wasn’t enough—you craved more. You wanted recognition, not just from your classmates or teachers, but from the whole world.

You see, you didn’t study just because your parents expected it. You studied because you were obsessed. It consumed you. Your life revolved around grades, rankings, perfection. You didn’t care if people called you a nerd—honestly, you wore the label like a badge of honor.

There are two types of people in college: the brainy and the beauty. But thanks to your parents' blessed genes—and your relentless discipline—you had both. That’s what made you stand out.

They called you the Campus Queen and the Book Queen all at once. Boys (and even a few girls) tried to ask you out, but you always declined with a polite smile. You didn’t want distractions. Your mind was reserved solely for studying.

College was hell, and you couldn’t even argue with that. It was hell—especially when professors seemed to have a pact to assign every paper, project, and quiz all at once, sending every student into panic mode. But while others struggled to breathe, you thrived in the pressure.

No boyfriend? No problem. Your trusty dildo kept you company during those rare moments of need. That’s how far you were willing to go—grades came first, always. You would sacrifice anything, everything, just to chase those golden numbers.

You walked into the room with unwavering confidence, wearing a proud smile meant for no one in particular. As usual, you were the first to arrive. Punctuality was one of your many strengths—just like in academics, you were disciplined with time.

Every second, every minute, every hour mattered to you. You slid into your usual seat and pulled out a book from your bag. Without wasting a moment, you flipped to the page of today’s lesson and began reading ahead.

Advanced reading was one of your favorite habits. There was something deeply satisfying about answering every question before anyone else had the chance.

And on days when a classmate stumbled—palms sweaty, eyes darting in panic—you were more than happy to take the spotlight and answer in their place. It wasn’t arrogance; it was what you called ‘helping’.

Some admired you, but others despised you—and you were well aware of both. You assumed it was envy. After all, why wouldn’t they be?

You were intelligent and beautiful, the rare combination most could only dream of. But the truth was, your attitude was far from admirable.

You were the type of student who only cared about herself and her grades. If a classmate struggled to answer, you didn’t hesitate to snatch the opportunity—and the attention—for yourself.

When you did, disapproving stares followed you, and your instructors could only offer awkward scoffs, unsure whether to be impressed or uncomfortable. It wasn’t just your classmates who noticed your self-centered drive—your professors did too. Especially Mr. Jeon.

Your mind drifted into dreamland, lost in the fantasy of what was about to happen. You pictured Professor Jeon standing at the front of the class, calling your name to praise your outstanding essay.

Your classmates would erupt into applause as you stood and walked confidently toward him. You’d take your paper from his hand and beam with pride, eyes sparkling at the sight of a perfect mark scrawled in red ink.

But reality snapped back the moment students started to file into the room. Within minutes, the classroom was full—tense and silent, all awaiting the arrival of the cold, strict instructor.

The atmosphere shifted the second he stepped in. Even from across the room, you could feel the weight of his presence—sharp, disciplined, and commanding.

Every pair of eyes locked onto him, tracking his movements with caution. He strode to the desk, placed his leather bag down, and began pulling out his laptop and a thick stack of papers. Your heart skipped a beat when you spotted the red ink marking the pages.

This was it.

Professor Jeon grabbed the stack of papers and began flipping through them, eyes scanning each one with purpose—until he found that paper. With the rest in hand, he returned to the table and placed them down neatly.

He stepped into the center of the room, his gaze sweeping across every corner, surveying the students one by one. Then, his eyes locked with yours.

Your breath hitched. Was he looking at you? You glanced behind you to check if his focus might be on someone else—but your seat was the last in that row. No one was behind you.

You turned your attention back to the front—only to find that his eyes were no longer on you.

"Out of all the works submitted," he began, voice calm but firm, "one stood out the most. The choice of words was exceptional. The way the writer conveyed their imagination—they captured not just the mind, but the heart of the reader. This essay was astonishing.”

Each word sank deeper into your thoughts. Your heart pounded in anticipation, every beat louder than the last.

He was talking about yours. He had to be.

“Ms. Jang Arin, please come up to the front.”

Everyone, including you, turned toward the young woman whose mouth hung open in shock—and so did yours. You couldn’t believe what you just heard. That was supposed to be you.

Arin hesitantly made her way to the front, and to your surprise, Mr. Jeon offered her a slight smile—one of the rare times anyone had seen the strict professor display anything close to warmth.

You furrowed your brows. ‘No… that should’ve been me.’ That was one of the best essays you’d ever written. There was no way some random girl could’ve stolen the recognition that belonged to you.

You could feel the weight of the stares directed at you—your classmates waiting for your usual outburst, expecting the predictable moment when you would storm up and demand an explanation. But you didn’t give them that satisfaction.

Instead, you forced a smile and glanced back down at the book in front of you. Still, you could feel Mr. Jeon’s eyes lingering on you. You gulped and tightened your grip on the pages.

You weren’t going to make a scene—not yet. You’ll speak to him in his office later.

He began the lesson, but you couldn’t focus—not after what just happened. A mixture of humiliation and anger simmered inside you.

Your grip on the pen tightened, and your thoughts spiraled even further when you caught sight of Arin grinning to herself.

What the hell? Something’s not right.

Before you knew it, class was over in a snap. The room emptied out, but you remained in your seat, stunned. You slapped your forehead in frustration.

You hadn’t absorbed a single word of today’s lecture—your thoughts were too clouded by what had just been taken from you. Your recognition. Your moment.

No, you weren’t going to let this slide—especially if you were rigged.

You hastily grabbed your things and rushed out into the hallway. It had been buzzing with students earlier, but now it was nearly deserted—eerily quiet. That was until you heard soft giggles echoing from near the stairwell.

You stopped. Slowly and silently, you crept forward and peeked around the corner.

Your breath hitched.

There, just a few steps down, was Arin—giggling at something Professor Jeon had said. And him? He was smiling. Softly. Genuinely.

Your stomach twisted.

Your palm instantly flew to your mouth. ‘Aha! My gut was right—something is definitely off… or rather, something’s definitely going on between those two!’

Anger surged through your veins, quickly followed by the sting of betrayal.

Your moment—your dream—was stolen, all because someone decided to be a slut.

A sharp clatter made your heart stop. You looked down—your pen had slipped from your hand and hit the floor.

Your eyes widened. Shit. They must not see you!

“Who’s there?”

Mr. Jeon’s deep, commanding voice echoed through the corridor, sending chills down your spine. You heard footsteps approaching. Panic surged. Without thinking, you squeezed your eyes shut… and meowed.

Yes, meowed—like one of the college cats that roamed the campus.

A pause. Then—

“Oh, Professor. It’s just a cat!” Arin's voice chimed in, light and airy, before fading along with the footsteps. They were probably heading downstairs together.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you stepped out of hiding and walked toward the spot where they had just been. You peered down the stairwell, jaw tight and fists clenched.

‘So the game’s on.’

They could play their little flirtations all they wanted—but you weren’t about to let either of them mess with your grades. Not now. Not ever.

After discovering what could be something more than just a student-teacher relationship between your shy classmate and the ever-strict Professor Jeon, you couldn't let it go.

Instead, you turned your attention toward them—observing from afar, collecting what evidence you could.

A week went by, and now, your study table was covered with printed photos you’d taken in secret. You sat in silence, eyes scanning each one, piecing together the story like a puzzle.

Photo 1: The two sat at a quiet café—Arin appeared to be reading something, while Professor Jeon casually sipped his coffee across from her.

Photo 2: In an empty corridor, just the two of them—laughing. Laughing. A rare expression from a man known for being cold and unreadable.

Photo 3: Arin, entering his office alone.

You only added the third photo because your so-called evidence was lacking—you needed something to fill the gaps, even if it wasn’t damning enough on its own. Still, you couldn’t help but smile proudly at the photos spread before you.

You weren’t planning to use them—at least, not unless things took a turn. You were only going to Professor Jeon’s office to raise your concern about the mark he gave you on the essay you poured your soul into.

But if he dared to brush you off or humiliate you again… well, you’d have no choice.

Now, you sat in your seat, silently counting the seconds for this period to end. These past few days, your mind was never where it should be.

It wandered aimlessly during lessons, tuning out every voice that tried to teach you. Even your classmates noticed—how your usual spark had dulled, how you weren't as relentless, as sharp, as insufferably perfect as before.

And you hated it. You hated how this situation affected you. You hated Arin’s quiet smile. You hated Professor Jeon’s unreadable face. Most of all, you hated that they were the reason you felt so... off.

If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t be distracted. You’d still be at the top—undeniable, untouchable.

Class was over, and before you knew it, you were already walking toward his office. Each step felt heavier than the last, the confidence you had earlier slowly unraveling with every inch closer to the door.

After all, you were about to face the Mr. Jeon Jungkook—the cold, strict, respected, and damn near perfect professor.

You raised your fist and knocked.

"Come in."

His voice, low and commanding, sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. There he was—sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on his laptop, fingers dancing effortlessly across the keys.

You hesitated for a moment, the door clicking shut behind you a little louder than you'd intended. Still, he didn’t look up.

The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and the steady ticking of the clock above his shelf.

It felt like the silence was a test.

And you weren’t sure if you were passing or failing.

“I assume this isn’t about attendance,” he finally said, voice flat and devoid of emotion.

You cleared your throat. “It’s… about my essay grade.”

He stopped typing. His eyes slowly lifted to meet yours—sharp, unreadable. “Your essay,” he repeated, leaning back against his chair. “Right. The one that barely tapped into the prompt and read like a recycled daydream with no real depth.”

You flinched. “I worked hard on it. I just thought—”

“Thinking and writing are two different things,” he cut you off. “Effort doesn’t equal quality, Miss Y/N. You’re in college. Not kindergarten.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, the heat in your face rising. You tried to keep calm. “I know the grade is final, but I just wanted to understand why—”

“I’ve already told you why,” Jungkook said. “If you're looking for sympathy, try your classmates. I deal in facts. And the fact is, your work was mediocre.”

You paused, debating whether to say the next line.

“I just find it odd,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “how my classmate—who barely participates—somehow got a higher mark. A classmate I happened to see laughing with you in the hallway... quite comfortably.”

That finally got a reaction.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened as he stood up, walking around his desk. “Are you implying something, Miss Y/N?”

You held his gaze, fingers brushing the edge of your bag—where your phone, and the photos, waited.

“No, Professor. I’m just… asking questions.” He stopped in front of you, the space between you chilling. “Be very careful with the kind of questions you ask. Because once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t back down. The weight of the photos in your bag gave you a false sense of power—but even then, standing this close to Jungkook felt like walking a thin line over fire.

“I just think it’s… unfair,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “how someone who barely talks in class ends up with a near-perfect score. You may not realize how that looks to others.”

Jungkook's eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking. “Arin,” he said coldly. “You’re talking about Arin.”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled through his nose. “Her essay stood out the most, which is why I chose it and she’s on academic probation. That ‘laughing in the hallway’ was me explaining her midterm options before she fails the course entirely. But I suppose when you’re obsessed with perfection, everything looks like a conspiracy, doesn’t it?”

His words hit harder than you expected. Still, you didn’t look away.

“I just want fairness,” you whispered.

“No,” Jungkook replied, stepping even closer, voice low and sharp. “You want control. That’s why you’re standing here instead of revising your work like a real student. Because deep down, you don’t care about learning. You care about appearances. Grades. Pride.” He walked back to his desk.

You felt your pride twist into something sharper—resentment.

“And what if I showed you something?” you said, slowly reaching into your bag. “Something that might make you reconsider.”

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change. “Are you really about to blackmail a professor?”

The air in the room dropped. You paused—his tone wasn’t angry, or surprised. It was calm. Calculated. Dangerous.

“I wouldn’t call it that…” you said carefully. “Just… offering context. For your judgment.”

Jungkook crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk. “Then show me. Let’s see what you think is enough to challenge my integrity.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t tolerate threats,” he added coldly.

Your hand hovered inside your bag. This was it.

Jungkook didn’t say a word right away. He simply stood there, eyes unreadable as they bore into yours. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he slowly walked toward you, each step unhurried, measured—predatory.

You didn’t know what shifted. Maybe it was the heavy silence in the room. Maybe it was the way his gaze dragged across your face, lingering a little too long on your parted lips.

Or maybe it was the unresolved tension crackling in the air—anger, defiance, and something else neither of you wanted to name.

“You came here thinking you could play with fire,” Jungkook finally said, voice low. “Now you're in it.”

He stopped just in front of you. Too close. His eyes dropped to the envelope in your hand—the one holding the pictures—and then back to yours.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words died on your tongue. Your breath hitched as his hand slowly reached out—not to grab the envelope, but to brush a strand of hair away from your face. A touch too soft. Too deliberate.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmured, tone now quieter… darker. “Now you have it.”

He took one step closer. The envelope slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.

Jungkook crashed his lips onto yours as he pushed you against the nearest wall. You groaned when your back collided with the hard surface.

He slid your bag off your shoulder and immediately lifted your shirt, tugging down your bra before cupping your breast.

“Mhm,” you moaned as he gently massaged it, his tongue exploring your mouth. You started kissing him back—the kiss wasn’t slow; it was rough and desperate.

Jungkook broke the kiss and moved his lips to your neck, gently biting and leaving hickeys. His hand found the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it off, along with your bra.

He sucked your two nipples, switching back and forth. Your moans started to get loud, “Be quiet,” he said before placing his mouth back onto your breasts. You immediately clamped your lips shut.

You gasped when he cupped your clothed cunt, his eyes staring directly into yours. He slipped your pants and underwear down and carelessly tossed them onto the floor.

His gaze now fixed on your bare cunt, and every hair on your body stood on end at the realization—your professor was seeing you completely naked. The cold blast from the AC wasn’t helping either.

Mr. Jeon stared at your pussy for a full minute before kneeling down to its level, his fingers parting your folds. His tongue extended from his mouth to taste your cunt.

You moaned not only from the sensation of his warm tongue but also from the view. He began to pleasure you orally, his tongue moving in and out of your tight pussy.

Your sounds became more loud as he began to slide his fingers in, curling and twisting them within you.

You climaxed twice, and you were eager for more. You want Professor Jeon inside you at this moment. "Please, I want you inside me."

You pleaded with him, and he removed his pants and boxers, tossing them to the ground.

Jungkook wanted you to suck him, but he was equally eager to be inside your wet cunt. You nearly lost the ability to breathe when you noticed just how thick, how long and how furious his cock was. Pre-cum seeping from his tip.

He grasped your waist and urged you to jump. You quickly encircled his neck with your arms as your legs rested on his hips. You expected him to take you against the wall, but that wasn’t the case.

He moved to his desk while you clung to him like a koala. Jungkook pushed his chair aside, “Sit on my cock.” You freed your one arm and held his dick—applying his pre-cum along his shaft for lubrication.

You positioned his hard dick at your entrance and gradually lower yourself—taking him in inch by inch. You breathed sharply at the penetration; he was so deep inside you.

He held the edge of the table as you encircled his neck with your one arm again. Once confirming that both of you were well-positioned and supported by his hold on the table, he gradually pulled his hip back—half of his cock slipping out your eager cunt, before thrusting his hip back in forcefully.

Both of you moaned at his movements. Mr. Jeon started to thrust in and out while you gripped his body tighter. Lewd sounds filled his whole office.

“You always thought you were the smartest in the room. A little top-grade prodigy who couldn’t take a hit to her ego.” Jungkook glanced at you, expecting rage in your eyes, but all he saw was desire as you moaned in response.

“You couldn’t just accept a mark and move on like everyone else, could you?” He continued.

“No. You had to come in here with your little evidence, your little plan. Thought you were clever.”

“Let’s see how far your intelligence takes you now.” Professor Jeon was right here, slapping your face with reality while slamming his cock inside your cunt.

If you weren't in this position—him fucking you so good—you would probably slap him in the face, even if he was your professor.

Jungkook enjoys feeling your wet and tight pussy envelop his hard cock, and you can't help but moan—his dick feels way better than your dildo.

He plunged into you with a primal rhythm, you glanced at his expression—he was biting his bottom lip, his face was intensely concentrated on making you climax.

Your stomach tightens; you are close. Your hold on him tightens as his thrusts quicken when he realizes you’re about to orgasm.

You glimpsed stars upon cumming, only for your breath to be taken away when his thrusts intensified, aiming for his climax.

Professor Jeon collided his lips with yours as he cummed, both of you moaning intensely. A warm fluid filled your whole cunt as he thrust deeper inside you.

‘Was he trying to impregnate you?’

Your thought disappeared when you heard a knock on the door. Jungkook glanced at you and asked, “Did you lock the door?”

You swallowed hard and stared at him in fear—afraid of being caught fucking your cold and strict professor.

“No.”

[m00ngirl777]

Can I request a oneshot with that trend where girlfriends go sit in their boyfriends laps while they're gaming or studying, it has so much potentiallllll for fluff and smut

If This Was a Movie

Peter Parker x reader

REQUEST

“Man, I can’t, I gotta study, I told you, I gotta do well on these midterms… I’ll hang out next time, have fun buddy,” With that he hanged up, and grabbed the stack of books, papers and his bag, when he heard a knock on his door. 

“Ugh!” He put everything back down and went to open the door, now a little frustrated, “Broke, what the he-” He rammed the door open and stood dead on his tracks when he saw you. 

Summary: Sitting on peters lap, he’s busy AF, college peter, you go visit him in Boston , he’s so happy to see you but it’s midterms week, but you haven’t seen each other so you can’t keep your hands off, so then you find yourself in this situation, in the library, he’s studying like crazy, coffee and food runs for your boy, sitting on his lap, and you can’t help but tease him until he’s had enough pent up frustration from all the stress of his first midterms and not seeing you, so he lets it out on you when he grabs your hand and drags you to the old literature section because no one in the engineering building is going near there, and fucks his frustrations out on you against the Jane Austen collection. Sue me babe.

A/N: hi so, as I was writing the summary, that scene from YOU, literally came to me, where joes like, youre not wearing a bra blahblahblah, if this was a movie id grab you and wed go a it at the stacks, or smth along that, hence the title, anyways enjoyyyyy. again I am sososososo very sorry I took nearly three months to answer this request, I don't know why I am the way I am, I sorry. anyways hope you love it, thxx for reading, love u, byeeee. xoxo. -N.

p.s. my requests are open my loves<333 but I might take three months to answer :( SORRY

TW: SMUT, RAW, NO PROETECION BABES.

WC: 2008

- - -

“Hey man…yeah…yeah… I-I know… but I gotta… g-uh…yes… mhm,” Peter really wanted to end the call, don’t get him wrong, for the first time in his life he felt like finally he fit in, even if he didn’t, college treated him different, he didn’t only matched, but surpassed the intelligence of his peers, accompanied by great humility which for the first time gained him respect instead of a shove, or a push, or a basketball to the head, or his lunch on the floor, the teachers encouraged him, as faithful as he was to you, and as uninterested as he was in in any other, he felt a little taller anytime a girl would smile, or giggle, or blush at him, something he had never known. He still had Ned at his side, but he was also very pleased at his new friends, the guys that were on football scholarships, that had urged him endlessly to join the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity, and how they would, what felt to him, beg him to come to endless parties, and hang outs and so on. He was cool, he was respected, he was wanted, he was admired, and if he didn’t study for the upcoming midterms he would also be very fucked.

As wonderful a boy as Peter is, this type of attention can get to anyone's head, because for the first time in his life, people cared, not that he was Spider-Man, but that he was Peter Parker, he wasn’t failing, god knows hes too smart for that, he simply could not afford to fail anything or he would fail the course. 

“Man, I can’t, I gotta study, I told you, I gotta do well on these midterms… I’ll hang out next time, have fun buddy,” With that he hanged up, and grabbed the stack of books, papers and his bag, when he heard a knock on his door. 

“Ugh!” He put everything back down and went to open the door, now a little frustrated, “Broke, what the he-” He rammed the door open and stood dead on his tracks when he saw you. 

“Peter?” 

He pulled you in the tightest hardest hug you've ever felt, you instantly wrapped your arms around him, hands traveling to his, of course shaven head, it was an initiation ritual, it was more a buzzcut now anyway. 

“Miss me, baby?” He nodded hysterically, face buried in your neck, as he pulled you in the dorm, shutting the door, he couldn’t let go of you. 

He pulled away to kiss you, cupping your face, moving his lips against yours with a familiarity unmatched. You spent about five minutes against the door, Peter whispering the sweetest nothings into everywhere he kisses, I love you for your neck  neck and jaw, gorgeous and beautiful for your cheeks, I missed you into your mouth, and a combination of all for your ear, temple and forehead. You kept scratching the back of his head, caressing his neck, touching him, telling him with your hands everything he was saying with his words, your hand went down to his sweats, pulling on the waistband to reach for him, but before you could get a grip he gently pulled your wrist away and let out a soft groan, head on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong baby?” You cupped his face. 

“I gotta…study,”

“Awww, you gotta study baby?,” He nodded against your neck getting closer to your chest. 

“You… you can stay here… or,”

“No way, I’m studying with you,” It’s not that he didn’t want to, he just knew he’d get nothing done, still he couldn’t find it in himself to deny you, so here you were, in the mostly empty library, attempting to study. 

“Peter, why are you so stressed? You're probably the smartest guy here…like… I remember seeing a lesser version of this in highschool, and I was in none of the AP’s, you totally got it,” You were practically sitting on his lap, your hand caressing his neck. 

“I know… I really don’t want to fail,” He said, concentrated on the problem. 

“You won’t,” You kissed his cheek before getting up, grabbing your bag.

“Baby, where are you going?” Damn those puppy eyes. 

“I swore I saw a coffee shop just outside, want anything?”

“Coffee, just regular,”

“‘Kay, I’ll be back,” 

Soon you where back with a caramel latte, and a cold brew with cream. Peter thanked you and let you back in his lap, and in an attempt to adjust yourself you ended rubbing down on him. 

“Y/n,” He grasped at your hip to keep you from moving more, which led you to relax back into him, biting your lip softly when his thigh ended up being nuzzled between yours, slightly pressing on your core, just enough to want more. 

“Sorry,” Your cheeks flushed slightly as you sipped your coffee, feeling the cool bittersweetness aid the heat you were starting to feel. 

He nodded, and went back to concentrate on his problems, equation after equation, number after number, variable after variable, just never ending engineering stuff your history lit majoring brain didn’t even want to begin to understand. He kept mumbling the problems quietly, going over them as he wrote, it always turned you on how smart he is, even in highschool with way simpler material it impressed you, watching him know made your mouth dry. 

“Did you like your coffee?” You asked going to sip it.

“Yeah, its nice, thank you babe…” He answered in automatic, and it still made you giddy, very softly grinding down on his thigh with the excuse of adjusting yourself, you were really trying to cut him so much slack. It wasn’t his fault that you showed up unannounced in his midterms week, you’ve just missed him so much, and you needed him so bad, but he really needed to get this done, so you took deep breaths, and settled on sitting down on the cushioned booth, your thighs over Peter’s, leaning against him in a way that wasn’t too constricting, and your fingers playing with the very short hair at the back of his head, placing the softest kiss every other minute along his jaw, or neck, or face. 

Peter was trying to be grateful you were being understandingly loving, and tried to concentrate on studying, with your warm thighs over his, your arm around him, your hands on him, the combined natural scent you had, the smell of your growing slick, and your perfume, clouding him, he was really trying, but he was also excruciatingly hard. 

“Wanna see something?” Peter asked, a little fed up.

“Uh… sure, yeah,” You let him grab your hand and a little forcefully drag you into the book shelves, going through one after the other, until you were at a dark little corner, dust settled in a full collection of Jane Austen, the first, united edition, you were in between probably the only two shelfs of classic literature in this multiple story library. 

“Oh my god… how old are these copies? Is this what you wan-” He turned you around and shoved you against the shelves, kissing you with a sickening hunger, so different from the softer initial kiss you had shared, “You are… the only person… here… that gives… a crap… about those…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, jerking, as he grinded against your inner thigh, your hands would usually pull at his hair, but right now you could only scratch his scalp, which he still very much enjoyed. 

“Hmm, baby please… please,” He whined in your ear, as he rutted against your thigh, and how could you deny him, your needy, frustrated boy, that missed you so very much. 

“Shh, yes… yes whatever you want Peter… shh,” You didn’t know what you were about to do, but you knew you had to be quiet, you whispered in his ear as you cradled his head, he picked one of your legs up, and his other hand went between your legs under your skirt, rubbing your clit through your panties, as he kissed your jaw and neck, he pushed the panties to the side, and massaging your bud, wanting you to get as wet as possible, his mouth on yours, swallowing any moans that were a little too loud. 

Effortlessly, he lifted you up wrapping your legs around his torso, hands on his neck and shoulders, as he freed himself, giving a couple jerks before aligning his member to you, biting your sweater to prevent him from crying out, one of his hands went under your sweater, massaging your breast as he kissed your neck and whispered sweet nothings to you, perfectly still, letting you start to rock against him if you needed it.

“I love you so much baby, I’ve missed you so much,” Peter had dreamed for weeks of seeing you again, he’d figure you’d come visit, you’d never stay at a frat house, so of course you'd book the nearest lush hotel you could find, and he’d make love to you all night long, in a fresh big bed, he’d imagine that, and other scenarios very similar to that, sometimes he just asked for you to send him a voice note of your day and that along with the polaroids you had sneaked into his bag with a couple of your panties would be enough for him to satisfy himself in these two months he’s been in Boston. Never would’ve he imagined this scene, where he grabbed the shelves, fingertips and nail beds white as he started to drill into you, breathing hard, slam after slam, leaving you to do nothing but take it, as you clung to him, face on his neck, letting out the smallest of whimpers, that just fueled him to pistol even harder into you.

You felt everything, how his length reached the deepest inner most part of you, stimulating the nerve endings, making you feel the tingles all the way to your chest, his pelvis, lined with hairs not as kept as usual due to the lack of need, rubbing you with every thrust, his desperation and way he fucked you, like he’d die if he didn’t feel the walls of your pussy around him right this moment, feel how they clench around him when he makes you come, theres nothing he wanted more, but you were absolutely cockdumb, no words, no actions, no will in your body, you just felt your pussy and how it was being fucked raw.

He bit down harder on the sweater to stop himself from moaning and grunting in this library as he stilled inside you, very deep withing you, feeling how his warm spend pumped inside you, like gasoline, fuelling your quiet mewls, even more when he rubbed you until you came so he’d feel that perfect extra pressure as he finished coming, almost as soon as him, leaving you both breathless, shaking, and frozen.

“Peter…what the fuck…” You leaned your forehead o his shoulder, breathing hard, baffled by what you just did. 

“I know… I know…fuck,” He breath out softly as he pulled away, making you whine, he put you back down and readjusted your underware, then pushed himself back in his pants, “fuck, I’m sorry, I-I ju-”

“Shh, it’s okay…” You ran fingers through your hair, trying to re-adjust yourself, starting to feel soaked from your combined spends, knowing there was no way you could just go back and sit down to keep studying.

“I’m gonna go back to my hotel… you should finish studying and you can come by later… yeah?” You cupped his face placing a soft kiss on his mouth and cheek, he nodded, wanting to be around you, but knowing he needed to finish this. 

“Okay… yeah, I’ll just finish with the guide,” He said, but made no effort to move. 

“I love you, I’ll see you later, Pete,” You kissed his cheek, pushing him away gently to walk him back to his table. 

“Yeah, I love you too,”

[fancyfeathers]

Thinking about Yandere!Justice League having children with their darlings and perhaps those children aren’t too keen on their relationship with their parents…

Set in the universe of Young Justice.

Includes references to my Yandere Batfam w/ Wife/Mother!Darling & Daughter/Sister!Darling & Always Prey But Never A Bird

Clark’s daughter grew up in Smallville after Clark married his darling, living near the same house her father grew up in. She is one of many children, including Connor who her mother immediately took in as her own even if her father was still struggling with his feelings about his clone (though Connor rarely comes by unless Clark is gone, otherwise he is back with the team). Between herself and her siblings there is one major difference, she doesn’t have powers, or at least they have not come in yet.

She feels herself isolated from her siblings, especially when she sees one of her brothers practice and train with their father or when she gets pulled from the soccer team since it is apparently not safe when she sprained her ankle during a game but her dad has missed half her games of the season because of being Superman, Justice League business, or something with her siblings because of their powers that they are learning to control.

He is so protective but he is never even there.

She gets fed up when it gets near to her high school graduation and she is looking at colleges and talk to her parents about colleges and Clark is not sure about sending her off.

So she decides to leave on her own, pack a bag in the middle of the night while her dad is off planet and walks outside, walking across the empty field and she hears…

“Heading out?”

One of her siblings had caught onto her leaving, but they are not going to stop her, instead offering to take her anywhere she needs because she needs to leave this place to figure out who she really is.

Of course there will be panic when Clark returns home and finds one of his children is missing and she is completely untraceable, how is she untraceable? Clark can not even hear her heartbeat, she could be dead!

But she’s not…

Hal Jordan’s twins don’t really know their father super well because of when he is off planet as Green Lantern but he still wants to be a part of their lives, but their childhood is spent running around the Watchtower and being babysat by other league members or other Green Lantern Corps members while their dad is off planet, and their mother is tired of reading two very chaotic teenagers. Hal is like that one dad who does not fully understand that his children have been growing back, he’ll come into his teenage daughter’s room, sit on her bed and ask if she wants to go practice softball pitcher throws but he doesn’t know the last time his daughter played softball was in middle school. Or offering to take his son to the beach but his son cannot stand the feeling of sand on his feet or how the sand can ruin his books.

He remembers them like when they were babies and he made constructs from his ring of animals and toys for his children to play with and now when he picks up his daughter up from school he does not even know the names of her her friends.

But one thing that will never change is the fact that he will protect them no matter what. All it would take is for Hal to witness one incident, say he has to save his twins as Green Lantern, he makes the decision that at the end of the school year he is pulling them out and moving them into the Watchtower full time, besides they already stay there when he is off planet.

The two pick up on this when they overhear their parents arguing about it in the night, it is far past their bedtime so Hal doesn’t think either of them are listening but both of them listen in and all it takes is for their dad to go to a Justice League meeting and the two have packed their bags and jumped out the bathroom window.

Diana’s darling is definitely a woman and I think if they were to have a child they would have adopted an orphan, one who perhaps lost their family in an accident and Diana saves them, a young boy, a preteen at the oldest. He has a semi normal upbringing, he doesn’t really have any powers. He has never been to Themyscira because of he is a man, but Diana trains him anyway because it is important he knows how defend himself and his other adoptive mother when Diana is not around.

But the day comes where every little bird has to leave the nest and Diana agrees to let him to go to college nearby, especially after hearing about his intentions to become a lawyer. But his true intention to pursue such a career is because when he heard the stories from his other mother about how the members of the Justice League did certain things to get their partners and he felt horrified, he may not have been the one who done such a thing but he would be damned if he was not the one to try and repair it. Besides Diana has no reason to believe her baby boy is a liar, so he never even gets caught and forced to tell the truth.

It is at school where he meets someone not too different from himself and the two immediately hit it off, but the major thing between the two of them is that she is fast… really fast…

Barry Allen is close to his darling little girl, especially since she inherited his speed, they found that little fact out when she was practicing for track team tryouts and she suddenly found herself in Arizona, that was an interesting conversation when she called up her dad, a crying and confused mess, and before she could hang up Barry was already there, kneeling down in his suit and explaining everything to her.

Most kids get a car for their sixteenth birthday, she got super speed.

But another thing she got from her dad is his intelligence, it takes a lot to be a forensic scientist so Barry is hardly surprised when he little girl graduates early, he knows that she used her speed doing homework when he told her not to but sometimes the achievement outdoes the actions to get there.

Barry is willing to send her away from home for college, after all he is never far. But while she is at school she meets a boy, a few years older than her, and they become fast friends. She trusts him so she reveals her powers one night when they are hanging out around campus, her hand literally phasing through the wall with how fast it is going, but after that all turn is revealed and her world is shattered.

That boy was the son of Diana and he tells her everything, the truth about her own parents and she feels like she can never look her dad in the eye again. She doesn’t even feel like she can go home again, but when the end of the school year comes up they do have to move out of their dorm rooms and go home, but neither of them have the intention of doing that.

When Barry comes to help her move out, she is gone, most of her stuff is still there but she is gone. Then he hears the same from Diana about her son and everything clicks into place…

They found out the truth.

Zatara has another child besides Zatanna, though not biological. When Zatara’s first wife died and he kidnapped got remarried to his darling, she also had a child, a little boy from a former relationship. The boy may not be his biological child but that boy is his son, so just like Zatanna, he teaches him about the mystic arts.

The boy is practically raised by Zatara as his father, especially when his mother falls into stockholm syndrome, but that just makes the sting so much worse when Zatara puts on the Helmet of Fate to save Zatanna. Sure by the time it happened his son is basically an adult, but it still hurts when his sister comes back home and tells him and his mother what happened. So while Zatanna joins the team and leaves home he is left to struggle with his emotions about what happened.

The young man is cleaning up some of his father’s things to tuck away in boxes because his mother is to grief stricken to even look at them, but then he found some of Zatara’s old journals where he wrote about his darling, when he was too young to remember, and he feels absolutely horrified about what his step father did. He thinks about asking his mother about it but he does not want to bring up any sad memories she might have lingering, and he is not going to ask Zatanna, because his sister is still in pain after what her dad did to protect her.

So he decides it might be best for him to leave so he can make peace with a few things.

He packs up his bags and does not even tell his mother or Zatanna that he is leaving, just leaving a note on the kitchen counter. He travels the world, becoming a mostly self taught magician, besides the few things his father taught him when he was younger. He calls Zatanna or his mother every so often and every time his sister sounds more and more worried, but he reassures her that he is not on a team of superheroes like she is, he is just trying to figure out where he belongs…

But that promise does not last long once he finds out about the rest of the Justice League and their darlings and he is enraged…

Arthur Curry’s son is technically a prince, but really he feels captive in his own home. His father may be half human but his mother is fully human, and so their son is mostly human, so one can imagine how hard it is for him to breathe underwater without some form of assistance. Arthur tried to get his son adapted overtime, but it just became too hard as he got older and he had to rely on assistance to breathe underwater like his mother. He would be the heir to the throne if it was not for having young siblings who were stronger than he was, truly he is not jealous but he is disappointed that he is seen as so fragile for being born into an environment his body mostly does not want to be in. He is hardly let outside just because his body already struggles enough being so deep underwater… he wonders if it would be different on the surface, he’s never been up there before.

By some miracle he convinces his retainers to let him explore, just for an hour or two, but then an hour turns into a day and a day turns into weeks. He feels so much more alive on land, his lungs don’t feel heavy like they are struggling to breathe.

But the Prince of Atlantis going missing is going to cause more than a few people to panic. Including Arthur himself.

With more children of the Justice League going missing they get more worried and stressed and begin a mass search for them if it was not for a certain someone…

Now Bruce Wayne’s daughter I have written about before, she was the vigilante know as Songbird in Gotham, she ran away years ago and in this universe when everything was said and done she went off all on her own, sure she based herself off Black Canary, but with most of the league like this she wants nothing to do with it.

She was the first one to run away from home and not being caught by the Batman is certainly a feat but she is certainly her father’s daughter, so when she hears the news about some of the children of Justice League members going missing because she definitely did not hack their server communications. So she finds each child of the Justice League and she helps them out, because to be honest they all want the same thing.

Setting up a place for everyone to stay safely after tracking them down one by one, she even went all the way to Paris to find Zatara’s son to convince him because he was doing a show there.

So she makes lead lined shirts for little Miss Supergirl so she cannot be found via powers. Then it gets get worse when she does finally get powers and being half Kryptonian hits her hard, especially when she has no one around to teach her how to control them, well almost no one. Luckily she has someone in her corner, who better to teach her than the daughter of the Batman who taught herself how to be a vigilante, it should not be that hard.

Each one wants to either help one of their parents or they straight up are doing this out spite. But trying to piece together a team of the heroes who have next to no idea what they are going to do. But becoming a team to spite their parents turned into them basically stopping villains before their parents do.

Extra things

I love the idea of Clark’s and Bruce’s daughters and Diana’s son be best friends who have never met, like the second the meet each other they just know that they are inseparable. The self trained vigilante, the boy raised by an Amazon, and the half Kryptonian girl. Then the training sessions and teaching Clark’s daughter how to control her newly gained powers almost always turns into just chatting and some sort of shenanigans.

I don’t know why but something about Zatara’s son gaining powers kind of like the Scarlet Witch from the MCU just makes sense to me. Also the idea of Doctor Fate having slight, or heavy, protective tendencies over him while Zatara is the host.

Also I did not put them down here but I also had ideas for Green Arrow’s & Black Canary’s daughter because they would definitely share a darling, and I might write a second part for them and a few others.

Then I also thought about Martian Manhunter and his darling having an adoptive daughter because she is a meta human with telepathic abilities, but then I got reminded of Charles Xavier and thinking that she would be just to similar and now that I am finishing up this post I don’t hate that idea.

[waterdeepwife]

The Companions with a Tav! Who sleeps with a stuffed animal.

Contains: Gale, Astarion, and, Wyll

Warnings: Established relationships, I kinda did a mix of writing and headcanons, typos probably, I think that’s all? Pretty fluffy!

A/n: sorry I’m not as active as I’d like to be college is a bitch.

Gale

You and Gale’s relationship was only growing stronger and deeper with love, so you decided to move into his tent with him(after her asked with puppy eyes). Of course you brought some of your things with you, which also meant you brought your childhood stuffed animal with you. A teddy bear that was gifted to you from your mother when you were born. As your lover was helping you set up some of your stuff both inside and outside the tent, you carefully sat the bear down at the head of the bedrolls which Gale immediately noticed.

“Ah! Who is this esteemed gentleman?”

The wizard questioned warmly, going to sit on his knees in front of the bear. His gaze shifting between you and the childhood stuffed animal. You explain the bears name and significance as Gale carefully examined your stuffed companion. He nodded a long with a smile, sitting the ever down and giving him a gentle pat on the head.

Gale loves the teddy bear and has no problem sharing a bed with the stuffy. You can cuddle the bear and he will cuddle you from behind, or whatever position yall end up in.

He will also look after the bear for you when you are away. He knows the bear is very important to you and you’d be devastated if anything happened to it. Gale has held it on his lap while he is reading, keeping his book lower like the stuffed animal is also reading with him. Lol.

You could walk up to him and hand him the stuffed animal and he just takes it like it’s nothing while talking. If somebody questions it he’s like “Oh this? This is (teddy bear name), anyway-“

The others joke that the bear has become your child.

He talks to the bear when he’s alone with it.

Astarion

“Darling, what is that?!”

The vampire scoffs dramatically, his eyes narrowing as he just noticed bunny plushie sitting on your shared bed at the inn the party was currently staying at. There stuffed animal is old, that much he can tell. It’s black, beady eyes staring into his, and for some reason he feels threatened. Astarion refuses to break eye contact with the rabbit as you explain, it was an heirloom from your grandmother who passed away. He finally tears his eyes away from the toy, lips pulled back in mock disgust.

“Does it have to sleep in the bed with us!?”

You shoot him a half hearted glare, which quickly shuts him up. But the second you turn you back to him and the bunny, he gives it a small smile. It’s kinda cute.

Keeps up the charade of him hating the stuffed animal as long as he can, but it doesn’t take long for you to figure it out. Which he begrudgingly admits he’s grown found of the stuffed creature.

Though Astarion will glade at it if you cuddle the bunny more than him, and has hid it from you to try and get your attention.

If anyone or anything happens to your bunny, he may or may not try to kill whoever is responsible. You don’t mess with his partner’s bunny!

Wyll

The party had stopped at an inn for the night and of course, you bunked up with your lover. As you both were unpacking, you placed a rather old, but cuddly frog, who wore a crown on its head. Wyll was immediately smitten and sat on the bed, gently tracing his fingers along the stuffed animal’s arm.

“Needed to find yourself another prince did you?”

The young man asks with a chuckle, pointing to the crown your fluffy companion wore. You turned to look at them both a sweet smile, joining Wyll on the bed as a few giggles escaped your lips. You explained how the frog was a gift from your older sister, since you had loved the story The Frog Prince as a child. Which then lead to your handsome prince retelling the story of the frog prince to you, since he to loved fairy tales.

Wyll has definitely made your frog plushie talk to you, he even makes his voice sound different. He will do anything to see you smile or hear your laugh.

He always makes sure the stuffed animal is account for and safe, if you accidentally forget him somewhere. Wyll would turn around and run back to go get him, then joke about how froggy hopped off own his own adventure.

You cuddle the plushie and he cuddles you, and he is beyond happy with this arrangement.

[illbegottenfaith]

...and a bruise underneath

you can't help becoming distant as your relationship with theo starts feeling like an open wound (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - idek what this is anymore 😭 but I will say writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet every five minutes 🙈🙈🤭 this fic may or may not have been inspired by how crap my magnesium intake is :( college resumes in like a week for me and I get very cranky on less than 6 hours of sleep (i am a very light sleeper!!!) chat am I cooked

tropes/warnings - angst, happy ending (yayyy), suggestive but not explicit content, fluff, theo being befuddled, bamboozled, astonished, even; wholesome bickering

word count - 2.2k

taglist (everyone who asked to be tagged for part 2!) - @justaproudperson @pumpkinchee @lorenzozurzolocanruinmylife @smithieandy @augiemyers79

Once Theo returned from his trip, you somehow managed to minimise the little time you spent together, making barely convincing, half-baked excuses whenever you could. Still, he never commented on it. Perhaps he would have if he actually cared. You weren't sure if you were shutting him out to punish him or yourself.

Still, even you couldn't get out of spending time with your boyfriend entirely, which was how the two of you ended up in your dorm on a Thursday afternoon, working through your homework. You were sitting propped up by your numerous cushions, proof-reading an essay while Theo leaned against on the bed posts at the foot of your bed, reading a Potions book to help with his project.

The two of you worked in silence, equally absorbed in your work - or so you assumed until you heard Theo close his book and set it aside. Without warning, he shifted towards you, and before you could flinch or put more distance between you, his arms were encircling your waist and his head was resting on your abdomen.

You froze. This was the closest he had been since before the trip. You weren't sure if you had even hugged him when he returned.

You shoved down the stab of amusement in your gut. Theo was hardly the playful kind, but every once in a while, when your schedules allowed for it, he would be in a good enough mood to fool around with you in a manner that did justice to the expression. The two of you could lose entire afternoons to whispered giggles, frisky hands, and smothering kisses. Even now, your hand twitched with the instinct to comb through his soft, silky curls.

But while you normally found it endearing, today it was irritating, because you were in a fight with him, albeit one-sided.

"What...are you doing?" you asked in a bored monotone.

He shifted his head like he was getting comfortable. "Taking a nap."

You refused to pull your eyes away from your essay when Theo failed to elaborate. "With me?"

Theo sighed, like he thought you were being purposely difficult. "Yes, you."

Too thrown off to keep up the act, you finally looked up, watching the tiny shadows his long eyelashes cast against his face tanned from one too many summer Quidditch practices. "Why?"

He cracked an eye open and smiled lazily at you, half-drowsy. It wasn't fair how seductive his perpetual bedroom eyes typically were, let alone when they were laced with actual exhaustion. Despite yourself, you felt a flicker of satisfaction over being the only one who got to see him like this - uninhibited and free.

The satisfaction didn't last long. Without any warning, Theo plucked your essay out of your hand, casting it aside as he sat up with a teasing glint in his eye.

"Why? Would you prefer I take a nap with Mattheo?"

He was so close, you were sure he could hear your heart racing. Your mouth went dry. Days of subtly dodging his kisses or making excuses to sit away from him had gone down the drain. The thing about Theo's gaze was that it carried an intensity that demanded answers and explanations. Even as your pulse flickered under his relentless stare, you rolled your eyes without any real heat. "No, of course n-"

Theo leaned in, backing you up against your headboard. Your hands clenched in your sheets restlessly, aching to reach out to him. You struggled to focus on the words coming out of his mouth, dizzy with the proximity. "Is this your way of getting me to sleep with my best friend?"

You could feel it - your face was fully scarlet by now. Honestly, how on earth were you meant to come off calm and collected with a face that gave you away at the drop of a hat?

You shivered as he ran a hand up the skin exposed by your top riding up. You finally caved, settling your hands on his collar. "You're a real comedian, you know that?" you muttered, trying and failing to play it cool as your hands slithered into his hair, dragging him closer.

Theo obliged, hovering over you, broad-shouldered, not half the mess you were underneath him. Not yet, at least. "Next you'll be telling me you want to watch, you little perv."

Your lips twisted into a poorly suppressed smile. "It's why you love me."

"Your voyeuristic tendencies?"

You hummed as his lips finally connected to your pulse. As one of his hands started creeping up your ribcage, you were starting to remember why you put up with him. "Exactly."

You didn't hear what he had to say after that, blissfully distracted by the exhilarating feeling of his skin on yours.

"Cara..." Theo sighed, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear.

"Hmm?"

All too frustratingly soon, he pulled his hands away. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You fought the overwhelming urge to cry. Moments like these proved that he was soft and pliant underneath that rough exterior. As he leaned back, you tenderly brushed back a lock of hair falling in his eyes. Why couldn’t he love you the way you loved him?

"Do you want to tell me why you've been freezing me out?"

The giddy feeling in your stomach died almost immediately. Maybe he wasn't as oblivious as you had thought. Your teeth dug into your swollen bottom lip. You hadn't expected a confrontation, especially not half-naked, though you were beginning to realise it was an oversight on your part. The direct person that he was, Theo was never one for playing games or beating around the bush. You felt your head start to pound, suddenly feeling far too exposed in more ways than one. You distractedly started rebuttoning your shirt before he stopped you.

"Tesoro..." he prompted softly. You heard the firm message hidden in his tone - no more deflecting. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze fixed on the strong, slender fingers covering yours. It was the closest you had gotten to holding hands.

You felt the absurd urge to laugh. It was laughable, wasn't it? How tragically ironic the whole thing was? You had liked that Theo was low maintenance, but somewhere along the way you decided that low maintenance wasn't enough for you.

You shook your head, finally accepting defeat. How long did you think you could keep up the charade? How long did you think you could tolerate this misery? Indefinitely? Of course not. As soon as you had watched him step off the carriage, still as fresh-faced and only a little quieter than usual, you had known - you were going to have to tell them, and after one awkward conversation, the two of you would part ways, and he would fade into obscurity over the years, only to be remembered as some guy you had dated when you hadn't known any better.

This was it. The beginning of the end.

"Why didn't you tell me about Katherine?"

You thought saying that would be much harder than it was. But then again, you had nothing to lose - not that you ever had anything to lose.

Theo raised his eyebrows slightly. "Ka-"

"Katherine Sawyer," you hissed. After weeks of avoiding bringing it up, it suddenly felt unbearable, having to wait one moment longer for the answer. "You know, the one you've been cosying up with every other night?"

"I only know one Katherine," Theo started irritably. "Just the one. And I haven't spoken to her since we wrapped up our Transfiguration project before I left for my trip. You remember, the one worth half our grade?"

"...oh." Oh, indeed.

"This isn't like you, Y/N," Theo pressed. "You've never cared about who I talk to. You've always trusted me."

The implication stung. "I don't care who you talk to," you protested. "I still trust you."

And it was true - you had only very briefly, if at all, entertained the idea of Theo having an affair. Even then, it was a notion borne of weeks of exhaustion from catering to your aconite's every little need. But it had been the spark for your brooding resentment.

"I just wish you had told me about her or mentioned her some time. It feels - " Your breath caught. "It felt like you were keeping secrets from me."

Theo's jaw ticked. He let out an exasperated sigh.

"Then why didn't you just ask me?"

You dropped your eyes.

"Dunno. Just...didn't want you to get mad."

His eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

"Didn't want me to get mad?" Theo echoed incredulously. "Honestly, L/N," he said sharply, looking more than a little peeved, "what did you think I was going to do?"

"I don't know," you wailed, closer to tears than ever, "break up with me?"

Theo opened his mouth to respond before closing it again. He furrowed his brow, mouthing indecipherable half-words as if trying very hard to wrap his head around what you were saying. Then, without warning, he pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you.

"Right," he finally said, with the air of someone washing their hands of some uselessly challenging task. You could barely focus on his words with the thrill running under your skin. Theo didn't mind being hugged - it was one of the frills he indulged you in - but he wasn't exactly the hugging type. "Next time something's bothering you, I want you to stop what you're doing and come find me."

You twisted your head out of his chest with some difficulty. "What if you're-"

"No - no exceptions," he continued, tightening his hold around you. "No letting it spiral into - whatever this was-"

"So," you interrupted shakily, "you're not breaking up with me?"

Theo glanced down at you, looking like he was going to have a coronary.

"No," he said, with some effort, staring at you like you'd grown a third head. "I'm not." He tilted his head, still squinting at you. "Are you sure you've been growing your aconite properly? It seems like it's been screwing with your head."

"Hey," you scowled, wriggling out of his grasp and giving him a dirty look. "I'll have you know Professor Sprout thinks my mandrakes are -"

But you never got to what Professor Sprout thought about your mandrakes, because you had spotted a familiar teasing glint in Theo's eye.

"About time you started taking it out on me," he laughed, blocking your spirited yet ineffective efforts in shoving him off your bed. You flopped onto your pillows once you gave up, flushed with bedraggled hair. Served you right for dating a 200-pound brute of a guy. "I was starting to think you were going to keep that all bottled up forever."

"Yeah?" you panted, embarrassingly out of breath. "Just you wait. I'm not...finished. It's going to be two more weeks of...of this...once I-"

"- catch your breath, darling?"

You glared at him. Theo could make anything sound salacious while looking perfectly innocent, a trait that was especially inconvenient during some of your shared lessons. You debated giving him the finger, but that would only further amuse him.

Besides, you were feeling very comfortable lying on your mountain of pillows and cushions. You closed your eyes for just a minute. "Dead man walking, Nott," you mumbled, pushing back the hair that had plastered to your forehead.

You opened your eyes when you felt him rest his head on your abdomen once again, his arms coming up around your hips.

"I'm serious about the nap, though," Theo said. "Jet lag is a bitch and Mattheo's going to take the piss out of me if I'm too tired to show up for practice."

You softly carded your fingers through his hair, your fingernails barely grazing his scalp. "Yeah, yeah, sure, you're sleepy. You're always sleepy." You tapped his face insistently as he already looked halfway to dozing off. "You realise that?"

"'M not," he mumbled out the corner of his mouth, relaxing under your touch. "It's the jet lag."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, you are. All I have to do is get you to stop thinking for two minutes and you'll nod right off, jet-lagged or not. It's because you're always drinking that damn coffee at all hours of the night." Your hair-raking turned somewhat fastidious. "What's your magnesium intake like?"

Theo huffed. "You're so bossy, you know that?"

"Avocado, spinach, almonds, quinoa-"

"I eat plenty o-"

" - less coffee -"

"I like the taste!"

"You could always take decaf."

Theo choked, eyes flying open.

"You take that back."

You eyed him sternly but relented. He couldn't help his Italian roots. "Well, you still need enough magnesium to get a proper night's rest-"

Theo groaned, burying his face into your stomach once again.

"Enough with the magnesium." He sucked in a breath between his teeth, grumbling to himself. "Merlin, I forgot how bothersome you could be."

"It's not my fault you need someone to bully you into taking care of yourself," you retorted.

"Whatever," Theo muttered, and it was something so comfortingly familiar you couldn't hold back a smile.

"Honestly...you and your...fucking magnesium..."

[specialgradefckr]

Teacher's Pet

tw: explicit content. nerd!gojo, teacher!reader, teacher/student, power imbalance. all characters involved are 18+. gojo is a SLUT for older women and also a very very dumb teenage boy.

You have to admit - grading papers is more fun with your best and brightest student mouthing your cunt under your desk.

He's a needy thing, a whiner to the core. Humming needily against your clit until you pet his hair and nudge his throbbing bulge with the toe of your high-heeled shoe.

It's the hand in the hair that makes him moan, though. He clings to your thighs like he's dying, lavishing your clit in kitten licks.

Something tells you he's not getting enough attention at home, but he's a senior, not some middle schooler.

He's a big boy now, and big boys don't forget to calculate for air resistance in addition to friction along the ground.

You hadn't marked any other students off for that, but you knew he was different. Better.

You told him so to his face when he came to complain to you about it. Told him that he was better than that, he should act like it.

Satoru Gojo was smart enough to be halfway through a college degree already, and here he was goofing around in your high school physics class. You'd met masters students who couldn't apply formulae as consistently and accurately as him.

That was where it started, you think. It was honest, sincere. He was so quick on the update, so concise, so good with his calculations.

You didn't get many students like that. It would be nice to see him go further, use his brain, apply himself and learn for the sake of learning. Because he can. Satoru has something great in him, and you want to see it shine.

The look on his face... you hadn't forgotten it even after going home that day.

Something in him changed after that talk. A good change, at first; always raising his hand, writing out his answers more thoroughly, asking discussion questions.

His face would just light up when you accepted his answers. He drank in every ounce of praise, attention, and conversation you could offer. Stayed after class to discuss material, even started reading different books to talk to you about.

When he told you he wanted to major in physics, get his degree - just like you had - you thought you'd really done something. Changed his life.

It was every teacher's dream, making a difference like that. Being a teacher hadn't been your dream, but knowing that you'd changed the course of Satoru Gojo's life, even just a little... it was a nice thought.

You couldn't deny there was a bit of envy in you, of course. He just understood things so much faster than you ever did, took to it all right away, acted like it was elementary.

And then, of course, he's spectacularly handsome. Beautiful, even. You didn't miss the way the other students - even some other boys - fawned over him.

On one notable incident one such girl had pulled him out of your after-class discussions - "Please, it's important, aren't your already acing Physics?" - and... well, maybe it was a hit of realism for you.

Maybe you'd gotten ahead of yourself. You were just his teacher, after all. Even a teacher can only have so much influence on his life. There were so many other people who knew him, cared about him, spent much more time with him than you did.

In the story of Satoru Gojo, you were a footnote, at best. Just a teacher he had in high school, nothing more.

The beautiful young man left the room with the beautiful young woman, and there you were, sitting, grading papers.

That could have been you, once.

Maybe you could have dated a smart colleague your age when you were in college, instead of someone older, cooler, more adult -

Just man enough to marry you, take out a hundred loans, and skip town to leave you holding the bag.

You'd watched the closed door with a nostalgic sort of bitterness. Then again, maybe it was never in the cards for you. You didn't have any family, much less a rich, well-respected one like the Gojo.

You probably never would, at this rate. And why would you even want one? Kids, with your schedule, with your debt?

You know better, now, than to expect a man to stick around to raise them. Maybe that was your one stroke of luck, that you never had a child.

It wasn't worth it to get a boyfriend. It wasn't easy like it would be for him; people fell over themselves to get Satoru Gojo's attention, to have his eyes on them. Girls left notes in his lockers, guys sucked up to him, everyone wanted a piece.

You're missing pieces. Old and jaded. With broken dreams of a PhD and a mountain of debt as your company. Who'd want you?

All you have is your work, and the pittance you're paid for it. At least you're good at it.

There's a little less enthusiasm in your voice, after that. When you take Gojo's answers - if you call on him at all - or give him his test results.

It just seems so pointless. The wind is out of your sails, the memory of youthful optimism and joy diminished when you remember what you are.

A leftover. Used up and discarded.

You keep your after-school discussions brief but respectful. It's hard to encourage him. Satoru Gojo is destined for success no matter what he does. He certainly doesn't need your help.

But then something strange happens.

You give a pop quiz and Gojo gets a B. His perfect answers start to crack. He doesn't show his work, doesn't do anything more than the bare minimum.

He does, however, go to office hours. But he doesn't speak - he just stares.

Those icy blue eyes. Bright. Piercing. Demanding, as if he has questions.

As if you have any answers he doesn't already know. Frustrating, beautiful, clever boy, he doesn't need your help, doesn't need anything from you, so why is he here?

"Can I help you with something, Mister Gojo?" You remember asking.

You remember him saying that you could. Stalking up to your desk like he thought he was slick. Eying you carefully.

You don't remember how it went down after that. What he did, how he started it.

But you remember to lock the door every time he's in here with you. If Gojo doesn't do it himself.

Or Satoru, rather. He always begged you to call him that during your first extra credit session.

You still remember his eyes. All wide open and pleading. "Please, sensei! Isn't there anything I can do?"

The memory brings a chuckle bubbling up your throat. The feigned innocence, the clumsy attempt at seduction.

Fuck, but he was pretty. Still is. Prettiest eighteen year old you've ever seen. And tall. All pent up and horny all the time, but so cute about it, so needy.

And you're - maybe you're a bit lonely.

And god, it feels so good to be wanted again.

"What's so funny?" He whines, breath hot against your folds.

You tap down on his dick with the tip of your shoe, enough that he groans again, "Keep going. You haven't earned it yet."

That just makes him whine again, but he closes his lips in your clit, fingers tightening on your thighs, tongue pressing hard into the swollen bud, pulsing through your core.

You stay casual, focused on the papers. Even as you feel yourself tightening up - Satoru can feel it too, you think. He always paid such good attention.

At least, when you were the one teaching him.

"There," you murmur, grinding your shoe into the bulge in his pants, slipping down one hand to his hair, feathery white, "Just a little more..."

He makes a grunt and your mind fills in the indignant I know, as if he's insulted you think he doesn't.

Satoru knows how close you are, and he laves his tongue over your clit, hard strokes, fast, enough to have you biting your lip as you tilt your head back, giving away as little as possible before -

"Ah," Light, airy, a sudden heat flits through you, rising up to your cheeks as release blooms between your legs.

You sigh a little bit, loosening your grip in his hair. When did it get so tight?

When you pull your foot away from his crotch, it's still noticeably hard.

"Hey," He looks up at you with big blue eyes. Wet, pink lips. Pleading face wet with your cum. "Can I come to your place?"

"That's not quite appropriate between a teacher and student," You drawl, giving his head a fond stroke.

Satoru's pretty white lashes flutter lightly at the touch, and he shivers just a little. Like he can't help himself.

"Pleeeeeaasse?" He whines, pressing himself up against you, "I'll be good. I'm so good. Aren't I? Come on, I did good!"

Your lips quirk to the side, as if in contemplation. Sure, he did well, but Satoru's always the cutest, the most obedient, the easiest when he feels like he's got something to prove.

"Half points," You say, packing up your papers, "You could have done better."

Not I've had better, or it could be better, or even I'm disappointed. No, you had to tell him you believed in him... and that he fell just short.

That's what lights up the look in his eyes, sends a wild insistence surging through him.

"Wait!" His hand wraps around your wrist as you stand up to leave, "I'll do it, I'll do better. Let me come with and you'll see."

Satoru looks so silly like this. On his hands and knees, half-crawled out from under your desk, looking up at you with puppy dog eyes.

But you're too old for this, for him. You know what happens next.

You take in strays, you get bit.

"I'll see you next time, Mister Gojo," You tell him with a smooth smile, and he withers at the use of his name, "Please try harder next time."

"But you ca-"

"On the next quiz, Mister Gojo," You speak over him with the firm, stern voice that always has him straightening his shoulders.

Poor thing. His dick is probably throbbing in his pants, if he hasn't cum in them already.

You close the door behind you when you leave, Satoru stuck behind you in the room.

You don't look back.

He's sulking, the next time you see him. It's adorable.

You watch him, elbow propped up on his desk, resting his chin on his hand while he stares out the window with a stubborn scowl on his face.

Precious. Look at those chubby, puffed-up cheeks. You could almost take a bite out of him.

"Mister Gojo..." You say, and he doesn't turn his head, "Mister Gojo."

Loud enough that the entire class turns to him, staring. Satoru takes a long moment pursing his lips and looking up at you wordlessly.

With an elegant, unbothered smile, you say, "Just checking to see if you were still with us, Mister Gojo. Now, as I was saying, the wave-particle duality can also be applied to matter, and in fact even subatomic particles can be demonstrated to behave like waves. This is important because..."

Approaching his table as you trail off, you look at him, brow raised in expectation, and Satoru looks away, silent.

"Care to fill us in, Mister Gojo?" You prod. Does he hate being called Mister Gojo that much?

"Nope," Satoru says, popping the p.

You have to hold back a laugh. "I see. Well, don't feel too bad, Mister Gojo," You say as you stride past his chair back up to the front, "It is an advanced topic. A high schooler like you wouldn't be expected to know that sort of thing."

That rankles, you can tell - "Because in quantum mechanics-"

"Moving on!" You speak over him, turning to the board and pulling down a screen.

The class shuffles as you lead them into the next lesson. Satoru is prickly, annoyed, his leg bouncing with errant energy the whole time it goes on.

He stands up after class, ready to walk up and speak to you, but you're quicker, already on your way out.

"Hey," He calls after you - never subtle, that one.

Once again, you don't stop. Maybe a few more days and he'll cool down.

It's something that looms in the back of your mind as you go about your day, teach your other classes, head back home.

This little stint with Satoru isn't going to last, after all. Really, you should be a lot more worried, since he's a student, and you're a teacher, but he's an adult so it's not like you'd face criminal charges.

You could be fired, but with how hard up schools were for physics teachers, you'd find a new position somewhere.

But Satoru isn't stupid. And you're discreet. It's not like you've done that much with him anyways.

It's fun, you can admit. A little bit of that energy from your youth, the joy of being wanted and chased and having a good-looking boy fall over himself for your attention.

Happier times. A better life. But those times are long gone, you're painfully aware.

You come home to a dingy studio apartment, with no more furniture than a bed and an end table. It's ramen again, tonight, and then scrolling on your phone in bed until you fall asleep. Maybe read some books you'd picked up from the library.

Just like you do every day. You have no friends left after your life went to shit. You wouldn't want anyone to see you living like this anyways.

It's cold, because you can't afford to pay much for heat, and you have to lock and deadbolt the door in case the loan sharks come by in the middle of the night again.

A reminder. Nothing good can last. You could pour all your heart into a man, all the encouragement and attention into your students, and you're still here, at the end of the day.

All you could do was enjoy what you had while it lasted. You could like Satoru, you could love him, even, but he'd never love you.

Couldn't even blame him. You didn't, either.

The next time Satoru catches you during office hours, he's well and truly desperate. Eyes wide and searching, frantic, door slamming and locking behind him as he stalked towards you.

"You're ignoring me."

"I rather think you've been ignoring me, Mister Gojo," You say, brandishing the formality like a shield, "Which is wholly inappropriate, considering I'm your teacher."

"Do you even like me?" He whines, leaning onto your desk, slipping his shades down to look you in the eyes, "You never want to hang out."

"Probably because I'm your teacher," The amusement in your tone is palpable, "I don't care to hang out around teenagers."

"Don't be like that!" Satoru leans in closer to you, "I know I get you off!"

You give him a sharp look. "Lower your voice. Satoru."

He stiffens up at that, avoiding your gaze, looking utterly scolded. Honey and vinegar, as the saying goes.

And maybe you do feel a little bit bad for him. He looks so morose, sometimes, listless. He is, after all, just a teenager who wants to be seen.

You slide your chair back in your desk, and it's a testament to your time together that Satoru immediately crouches to get underneath and between your legs.

You can't help a laugh, patting his head as he closes the distance, parting your thighs.

"Not today, sweet boy," You coo, sliding back even further.

Satoru's gaze is equal parts excitement and apprehension; he doesn't let go of your thighs. "What are we gonna do?"

You pull out a seat next to you. "Grade homework. It's time you put that brain to use."

The groan he makes is utterly hilarious. You laugh out loud, tugging him up by the hand, which he refuses to let go even when you shake it.

"I don't wanna," even as he speaks, he sits himself awkwardly in the chair next to you, scooting it closer, until you're touching, "Let's do something fun. I do all this stuff in class already."

"No you don't. You pout like a baby and refuse to engage with the material. It's very cute, but I know you're better than that, Satoru."

The redness on his cheeks brings a warm feeling to your chest.

"I could have answered it. You know that."

"I do," and you don't miss how his chest puffs up at that, either, "But I also know that you're my good boy, and good boys don't ignore their teachers. You can make it up to me, right?"

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "...Yeah."

"That's what I thought," You say warmly, watching him get to work, "And with both of us doing this, it'll go twice as fast."

"I'm failing everyone," Satoru grumbles, and you giggle - this makes the tips of his ears red.

He grades the papers accurately, so you let his little comment pass.

But you don't start grading papers. Instead, your hand makes its way down to his thigh, making him tense up.

"What are you - "

"Be good for me, Satoru," You say, catching his bright-blue gaze in a piercing stare, "You can do that, right? You're such a smart young man. Focus. Don't move."

You can see the realization course through him (your clever boy) as your hand inches towards his cock. His adam's apple bobs as his eyes flick back to his papers.

"The faster you finish grading, the faster you finish. But I'm checking your work as you go," leaning in closer, "One mistake, and I stop."

"Do you think you can do it for me, Satoru?" You purr into his ear as you slip under his jeans to grasp him - he gasps. "Or is that too hard for you?"

You're pretty sure he's never been harder.

"Of course I can," Satoru's voice is impressively smooth, "You better get going. I've already started."

A grin creeps up your face. So he thinks he can last that long?

Running your hands around his dick, feeling it; there's already cum pearling up at the tip.

"I see you have," You say, casually leaning shoulder-to-shoulder as you look over the papers he's grading, "But so have I, no?"

Whatever he's about to say gets cut off by a sharp grunt that wilts into a moan as you squeeze him at the tip, rubbing your thumb over his head. Stroking, you coax his precum along his length.

Next to you, his body strains with the effort of containing himself. You watch him mark the papers with efficiency you've never seen in all your years teaching. What a good boy, indeed.

So cute. His pretty face tightened in concentration, eyes gleaming with desire, with that boyish glee in his own talent that Satoru wears so well.

Forget taking a bite out of him. You want to eat him up.

It doesn't help that he's throbbing, twitching in your hands. Satoru is long, too - pretty, you think, when you glance at it - and it sends a flash of heat down your core.

"Distracted by something?" There's an unmistakable pride in his voice, even though his whole body is half trembling at your touch.

His cock is practically jumping in your hand.

Half-scoffing, half-chuckling, you place a kick on his cheek - his cock spurts just a little bit at it, and you have to bite back a cackle.

"Of course not," You coo, "I thought long and hard to come up with a test that could actually challenge you. My best student."

Long strokes, now, combined with praise that has his dick jumping again, a full-body reaction of energy coursing through him.

"But I know you can do it," Leaning in, you lay a kiss against his neck, nuzzling into there affectionately, "You're such a clever boy. You can do it, right?"

His hips jerk, twitching, along with the sharp scrawl of the pen in his hands. No mistakes, not yet. And so close -

He says your name, then. "Sensei," when you refuse to answer to it.

You squeeze him harder, like you can hold onto him if you just clench tightly enough. Like his little pants and whimpers of your name mean anything more than that he's close.

Like just having him like this, in your hands, at your mercy, makes him yours.

Warm, wet, hot and spurting out - "No - no, no not yet- fuck - fuck," he half-heaves in a sound torn between anguish and ecstasy.

His arms freeze up at his sides, and he shivers, choking on a sob before he melts into the chair. All over your hand. Face flushed red hot with bliss.

White lashes flutter over his eyes, blue and blown wide in pleasure. His pretty mouth hanging open, panting.

There's one paper left.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," You tut as you pull your hand away, wiping it off on his shirt, "And you were so close to finishing, too. I guess there are some things even my best student isn't capable of."

"Come ooooonnnn. You totally did that on purpose." Satoru slumps in your direction, still boneless. Face full of that boyish charm.

Still touch-hungry, even now, like a cat butting its head into your hand.

You snicker, even though you oblige him with a gentle hand in his hair, "Oh? I didn't know you wanted me to go easy on you."

Satoru leans over, into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you, "Don't be like that, sensei~ I'll make it up to you."

And that gets a giggle out of you. Because he's cute, he's flirty, and maybe you get just a little wet at the thought of what his well-trained mouth can do.

He positively preens at the sound, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, holding you close.

Soft lips tickle at your throat. Then teeth -

You shove him away, gathering yourself in a moment and standing up.

"What-"

"Make it up to me? That's a reward for you. I don't reward failure." You say. It's meant to be teasing, but it comes out colder, harder than you mean it.

There's panic in his eyes as he looks up at you. Bright, blinding.

"What, you're gonna leave? Just like that? You can't be serious," He stands up himself, grabbing you by the upper arm, "Just stay. I won't even ask to go home with you this time!"

"That's enough, Mister Gojo," you say, shoving his arm off, striding towards the door.

"Don't leave," The words are low, mournful, "Just tell me what you want me to do, I'll do it! Don't leave me!"

This time, you do look back. Satoru stands there, looking after you, forelorn like some kind of kicked puppy.

That's just how it is, though. It's what he gets for loving someone older, unworthy of him. He should know better than to want a woman nearly twice his age.

In a way, you're doing him a favor. Making sure he doesn't end up like you did.

When he finally gives his heart to someone, it should be -

You slam the door behind you.

[inlovewithladies]

Nerdy Abby headcanons!

I love nerdy abby so much this needed to be done. this is college au btw.

GENERAL

definately majors in kinesiology with a minor in biology

Color codes her stuff like she had OCD

when she gets to do lab stuff she gets all giddy like a kid in a candy store

since shes all buff and stuff i feel like she'd try new protein powder or bars and rank them based off taste and effectiveness

i know for a fact in my heart of hearts she loves star trek. like she has 3 posters in her room and figurines on her shelf

lives off of energy drinks especially if she has a test and needs to cram studying but doesnt tell anyone coz she preaches that theyre bad for u and doesnt wanna seem like a hypocrite

watched neon genesis evangelion

her laptop has a bunch of stickers on it IN A RELATIONSHIP

her love language is acts of service

she took literal ages to confess so she tried to communicate her feelings through actions. ie: carrying your books, walking you to class or back to your dorm

btw the confession wasnt smooth at all. she blurted it out in the middle of a study session with you, palms sweaty and shaky. 'hey, so um... i like.. like you, like a lot- wait can i start over?"

your first kiss was right then and there, she froze for a solid five seconds but when you pulled away she was cheesing so hard

even if your doing a different major than her, she'll offer to proof-read your homework just because she can (and she likes it)

enjoys making your lunch (i also feel like shed be one of those people who disguise broccoli in brownies)

at first she was kinda shy about physical touch dont get me wrong, she loves her muscles but she also doesnt wanna hurt you by accident. like if shes hugging you shell ask 'too tight?' before settling in

at some point she wanted to cut her hair but ultimately kept it long since you loved to braid it so much

I KNOW FOR A FACTTT she follows the sidewalk rule like her life depends on it

if your leaving the dorm (coz ofc your sharing it now) she watches out the window for a min to make sure your good wherever ur going.

if ur sleeping in the same bed, in winter shes amazing but in summer your probably gonna wanna sleep on the couch coz that woman is a human heater

NSFW

she talks a big game but gets completely flustered when it comes down to it

SOFT DOMMM

doesnt matter if its the 50th time shes seen you naked, shes reacting like its the first. always mutters a lil 'goddamn' when the bra comes off

i feel like shes a boob kinda girl

only had one other experience before you (ow*n) but she never really enjoyed it

reads up on the female body and how to illicit more extreme orgasms and follows it to the letter until the one time she got way too lost in the pussy and went off-script, suckling at your clit like a baby getting breastfed. you ended up cumming super hard and she decided to perchance do what she felt in the moment next time.

super attentive to your reactions, if you seem to particularly like something she'll log it into her brain like data for next time

careful with her strength but if you tell her you want it rough, your gonna get rough so be prepared

if shes strapping you down, she ends up lifting you somehow without noticing, lifting your hips off the bed, your legs hooked over her arms while she pounds you against the wall.

likes having you on top too though, especially if shes tired. she'll happily lay back and grip your hips, letting her hands occasionally drift to your tits.

if your both up to it, she'd also be happy to film the two of you having sex. of course shed never share it, just save it for if your apart during a long night.

has a thing for nasty tongue kissing while she thrusts into you

shes got a sensitive spot right under her left ear, kissing it is like a button to get her flustered

loves it when you scratch her back, matter of fact, the next day she'll purposely wear a tank top with the back kinda cut out iykwim so people can see the marks

isnt meticulous about shaving so she has a bit of a bush, not that you mind

if shes feeling subby, she'll let you tie her wrists lightly while you eat her out or finger her or whatever you wanna do to her

HATES getting edged. may i repeat she HATES being edged.

overstimulation on the other hand... especially if shes stressed or something. your girl is just so smart her brain just needs a break from thinking for a while

loves when you eat her pussy while making her keep eye contact with you

AFTERCARE

if she was submissive, she's like a pile of mush after sex, mumbling shit and shed grab you if you try to leave the bed.

lay with her for a little bit then gently guide her up with you and clean her up in the bathroom

likes to have her hair washed after sex

she definately sweats a lot after sex especially if she was strapping so she needs to have a shower either way

'was that okay? did i hurt you? gimme a minute ill get you some water- or do you wanna wash first?'

likes having you in the tub with her so she can hold you against her chest from behind while she kisses your temple.

after that you guys sleep like babies

A/N if you couldnt tell i rlly love abby anderson

[mywritersmind]

RULE NO.1 - LN

summary : fewtrell!sister. The one rule Max keeps strict with Lando is to stay away from his sister! Lando has always teased the girl but as she returns from college to crash at Max’s, it’s not so much of a joke anymore.

warning : kissing kissing kissing!

word count : 1740

⋆ ˚‧｡⋆

My brother has always had one rule with Lando, that is, ‘No, Under so circumstances, can you ever do ANYTHING with my sister.’ After I had my first kiss with said F1 driver, Max vetoed anything between us.

Of course there was nothing there, we were twelve and I had a tiny crush on him. But Lando is nothing if not mischievous.

He flirts. That’s the way he gets around the silly rule. His touches linger, his words tease me, and his eyes say anything he forgot.

Max absolutely hates it, especially with Landos track record with girls, it’s become a way to protect me and his own friendship.

I don’t exactly hate it. It’s a hot guy flirting with me, why would I hate it? Still, maybe my teeny tiny crush never fully left my mind. And with his meaningless words comes my own meaningful feelings.

“You look good.” I can see Lando in the reflection of the TV. He sips his tea, and leans against the counter.

He's in running shorts and a Quadrant shirt.

“Thank you.” I haven’t seen Lando in more than a year. I’ve been in my last year at Uni and his career has been crazier than ever. I would be fine around him… except that the last time I saw him it was new years. And he kissed me.

He kissed me and it’s lived rent free in my head for over a year. Max doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t because Lando is still in one piece.

Our whole childhood I was just the little sister who sometimes would beat them at mario kart. I’m two years younger, nothing crazy, yet Max seems to think it’s illegal for Lando to see me in shorts.

“Where’s my brother?” I ask, turning the page of my book without reading any words.

“Running.” He shrugs, “He’s slow.” I hear Landos footsteps come closer, then his bent over body leans against the back of the couch, making our heads next to each other.

He's turned toward me, I refuse to take my eyes off this book. “Why? You don’t trust us alone?”

Fuck Max and his slow ass.

I turn to face him, not letting myself feed his ego, “I don’t trust Max’s judgment of us alone.”

Landos slow smirk that tormented me throughout my childhood drifts back onto his face, “He’s right though.”

I sigh and close my book, getting up and walking to the kitchen, “He’s not here, Norris. You don’t have to play like that.”

“Play like what?” He turns to face me, wanting me to say it. “Oh i’m sorry, Your boyfriend wouldn’t approve?”

I hate the way he knows me because he clocks the way my lips pull into a thin line immediately, “You broke up?”

“It was mutual.” I say quickly.

“You dumped him.” He laughs out loud, walking closer to me, “God, Y/N please tell me he cried.” he did cry, actually.

I pivot and grab an apple for myself. I bite into it and Lando takes the time to assess me. I suddenly feel naked in sweats and a tank top.

“You’re one to talk. You cried after Kelly Allen kissed another boy on the playground.”

“That was in primary school!”

I laugh as he gets defensive, “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait! Come on, humor me a bit more.” He steps closer and I step backwards.

“Goodnight, Lando.” I turn around.

“Goodnight, Gorgeous.” His words make me spin on my heels.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” He fakes innocence.

“Stop being a flirt! You’re never serious around me and it’s getting annoying.” Something in his face changes then.

“Why would you think I’m not being serious?”

The door opens right as he says it, my brother stomping in as I back away from Lando, “I- Hate- You!” he pants as Landos whole demeanor changes to casually laughing at his friend. “Oh- Y/N!” Max catches his breath, “Lando is staying here tonight so… the couch is officially closed.”

I roll my eyes and lock myself into Max’s guest bedroom. This is going to be a long night.

____

I can’t sleep.

I can’t stop thinking about Lando sleeping right outside my door.

I need water, I decide.

I slip on my Brandy Melville shorts and adjust my thin tank top, walking out into the dark kitchen.

When I open the fridge I basically get blinded. Why the fuck is this light so bright!? I’m not the only one it bothers because the body on the couch stirs, “Hmm?” Lando groans and sits up, looking at me with sleepy confusion.

I grab the water pitcher and shut the door quickly, though by this time my eyes have adjusted to the dark and can properly see Lando.

Lando who’s in gray sweats.

Lando who’s in gray sweats, only.

“Sorry.” I whisper, turning to face the cabinet and trying to grab a glass.

I didn’t even notice he got off of the couch until I felt him behind me, reaching up to grab the cup that I couldn't reach.

“Thanks.” I duck under his arm. He's not even that much taller than me!

“Thirsty?” He says in a raspy voice. I pour my water with a slightly shaky hand.

“That would explain the water.” I say in a sassy tone. He chuckles a bit and leans against the counter top, his hands holding onto the marble.

I turn to face him, sipping my water. He checks me out then. With no shame at all! His hot gaze sweeps across my body for the second time today.

“Amused?” I ask innocently as his eyes meet mine.

“With you? Always.” He says without missing a beat, “I wasn’t joking, you know.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You said I'm never serious around you. But I've never lied to you.” my heart rate raises. I'm grateful we’re in the dark so he can’t see my pink cheeks.

“Lando. You shouldn’t say that.” I try to keep my eyes above his bare torso, I'm not doing too well.

“Why? Cause of Max? Fuck Max.” He’s closer to me now, he places his hands on both sides of my waist, bracing himself against the counter, “I think about that kiss every day.”

“We were twelve, I think it’s time to get over it.” I shrug, teasing him. He puts his head down, shaking it.

“I hate you.” Our eyes lock again.

I can hear his breathing, “No you don’t.”

His eyes glance to my lips, “No I don’t.” I watch him hesitate, once. Only once. His lips are on mine in an instant after that.

He feels so familiar yet so changed. This isn’t like how he kissed me on new years, this is new, this is right.

I grip onto anything I can, wanting him closer. His hands move to my hips, slipping his finger under the waist of my shorts.

“Lan-” I try to say but he cuts me off by kissing me. “Lando.” I say again, his mouth moving to my neck so I can talk. “We’re gonna wake up-”

He stops kissing me and suddenly I'm lifted onto the countertop, the ice cold marble freezing my ass. “Love, you’re gonna have to not think about that. Alright?” The way he says it makes me want to squeeze my legs together.

I nod, unable to speak before kissing him again. He slips his tongue into my mouth and holds my waist tight. Landos touch makes me think I'm going to melt right onto the floor.

My head hits the cabinets behind me but I don’t care, I wrap my arms around his neck, having him in between my legs still.

His hand moves to my cheek, kissing me desperately. He pushes his hand back into my hair, shamelessly tugging at it. I whimper as my head nods backwards. I hear his quickened breathing against me, his lips dragging down my chin and neck.

“Fuck, do that again.” He presses wet kisses down my chest, gripping my boob under my shirt. Right on cue, I whimper again as he runs his finger over my nipple. “Good girl.”

Landos hand finds itself in my hair once again, wrapping it around his knuckles. I want him so bad and I hate him for doing this here.

When he pulls on my hair once more, I knew he fucked up. The moan I let out is raw and too loud for us trying to stay quiet.

He slaps his hand over my mouth, his eyes darting up to my face. We go silent, waiting for some sign that Max is awake or heard us.

We wait.

Nothing comes.

I look at him and lick his hand, “Ugh!” He whisper yells.

I laugh quietly, “Your own doing.”

He shakes his head and lets it drop onto my shoulder as we fall into silent laughter. I poke his side, “You like me.”

He just rolls his eyes and pushes his hair back, still panting a bit, “You like me.”

“With the way you kiss, I better.” I smirk as he drags his hand down his face.

I watch him adjust his pants, earning me a raised brow and a smirk. I push his face away from me and hop off the counter, I attempt to fix my hair but I’m still being stared at by Lando.

“You really are gorgeous, ya know?” His words surprise me, making my already hot body even worse.

“I appreciate it.”

“Let me take you out.”

“We haven’t seen eachother in a year- what makes you think this year will be any different?” He bites his lip, holding onto my hips one last time.

“We can make it work.”

“But Ma-” I try to say.

Lando rolls his eyes. “He never wanted us to fuck around-”

“Like we just did…” I interrupt.

He keeps going, “But I like you.” I can’t help but smile, “And I don’t care if he doesn’t like that.”

“Look at you… sticking up to my brother.”

He smiles, running his tongue over his teeth before kissing me, “Goodnight for real, Gorgeous.”

He lets go of me as I turn around, “Goodnight, Lando.”

[blackynsupremacy]

SHY LITTLE THING

pairing: nicholas a. chavez x black!fem!reader

summary: nicholas tests to see how quiet you can really be for him after he catches you reading an erotica.

contains: based on this request, short blurb, 18+ content mdni, college au, smut, fingering, squirting, mention of female masturbation, cum eating/sucking, risk kink, public sex, praise, degradation, swearing

taglist: @greengoblinswifey @thabiddie23 @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @hoffmansgirl @austeenbootler @niteskysx @sabrinasopposite @thabiddie23 @hnch33rios @xoxoglittergossip @supaprettyg @motherismotheringggg @oscarisaackissmykitty @simply-lovley44 @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu @venic-bxtch @stargirl-mayaa

“shhh…y’know you gotta be quiet, don’t you?”

the man beside you whispered in such a demanding, but coaxing tone as his large, two fingers slowly slide along the dampness of your entrance that was still clothed behind your black, lace panties. you held back a moan, yearning for his touch, but still not wanting to get caught.

you’d never thought you’d find yourself in this type of situation. you’d never thought the sensual experiences you’d read in the filthy eroticas you possessed would become a reality as the school’s heartthrob, nicholas alexander chavez, had successfully seduced you within the smallest corner of the semi-crowded campus library. he was just supposed to be your study partner, but there was no denial that in all of the prior occasions of you crossing paths with him that the sexual tension between you wasn’t palpable. his lingering gaze, grazing fingers across your skin, and his close proximity to your body whenever he was close by were obvious signals of his desires. you tried to deny all you could because you were uncertain that you were ever his type. he was part of the scholarly, yet popular crowd, so of course he had girls flocking around him. you were just as studious as he was, but you kept to yourself in your own little box just trying to get your degree without any complications.

nicholas knew that you loved to read in your free time. when you’d meet to study, he’d encourage you to accompany him to a campus party whenever you’d feel comfortable of course. he just wanted to see you out of your comfort zone—maybe even see you move in a sexy, red number on the dance floor, but for you, he was patient in his persistence because you always gave him this response,

“i’ll think about it, nick.”

the weekly meet-ups for studying started to become less about academics and more about getting to know each other as people. nicholas being the social butterfly he is would ask you personal questions such as,

“i don’t wanna come off as pushy, but do you have a boyfriend?”

you hastily shook your head in response,

“it’s no worries and—no, i don’t. guys at this school don’t really look at me that way. i mean, look at me.” you confess with a shrug of your shoulders, a soft nervous chuckle emitting from your full, glossed lips. nicholas could only carefully examine your entire figure with his intense, brown gaze.

“i am—and they’re fucking blind.” he blatantly stated and smirked at your surprised, speechless reaction.

that’s when nicholas started his flirtatious behavior around you, getting you flustered every time. you were both in the library studying late for midterms, you were trying to quiz him on a question about a theory that was from the study guide only to look up to see his eyes never pulled away from you.

“nicholas? are you listening to me?” you inquire, the brown skin of your face heating the longer he held his stare.

“mhm, m’listening.” he responds before proceeding to answer the question correctly. his fingers softly guide your chin to face him when you try to go back to your book. he leans in slowly to whisper as his lips were mere centimeters from touching your own,

“here’s a theory i want to test—i believe you’d have the softest, most kissable lips than any girl i’ve ever met. would it be okay with you if i tested that, doll?”

that was the first of many acceptances to his advances which got more intense with every encounter. nicholas loved to hear any type of sound that came from you. he thought there was no way in hell that someone as enchanting as you wasn’t getting what she rightly deserved:

pleasure.

which now brings you to this moment of him teasing you after he caught you in the corner indulging in a filthy paragraph of one your erotica novels. you were embarrassed beyond belief, thinking that he would see you as this creep reading such things in public. what you didn’t expect was his reaction,

“you have no idea how hot that is—so, that’s what turns you on, yeah?”

he took the opportunity to sit beside you on the floor, the fabric of his jeans grazing the bare skin of your leg. you instinctively clench your thighs because you were already aroused from the content you were reading, now with nicholas close by, he was adding fuel to the fire. you confessed that you started reading this genre ever since your freshman year, it was your own guilty pleasure. at these words, nicholas had one burning question,

“do you—touch yourself when you read that?” he asked, his lustful, curious eyes peering down at the book within your grasp. you weren’t sure what it would lead to, but you ended up confirming with a deliberate nod,

“yeah, i do. it must be nice to have some experience.” you trail off, your eyes shifting from his lips before quickly looking back into his eyes.

nicholas raised a brow in piqued interest, a smirk playing on his handsome face.

“would you like to know that experience?”

it wasn’t long before you gave in to your desires when you took his face within your grasp, desperately planting your lips on his in such a fervent manner. you try to keep quiet as he kisses your neck while his hand slides under your black top, fingers intruding into your bra to firmly grasp onto your breasts.

“go on, keep reading.” he’d murmur, now trailing his hand from your chest down to the warm, brown skin of your thigh. the higher his hand travels, the wider your legs start to spread to ensure him access to a place no one, but you has dared to go to. it’s ironic that the character you’re reading about was about to receive the same treatment from her lover as you were from nicholas.

“fuck, baby, you’re soaked.” nicholas whispered, the tips of his fingers caressing your slit through your panties. “m’bout to get these out the way, you good with that?” he inquired in your ear, you don’t make a sound, but give him a nod to signal your consent. your legs were propped and your knees slightly bended as he started to pull your panties away from you. nicholas softly cursed in satisfaction when he saw the long, clear string of your arousal appear the further he pulled until they were at your ankles. he didn’t waste time when he brought the rough pad of his thumb to caress pressured circles on your clit. your breath hitches within your chest as you try to keep quiet while focusing on the page.

“look at you, reading that filth while you’re letting me touch you like this—you’re not as innocent as i thought you were.”

god, he was making this so much harder than it has to be. his voice alone was like sex itself. you try to lean to your head back against the bookshelf behind you.

“oh, no, baby, keep reading f’me.” nicholas softly demanded, deeming you ready enough to effortlessly slip a finger inside of you while his thumb was still working on your clit. he briefly praised at how tight and warm you were for him, driving your desire for him to be more intense than before. your shaky hands turn the page and your breathing starts to get ragged as he now has two fingers performing a scissoring motion deep inside of you. due to your silence, you could only hear the soft sound of squelching that emitted from your sex as people carried on with their casual conversations unbeknownst to the unholy act that was occurring in the corner of the library. you start to buck your hips as his fingers increase in tempo, you want to cry out each time they hit the spot that even you couldn’t reach when you attempted to do so in the past. nicholas had noticed the your yearning to make a sound, still with the rush of not getting caught he had a solution.

“you’re being a such good girl—you gonna cum soon, yeah?” with a rapid nod, you don’t hesitate to grab him by the shoulders to silence every lewd sound you wanted to make into his mouth. as his tongue skillfully caressed around yours, your walls grew tighter around his fingers as the heat within your abdomen grew stronger. nicholas made sure to hit that spot repeatedly while making all sorts of shapes on your sensitive bundle of nerves as you drew closer,

“go ahead, beautiful. cum f’me.” he coaxed after pulling away from the kiss, not stopping his movements as you coated his digits and your inner thighs with your slick when he took you to your climax. your mouth was wide open, but no sound dared to come out. nicholas pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you to feel empty from the loss of his touch. he put his glistening index within his mouth to silently indulge in the taste of your nectar, you observed as he hummed in contentment before he guided his middle towards your lips,

“c’mon, i bet you never tasted yourself. trust me, you’ll love it.”

he was right, you never went that far, but for nicholas, you were ready to explore the uncharted territories of pleasure in which you were happy to follow his lead. your hands grasped onto his wrist, taking both fingers in your mouth to suckle off the rest, your eyes dare not to leave his amused, yet intrigued gaze.

and to think that you were just a shy little thing.