#but its insanely difficult to voice them properly

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

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

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

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

notes. i've been missing for two days, I rlly hope you won't be bored with this long ahh. and please try to not skip some parts since its important for you to understand the thoughts behind the actions.

You were supposed to be past this, supposed to be untouchable, unshaken, unbothered. That was your thing—right?

You didn’t cry over boys. You broke them. You didn’t second-guess yourself. You walked out first. You ended things before they could ever reach the part where you might actually get hurt. But now, you were lying in your bed, legs tangled in your sheets, staring at your ceiling like it held answers, and for the first time in a long time, you felt… small.

You hadn’t cried since the fight with Megumi, not really. But now, everything was creeping in. Quietly. Slowly. Like the kind of pain that doesn't hit you all at once—but chips away at you until suddenly, there's nothing left.

It wasn’t supposed to matter, it was just tutoring, just a deal, just a boy with glasses and too many books and a sharp tongue who should’ve meant nothing. But why—why—was it his voice in your head? Not Noritoshi’s, not the boy who said he loved you.

Not the boy you gave everything to for over a year—the one who knew all the worst parts of you, the one who held every dark thing you never dared show anyone else. The boy who kissed you like possession, who yelled in hotel rooms and made you feel insane for asking to be seen, for asking to be loved properly.

The boy who said you were too much. Who slammed doors and then begged at them the next day, who hurt you and then convinced you it was love. Noritoshi had everything—your trust, your secrets, your body, your pride. And he still made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He knew you, but he never saw you, and now here you were, spiraling over someone who did.

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

The one you swore you’d never even glance at twice. The one you called boring. The one who annoyed you with his quiet judgement and his folded sleeves and his constant reminders that you could be better—if you wanted.

You hated that.

You hated the way he looked at you like he expected more. Like you weren’t just some pretty, mean girl with fake lashes and perfect skirts and an Instagram full of filters. You hated that he listened.

That he remembered how you hated black tea and liked your pen to have a cap instead of a click. You hated how he looked at you during tutoring—like he was trying to understand you, even when you were being difficult. Even when you didn’t want to be understood.

Noritoshi never asked how your day was, but Megumi always noticed if it was bad.

Noritoshi made you feel crazy for crying. Megumi… made you want to cry just because he was kind when you didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Fuck.

You turned over in your bed, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your chest felt tight, like there was something inside it you didn’t want to name. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t even like Megumi. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the plan. And even if you did, how could you ever trust that feeling again? How could you let yourself get close after what happened with Noritoshi? After all the fights? The screaming? The apologies that meant nothing?

You thought Noritoshi would break you once. But instead, he broke you over and over again, in pieces so small they were impossible to hold. and you were still recovering from that.

So how could you let someone like Megumi in? How could you admit that he made you feel safe when you barely knew what safety looked like? How could you admit that in just a few weeks, he did more than Noritoshi ever did in twelve months?

It terrified you.

So instead, you clenched your jaw. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a weird reaction. A blip. Temporary insanity. You didn’t like Megumi. You couldn’t. You were just tired. You were just lonely. You were just angry, but none of those excuses explained the ache in your chest or the way your body still remembered the warmth of his hands on your waist.

You turned over again, you weren’t going to cry, you weren’t going to want him, you were going to forget it ever happened. Except you wouldn’t. Not really.

Because this feeling—the one clawing its way up your throat right now—it was something you hadn't felt in a long time. And that scared you more than anything else.

You leaned back in your chair, a groan escaping your lips as you stared at the pages in front of you. The words blurred together, a mess of historical dates and political concepts you could hardly care less about. If you were being honest, the only thing running through your head was the last few weeks. Megumi, and the words thrown at each other.

And now here you were, stuck at Nobara’s place, trying to study with her. She had a way of being productive even when she was too loud, her energy bouncing off the walls as she flipped through her notes with casual ease. You couldn’t even focus on the words in front of you.

"Are you even paying attention?" Nobara asked, voice laced with amusement as she glanced at you, catching you mid-eye roll. "You’ve barely looked at your book since we started, and I’m starting to think you’re just here for the snacks."

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "I am paying attention, okay? I just... I hate civics."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. "You say that about every subject, Y/N. But civics? Really? You hate it because it’s boring, or are you just avoiding actually trying?"

You threw her a look, already irritated. “I just don’t see the point. Why do I need to know how the government works? The most important thing in life is looking good and having fun.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a warped view of life, you know that?”

“Hey, I didn’t get the memo about life being about politics and the will of the people,” you said, leaning back and crossing your arms defiantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive just fine without knowing what a civil servant even does.”

"Well," Nobara began, flicking through her notes, "you might want to get it straight if you want to graduate."

You groaned again, ignoring her, but then she dropped the bombshell.

“So, tell me this, since you're so into skipping the whole responsibility thing," she said with a smirk, leaning in slightly. “Do you know what the kenpo means in relation to our government system?”

You stared at her, blinking. "What? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Civics,” she replied flatly. "You know, the basics of how the government works. Japan’s constitution and all that.”

For a second, you were thrown. The question felt way too real, way too... serious. But more than that, it made you freeze because—shit—you remembered.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. The words Nobara had just said echoed in your head, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. You shifted in your seat, leaning back, but then the memory of Megumi popped up—completely uninvited—and your heart stuttered a bit.

“The kenpo is a significant part of Japan’s post-war constitution,” Megumi said, flipping through his textbook. His voice wasn’t just calm—it was smooth, as though he'd memorized everything the night before.

You blinked. “Kenpo? What the hell is that?”

Megumi didn’t look up from his book. “The Constitution of Japan. Article 9, kenpo, which means the renunciation of war. It’s basically what keeps Japan’s military stance neutral.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “Are you on drugs? How the hell did you pull that out of your ass so easily?” You chuckled under your breath. “Like, are you secretly some government nerd who spends his nights reading about laws and shit?”

He didn’t react. Just flipped the page and kept going like it was no big deal. “No, just... you know, I study. Helps me understand shit.”

Now, back in Nobara’s room, you blinked as you realized the memory had pulled you in unexpectedly. You were so lost in thought that you’d almost missed her question.

“Did you hear me?” Nobara’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You looked at her. “Yeah, sorry,” you said, trying to shake off the mental images of Megumi casually schooling you in civics like it was nothing. “So… kenpo, huh?” you repeated, the word awkward on your tongue as it suddenly felt like a stupid joke.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing a little, as if you should've known. “We’re studying this stuff for our shiken.”

You couldn’t help but wince. The term ‘exam’ had never felt so intimidating. “I think I need to study more than just government,” you muttered under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. I should try harder… and stop being an idiot about it.”

But as your thoughts drifted, you couldn’t help but think back to that tutoring session—how easy it seemed for Megumi to rattle off facts, making you feel completely out of your depth.

You suddenly felt the sting of your own inadequacies again, and it pissed you off. But then, you remembered his impassive face when he’d explained it all to you like it was nothing.

“Maybe I do need to try harder...” you said quietly, more to yourself than to Nobara. But of course, Nobara was quick to pick up on your mood.

“Exactly, don’t just sit there and whine about it,” she shot back, “You got this. You’re not dumb, just need a little focus.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

But as you sat back down, your mind couldn’t let go of how much Megumi had impressed you. No one else could’ve made civics feel like it was worth paying attention to, and yet... he did.

The day had barely begun when Gojo dropped his usual “important announcement” on the class.

It was a Tuesday morning, and as usual, you were walking the fine line between paying attention and planning your next social media post when he suddenly cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the entire class with a smirk that hinted at some ridiculous news.

"Alright, alright," Gojo’s voice boomed, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Listen up. You’ve got an essay due next week."

You sat up straight, automatically feeling that familiar rush of anxiety that only came with the word essay. Everyone groaned in unison, and the collective energy in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo continued, barely suppressing his grin. "It’s on a political topic in Japan. Your job is to research it, write your thoughts, and show me you actually give a damn about your grades."

He paused, looking around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions. "So, get ready to do some actual work. For once."

You felt a familiar knot in your stomach—mixed emotions all at once. The topic was nothing new. You’d been through political essays and assignments about Japanese government structures before, but this one felt different.

You had the tools this time. You had the resources. You had the chance.

It wasn’t like the other times where you’d half-assed everything or relied on cheating your way through. This was an opportunity to show that you could actually do something—for yourself. You had Megumi’s tutoring sessions to thank for that. Even if you hadn’t directly paid attention to every word, something had changed inside you. You were no longer the same lazy, apathetic person you used to be. You couldn’t go back to that version of yourself anymore. You refused to.

You glanced around at the other students, most of whom were still caught up in the collective sigh of dread. Some were already pulling out their phones, others frantically taking notes to pretend they were paying attention. But for once, you didn’t feel that sense of dread. You felt... determined.

This was your shot. You weren’t going to let this be another failure. You were done with disappointing yourself.

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of what he was saying: “...and the topic? Something like the kenpo, the Constitution, or Japan’s stance on foreign relations. You choose, but you better make it count.”

You didn’t even pause. Your hand shot up without thinking.

"Yes, Y/N?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, amused by your sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll take the Constitution,” you said with surprising confidence, not caring who heard you.

“Ah, the kenpo,” he mused, clearly impressed by your choice. “Alright. I like it. Maybe you’ll finally do something interesting with that brain of yours.”

You didn’t care for his praise, but his approval made something stir inside you. You didn’t need his validation. This was about you. For the first time in ages, you were doing something for yourself, not for attention, not for anyone else’s approval.

The class continued on, but your mind had already shifted. You had a purpose now.

After school, you couldn’t shake the feeling that today was different. That essay, that political topic—it wasn’t just another assignment. It was the first step toward proving to yourself that you weren’t the lazy, self-destructive person you’d been in the past. This was about growth. Real growth.

You walked through the crowded hallway, determined. As you passed by the lockers, you saw the usual faces—people talking, laughing, their lives unfolding without a care. But for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to be part of that world. You were doing something for yourself, and you could feel the difference already.

You were going to finish this essay. You were going to nail it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d be one step closer to doing something that really mattered for you.

You stood there in the hallway, clutching your books to your chest like they were some kind of shield. The hallway was buzzing with the usual noise—people chatting, lockers slamming, the clatter of footsteps—but it all felt so far away. Like you were standing outside of it, looking in. You should’ve felt free after making the decision to focus on that essay. You should’ve felt confident, like you finally had something to prove.

But instead, all you could hear were the voices in your head.

You’re doing this for yourself. You’re not weak. You’re strong. You don’t need anyone...

But even as you told yourself that, the insecurity gnawed at you. It clawed at your thoughts like a persistent itch you couldn’t scratch.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

There, across the hall, Megumi was standing, leaning against the lockers. His usual scowl was in place, though something about it seemed softer today, quieter. His gaze wasn’t on his phone or the floor like usual. No, today it was directed at something—or someone.

Miwa.

She was walking past him, laughing at something with her friends, not even noticing that Megumi was watching. You saw the way his eyes followed her, how his gaze softened just slightly as she passed by. It wasn’t a look of deep affection or anything dramatic, but the way he watched her… it made something twist deep inside you.

It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. You weren’t even sure why it felt like it did. You barely knew why you were standing there, frozen, as the pieces of your chest started to break apart, slowly.

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to feel jealous. You didn’t want to care. But there he was, your Megumi—your Megumi, in some twisted sense, right?—just staring at her from across the hall, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. And you hated it.

You’re so different from her, the voice in your head whispered. She’s sweet. She’s easy to love. You? You’re just… a mess. You’re tough. You push people away.

The voice hurt, but you couldn’t stop it. You weren’t soft. You weren’t gentle. You didn’t smile like that, not naturally.

And sure, you could walk away, pretend it didn’t bother you, but it did. It really fucking did.

Megumi had always been this person who kept to himself, never revealing much, never opening up to anyone. But when it came to Miwa, when it came to her effortless charm, his guard was nowhere to be seen. He just stood there, eyes locked on her, and something in you broke a little more.

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

He wasn’t even talking to her. Hell, she didn’t even know he was watching. But in that moment, you realized something. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Miwa, and it hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.

You turned, walking away quickly, your heart pounding in your ears.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt. He’s not yours.

But there you were—walking away from it anyway, pretending it didn’t feel like someone had ripped something from your chest. You told yourself you were fine, but deep down, it was all unraveling.

You weren’t supposed to feel vulnerable. You weren’t supposed to let things like this get to you.

But here you were, wondering why you’d never be the one Megumi watched like that.

The clock on your desk read 3:30 AM, but the words on the screen still seemed to blur together. You’d been at this essay for hours—struggling to organize your thoughts, to make sense of it all. Your mind kept drifting back to Megumi. To the way he looked at Miwa. To the disappointment that welled up in your chest every time you thought about how far you’d fallen.

But this? This essay? You had to do it. You had to prove to yourself that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could do something right on your own. Something that mattered.

The tears were just waiting to spill over, but you kept pushing them down. They didn’t fit here. Not with the pressure of your name. Not with the weight of your reputation.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning in frustration when your screen stayed stubbornly blank. Your mind wandered again, this time to your father. He always said the same thing—you have potential. But did you really? Or was it all just a fucking game of appearances?

And then, as if on cue,

your father’s soft knock on your door was the first thing that registered. It took you a moment to process it, and then another to look up from the essay you’d been trying to work on for hours. The blinking cursor on your screen seemed almost mocking in its silence, and you could feel the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you.

"Daddy?" You didn’t bother trying to hide the crack in your voice, the exhaustion. It wasn’t worth it.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the frame with his usual casual smile, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. Even after all these years, he had that aura about him—the kind that made the world feel like it was all just a little bit lighter. But tonight? You couldn’t pretend to be the girl who had it all together. Not anymore.

"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, stepping into your room without hesitation. He always did this, always came to you when he knew something wasn’t right. "I heard the tap-tap of your keyboard from down the hall. What’s going on in here? You didn’t turn into a zombie, did you?"

You managed a small smile, even if it felt like it was painted on, too thin to be real. "Just a stupid essay, nothing major." Your eyes flickered back to the screen, but the words weren’t making sense. Nothing was making sense. "It’s... whatever."

He didn’t buy it for a second. He never did. He moved closer, leaning against the desk, glancing at the papers you hadn’t touched. "You sure? Looks like someone’s been fighting with a word processor."

You chuckled weakly, shrugging. "Yeah. Me versus an essay. Guess who’s losing."

"Ah, classic. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure essays are just a trap set up by the universe to make us feel like we have to prove we’re smart. Just a conspiracy," he added, trying to lighten the mood, his tone playful. He ruffled your hair a little as if to say it’s okay, even though the unease hung in the air like a storm cloud.

You pulled away from the touch, instinctively, and your stomach churned. The pressure inside you only seemed to build. "I don’t think that’s what it is, Daddy." You could feel the familiar ache in your chest, like everything you had worked so hard to maintain was slipping through your fingers.

He straightened up a little, letting out a small sigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. You’re not in the mood for Dad’s conspiracy theories."

His voice softened, but not with pity—no, he wasn’t the type to give you that. Instead, it was warm, steady, the kind that had always managed to make you feel like things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Even now, his presence was a comfort. But it wasn’t enough to silence the growing voices in your head.

"Hey," he said, nudging the chair next to you with his knee, "why don’t we take a break? You’ve been working at this for hours. Your brain’s probably fried by now."

You just stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting for you to move. It wasn’t the essay that was bothering you; it was the constant pressure, the constant need to be more than just what everyone else saw. It was always about appearances. Never letting anyone see the cracks, even though you were the one who had to fill them every single day.

"I don’t know if I can do it," you muttered under your breath, voice small. "I keep fucking up, Daddy. I try, I really try, but it’s never enough."

He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, letting the silence hang in the room. You tried to ignore the tightness in your throat, but it only made it worse. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I thought I had everything figured out. That I could just coast through everything. But now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve let everyone down, including myself."

His face softened, eyes full of understanding, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You cursed under your breath, wiping it away quickly, but it didn’t stop the flood that followed.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you’ve got to stop holding yourself to these impossible standards. You think you need to be perfect all the time, but no one expects that. Not from you, not from anyone."

You shook your head, the tears blurring your vision. "You don’t get it," you said hoarsely. "You don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s always expecting something from me, and if I don’t deliver—if I fail—they’ll see me for who I really am. Not the ‘perfect daughter’ they want. And I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my place. I’ll be nothing."

He sat down next to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "You’re more than just your reputation. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No," he interrupted softly, "no buts. Listen to me. I don’t care about what other people think. I don’t care about how you’re seen. What matters is you. You have so much more inside you than this... this pressure you're carrying. And I’ll always be here, no matter what you do or how many times you fall down. You don’t have to do it alone."

You choked on a sob, your body shaking as you leaned into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could protect you from everything, even yourself. His heartbeat was steady beneath you, a rhythm you clung to as if it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

"I just want to be enough," you whispered against his chest, barely audible. "I want to be... something good. For once."

"You already are," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "You’re my daughter. You’re everything to me. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone."

Your sobs broke loose then, and you let them come. Let yourself fall apart in the safety of your father’s arms, not caring about the essay, not caring about the image you’d been trying to keep up for so long.

You didn’t need to be perfect. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You woke up late, the alarm blaring its usual obnoxious tune, but this time you didn’t hit snooze. You just… didn’t feel like getting up. Still, after the long conversation with your dad, a sense of calm had settled over you that you hadn’t realized you’d needed. It wasn’t the kind of calm that fixed everything, but it was enough to get you out of bed and, against all odds, to school.

You sprinted down the hall, your bag bouncing against your side, heart pounding as you dashed toward Gojo’s office. Missing the first period wasn’t ideal, but you’d already made a decision. You were doing this. Not for anyone but yourself. Not for Megumi—whatever that was. No. This was about you. You had your own shit to prove. You were sick of falling short.

You burst through the door of Gojo’s office without knocking, barely catching your breath, and locked eyes with him. The typical cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft surprise behind his glasses.

"You’re late," he said casually, but there was no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah, I know," you replied, already opening your notebook, the pages freshly filled with the essay you’d been working on all night. "Here. I got it done."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, the sudden seriousness of your tone catching him off guard. He took the paper from you and glanced it over. His eyes scanned the words, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. He seemed focused—more focused than usual.

"Huh," he said, breaking the silence. "Okay… I’ll check this."

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, but there was something else now—something that felt like you were finally getting it right. The words on the page felt like you, like they belonged to you. You hadn’t relied on anyone else. You hadn’t slacked off or tried to get by with minimum effort. This was your work. And it felt good.

"Good work, Y/N," Gojo said, surprising you. His voice was softer, more genuine than you were used to hearing. "I’m impressed."

You blinked. Impressed? Was that really the word he just used? You hadn’t been expecting that. You wanted to feel smug, to let that adrenaline fuel a comeback, but… no. You actually felt something else. It was a quiet, simple sense of accomplishment. And it felt better than you expected.

"Thanks," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The moment was brief but important, like the first small victory after a long time of feeling like you were just slipping by. But as soon as the pride started to settle, your mind wandered, as it always did, to him.

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

You almost scoffed at yourself for even thinking about it. It didn’t matter what he thought, right? You weren’t doing this for him. You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. But your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you, cold and angry—words you’d hurled at him like daggers, only to have them stab you in return. He had no right to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

So why did it matter so much?

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. "You want me to grade it now? Or… are you heading back to class?"

You gave a quick nod, barely aware of your body moving toward the door. "Yeah. Sure."

"Don’t go thinking this means you’re off the hook, though," he added, a bit of that teasing tone returning. "You’ve still got work to do."

You waved him off, not bothering to look back as you left the office. But as you walked out into the hallway, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat was steady. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or fear—it was anticipation. You weren’t sure where this would lead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were in control of your own story.

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

You and Nobara were hanging out by the lockers, leaning against the metal doors while the noise of the school buzzed around you. It was one of those rare moments where you didn’t have to be the perfect, untouchable “bad bitch” everyone expected you to be. Instead, you were just… talking. And it felt weirdly nice.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I thought you’d be a little more chill after everything with, you know, Megumi,” Nobara said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and flicking it with her tongue. Her eyes studied you carefully, like she was trying to read a chapter in a book she couldn’t quite finish.

You scoffed, flipping your hair over your shoulder, giving her a pointed look. “I am chill. I’ve always been chill.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, “You’ve been a walking hurricane lately. Like, you keep acting all tough, but you’ve been so fucking quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you replied, eyes narrowing in a fake attempt at annoyance. “I’ve just been—occupied.”

“Occupied with what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “With your grades? Or trying to pretend you don’t have a damn heart?”

You laughed it off, crossing your arms. “No heart. No problems.” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “And don’t go all psychoanalyst on me either. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Oh really?” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

You scoffed again. “I don’t need to figure you out, Nobara. You’re pretty simple to read.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow again, her grin widening. “And here I thought you were all mysterious and complicated. Guess not.”

You leaned back, hands on your hips as you gave her an exaggerated look. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like I’m some emotional wreck.” You smirked, acting all nonchalant, but the words stung. “I’m fine, alright? Totally fine.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’ve been disappearing every time someone mentions Megumi. Total ‘I’m fine’ energy there.”

You shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his name, but you quickly masked it with a snarky smile. “You think I care about what he’s doing? Please.”

“Oh really?” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I seem to remember you having a meltdown in the cafeteria like, a week ago. Pretty sure your ‘I don’t care’ act needs some work.”

“Stop acting like you know shit,” you snapped, but it was all a front. You hated that Nobara could always see through you. “I’m done with him, alright? So drop it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” she said, not buying it for a second. She popped her gum again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But tell me this—what’s really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you shot back quickly, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy. That’s it. Now, can we stop talking about this?”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but then she stopped, glancing down the hall as she caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh look,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ten o’clock.”

You rolled your eyes, not understanding why that was significant. “And?”

She grinned devilishly, her gaze flicking to a figure in the distance. “Guess who’s about to show up.”

You blinked. "Who?"

“The one, the only…” she paused dramatically, “Megumi Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped in your chest, but you refused to show it. You hated how he still had that effect on you. “Oh, great. What do you want me to do, roll out the red carpet?”

“Pfft, I’m just saying, you’re still not done with this whole ‘I’m the bad bitch who doesn’t care’ thing. That shit’s getting old, you know?” she said, the tone of her voice softening for just a moment. “You’re only fooling yourself.”

You straightened up, feeling the familiar defensiveness bubbling inside of you. “I’m not fooling anyone.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't push it further.

You hated that she could read you like a book, but you weren’t ready to admit any of that to her. To anyone.

And then, there he was.

You didn’t even need to look hard; Megumi was walking toward you, his typical hoodie and glasses hiding his expression, but you could feel the weight of his presence as soon as he entered your field of vision. You instinctively tensed.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. There was this insane part of you that wanted to go to him, talk to him, maybe even try to make things less...awkward. But your pride? Your damn pride wouldn’t let you.

“Go on, talk to him,” Nobara said with a grin, nudging you gently.

You ignored her, walking up to Megumi, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you tried to mask the nerves building up in your stomach. You kept your gaze steady, but when you finally reached him, you faltered slightly. There was something in your chest, like an empty, aching pit.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I handed an essay to Gojo today.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable as always. “Good for you.”

You blinked, the words stinging more than they should have. “Yeah, well... It was a little late, but I tried.”

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway, feeling stupid and small.

“Good talk, huh?” Nobara muttered, glancing between you and Megumi as he walked off, his back turned without a second look.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold your composure. But it was hard, so damn hard to pretend it didn’t hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, and you hated yourself for letting it sting.

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Great.”

The soft hum of the lamp in your room was the only sound that filled the space as you sat at your desk. You’d somehow managed to grab one of the materials Megumi had made for you, the one with the little notes scribbled in the margins. The ones he’d given you after that one tutoring session that—well, now that you looked back on it—felt like a turning point.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, as if each mark, each word, was weightier now. His handwriting, a scrawling mess in some parts, neat and careful in others. But what hit you wasn’t just the content. No, it was the bits of comments he left here and there, like he was trying to break through his own usual, distant shell.

"Try connecting this with the main idea." "You're overthinking this, just read it carefully." "Good effort. I’m not totally convinced, but it's a start."

It wasn’t like he had to leave these notes. He didn’t need to care. He didn’t owe you anything. But there they were. Tiny pieces of advice, encouragement, frustration. And the one that made you smile for a second: "I know you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for."

For just a moment, your heart ached at the thought.

He didn’t have to say that. Megumi could have dismissed you like everyone else did. He could’ve walked away, let you fail, but instead... instead, he chose to give you a chance. And now? You were sitting here, staring at it all, because you knew deep down you had to prove him right.

But how could you do that now?

Your eyes flickered to the small sticky note stuck on the top corner, where he’d written a single line in the same pen, his handwriting barely legible: "You can do this. Just try."

You exhaled, biting your lip, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

You remembered that day—his quiet, reserved voice telling you not to give up. It wasn’t a normal pep talk. It was more... personal. Like he was giving you something fragile, trusting you with a little piece of him. And somehow, you'd been too busy pretending to not care, too afraid to admit how much it affected you, that you fucked it up.

You remembered how he’d looked at you that day, his shoulders tense but his eyes softer than usual, like he was on the edge of saying something more, but he kept pulling back. And you? You were too wrapped up in your own self-image, too proud to let yourself show any weakness. So you made a joke, cracked a smile, pushed it away.

But now? Now, you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d let him in. Wished you hadn’t been so fucking scared to be vulnerable for once.

Because if you’d been honest with yourself, you'd realized—just then—that Megumi had started to become someone you didn’t want to lose. Not just a tutor. Not just a guy you kept pushing away. But someone who saw past all the shit, all the walls you’d built around yourself.

You remembered when he opened up to you, just a bit, about the shit he was dealing with. About how much he hated being treated like he wasn’t enough—like a fucking robot in the eyes of everyone else. How he was constantly forced into situations where he had to be something he wasn’t.

You saw it. You saw that flicker of vulnerability in him that he hardly ever let anyone see. And you? You shut it down. You shut him out.

Your hands gripped the paper a little harder, and you exhaled slowly, frustration building up inside your chest.

"Why the hell did I have to be so goddamn stupid?" you muttered, slamming the paper back onto the desk. You leaned back in your chair, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

All that shit with Noritoshi. With the way things always went wrong. You’d shut yourself off from everyone, including Megumi, thinking you could handle it alone. And you did handle it... but now, sitting here, you realized how empty that felt. How lonely. How cold.

He thought you could be someone to trust. And what did you do? You let your pride, your stupid fucking pride, tear that down.

The thoughts swirled in your head—self-hatred mixed with the anger you had at yourself. You slammed your hand down on the desk, frustrated with how badly you’d messed up. You could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away.

It wasn't just Megumi you were angry with anymore. It was you. You’d fucked it all up. And now, you had to live with that.

But what hurt the most? What really fucking hurt was knowing he wasn’t going to just come back and fix it. No. You had to fix this. You had to make it right, because if you didn’t, you’d lose whatever fucking chance you had with him.

And somehow, as much as you hated it, you realized that wasn’t a possibility. You didn’t want to lose him.

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

So, with a sigh, you pushed the paper back in front of you, knowing that this was more than just about a grade anymore. This was about proving something to yourself. About showing Megumi that you were worth the trust, worth the time, he’d invested in you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to fail, not this time.

You stood there, staring at the building in front of you, your fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper that seemed to have mysteriously found its way into your hands again.

It was Friday, the day Megumi had always made clear he wasn’t free. He’d said it casually enough back then, like it was something so ordinary that there was no reason to question it. “I’m not free on Fridays,” he’d said, voice flat and unaffected. But now? Now, you were standing here, outside what looked like an abandoned gym, the same address scribbled on the paper he’d let slip out of his textbook once.

What the hell is this place?

The paper hadn’t meant much then. It was just an address, a scribble, nothing more. But now, the fact that you were standing outside of it felt like something more—a revelation, maybe? Or just a damn mistake.

Was this where he goes? The thought kept pushing at you, refusing to stay buried. The building in front of you was weathered, the windows cracked, and the doors? Rusted. It didn’t look like a place Megumi would spend his time. Not at all. And yet, here you were.

You could almost hear his voice in your head, telling you he wasn’t free on Fridays, reminding you with that cold tone that he had other things to do. Other things that didn’t involve you.

But then why?

You didn’t know what had made you follow that scrap of paper, but somehow, here you were, your heart hammering a little too loudly, the nerves making your hands shake. You had no idea what you were hoping to find. What were you looking for, exactly? An explanation? A reason?

You inhaled sharply, trying to pull yourself together, pushing back the mix of doubt and curiosity that gnawed at your insides.

It’s none of your business, you told yourself, but the words felt empty. Because it was your business. Megumi was your tutor—your reluctant tutor, but still, he was the one you asked for help. The one you asked to let you in. And now you were standing outside, on the edge of some kind of answer, but you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to know what it was.

Is this really the kind of guy you want to know?

You stepped closer to the door, the sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel beneath you. Hesitation lingered in every movement, but your legs carried you anyway. There was something pulling you forward, an urge to know, to break down whatever wall he’d built between you.

The door creaked open as you reached for the handle, the scent of dust and old leather filling your nose as you stepped inside.

The gym was empty.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and old wood. The lights overhead flickered in a slow rhythm, casting uneven shadows across the worn-down equipment. Punching bags hung in the corner, their leather faded and cracked from years of use. Rusted weights lined the walls, a neglected space that felt like no one had cared for it in a long time.

What was Megumi doing here?

You looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. This was nothing like the Megumi you thought you knew—the quiet, reserved guy who seemed like he didn’t care about anything. This place was rough, tired, forgotten. So was he.

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

The man sitting on the bench had a relaxed, confident posture, like someone who belonged in a place like this—worn-out gym flooring, cold lighting, walls sweating the weight of discipline. His eyes flicked up as you stepped in, and when they landed on you—miniskirt, tank top, lip gloss still glossy—it wasn’t judgment you felt.

It was scrutiny.

Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t know you were auditioning for.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, shit.”

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

He stood slowly, broad frame shifting with ease, cracking his neck before he stepped forward just a bit, boots heavy against the floor. “Didn’t think a girl like you’d actually show up.”

You stepped back, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in your hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite mocking either. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. You’re the one Megumi’s been tutoring, right?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t say much. But ‘m not stupid. Kid’s been dragging home worksheets and stress for weeks. Took a guess.”

Your heart stuttered, embarrassment bleeding into caution. “Why would he be here?” you asked sharply, voice a little too defensive. “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave you a low, amused look, voice loose and grounded. “Friend of his dad,” he said, vague but intentional. “Used to run with the old man. Name’s Yoshinobu.”

He offered no last name, no further details. Just a beat of silence between you before he nodded toward the bench across from the ring.

“You came this far. Might as well sit down.” You didn’t move.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he turned back toward the ring, where the lights were dim, but movement flickered behind a mesh curtain. You could hear it faintly—dull sounds of something hitting leather. Gloves. Skin. Breath.

Your fingers twitched around the paper. You glanced at the exit behind you. You could still walk away.

But instead— You sat, "Where's Megumi?"

Renji said nothing more. Just leaned back, ankle over his knee, arms sprawled against the bench like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You'll see,” he muttered eventually, almost too casual.

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

Just the heavy, humid stillness of a worn-out gym. And the echo of fists hitting something hard in the distance. Over and over and over again.

The sound came before the sight.

The sharp thump of gloves hitting canvas. The squeak of shoes on the floor. And then— Megumi stepped into the ring.

And you—holy shit.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a hoodie, a scowl, more of the same stiff, buttoned-up Megumi Fushiguro who tossed study packets at you like you were a charity case. Not... this.

Not him. Shirtless.

Sweat-slicked skin, broad shoulders flexing as he rolled out his neck. Arms defined. Stomach lean and tight, with the kind of abs you only see in boxing anime or underwear billboards. Veins along his forearms. Knuckles wrapped. A thin scar near his rib you never noticed before.

And his hair—still messy, still unruly, but wet and spiked, falling into his face in that way that made your jaw clench because— What the fuck.

You were drooling. You were actually drooling. And the worst part?

He didn’t even look surprised to be here. He didn’t look embarrassed or shy or like he was hiding. He looked like he belonged in that ring—like it was the one place he let go.

Yoshinobu chuckled next to you, like he caught the twitch in your lip or the way you were suddenly sitting very, very still.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the ring. “Kid’s been doing this for years.”

You tore your eyes away just long enough to hiss, “He’s been hiding that body under those crusty-ass sweatpants?”

Renji smirked. “Not the only thing he’s been hiding, I’d bet.”

You gave him a side-eye.

“Relax, I’m not saying I know your business.” He leaned back. “But I’ve seen a lot of fighters. That kid? He’s sharp. Holds back too much sometimes. Always thinking five steps ahead. Got that from his old man. But when he lets loose?” He shook his head. “It’s brutal.”

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

Megumi was facing down a taller man across from him—thicker built, more muscle, maybe even more experience. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.

Then the bell rang. And just like that— He moved. Fast. Clean. Deadly.

You could hardly keep up. He dodged the first punch with a low slip, twisted his body, came up with a hook to the ribs so fast it barely made sense. His form was perfect—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like it lived in his bones.

Another hit. Another pivot. A sweat-slicked arm. You actually let out a noise. A soft one. Embarrassing.

You crossed your legs tighter and leaned back on the bench, trying not to show it, but your face was burning.

Yoshinobu glanced over, clearly amused. “Not what you expected?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ring. “I’ve seen better.”

You hadn’t. But you’d die before admitting that.

Megumi’s opponent landed a jab. He shook it off like it was nothing and came back swinging—faster, stronger, sharper. His entire body snapped with every motion. Power in every movement. Rage in every breath.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was working through something. And God, it was hot. You hated yourself a little for thinking it.

But you couldn’t look away, even if it burned, even if it hurt.

He was relentless.

The guy he was sparring with was taller, broader, probably stronger by weight class—but Megumi?

He was smarter.

You watched as he moved around the ring like the ground bent to his will—his footwork barely audible, shifting weight like water. He let the other guy swing wild—miss, overextend, pant like a dog—and Megumi waited. Studied. Measured.

Then he snapped.

A lightning-fast left jab cracked against the man’s cheek. The sound echoed across the room. You flinched. But Megumi didn’t.

He followed through without hesitation—hook, uppercut, block—his body twisting and coiling like a loaded spring, punching through the air with enough force to make you wince.

Every time his fist connected, sweat flew off his knuckles like it was vapor. Every time he exhaled, his jaw flexed, sharp under the bruised light. Every time he moved— You swore it did something to your chest.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just sat there frozen, pulse thudding in your ears, mouth dry, lips slightly parted like an idiot.

Yoshinobu let out a long whistle next to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I don’t know what your deal is with him,” he muttered, tone unreadable. “But don’t hurt him.”

You blinked, dragged out of your haze. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He was still watching Megumi. “He’s a good kid. Stubborn, quiet. Doesn’t care about much. Not money. Not praise. Not even winning, sometimes.”

You stayed silent.

He continued, voice low, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “So when Toji mentioned he’s tutoring some attractive girl—his words, not mine—so imagine my surprise when he started to ramble about asking me certain things."

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

“And then,” Yoshinobu said, barely hiding a smirk now, “he starts taking longer showers in the locker room. Like ten, fifteen extra minutes.”

Your jaw dropped.

“What—?” you blurted. “Are you—? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Maybe you’re not just his tutor project.”

Your face burned. You whipped your head away, cursing under your breath.

“I’m not—he’s not—” You scowled. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” you snapped. “He’s probably still mad about the fight. Whatever.”

But your eyes said otherwise.

They dragged back to the ring—because even now, even when your heart was still sore, when everything inside you screamed you should hate him for how he talked to you, yelled at you, shut you down—

He still moved like he was carved from stone and fire. Still burned like something you couldn’t stop watching. Still made your stomach flip when he shifted and the sweat slid down his back, over the cut of his waist.

And he didn’t look at you once. Not even once.

Yoshinobu must’ve sensed the shift in your silence. “He fights like this when something’s in his head.”

You said nothing.

The match kept going. The guy threw another heavy swing, but Megumi ducked, moved so fast you almost missed the counter jab that sent the man stumbling backward. His chest was heaving now, face red, breath ragged.

Megumi didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a single word.

He just reset his stance. Chin down. Eyes sharp. Fists up.

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

That was the boy who sat beside you with textbooks and red pens. That was the same boy who rolled his eyes at your dramatics and still added notes in the margins. That was the same Megumi Fushiguro who kissed you with inexperience and slow-burning want—and still let you break his heart before he ever admitted it.

You hated this.

You hated the way your chest ached. You hated the way you wanted him to look at you—just once. You hated the way he didn’t. And still, you couldn’t look away.

The fight was over. But the tension still lingered in the air like smoke—thick, clinging, inescapable.

Megumi stepped off the mat, bandages undone, hanging in strips from his wrists like ghosts of the fists he'd just thrown. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline, but even from here, you could tell how calm he looked on the outside. Unbothered. Still. Like none of that meant anything.

You wanted to scream at how easy he made it look.

Yoshinobu watched from beside you, arms folded. “That was clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even use his full weight.”

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your eyes away from Megumi. He was wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt now—that shirtless torso lifting, exposing the bruises on his ribs, the scars on his waist.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Yoshinobu’s voice cut through again. “You planning to keep gawking, or are you gonna go talk to him?”

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

He gave you a look. The kind that saw through all your usual bullshit, the kind that made your spine straighten.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking between you and the boy across the room, “but he’s not gonna make the first move. Not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoshinobu shrugged. “Closed off. Pissed. Hurt. Take your pick.” Your throat tightened.

He turned away with a quiet sigh. “Go.”

You watched him kneel by the guy Megumi had just knocked down, murmuring something low, like a check-in, a reassurance. The other boy nodded slowly, rubbing his ribs.

Megumi, meanwhile, started walking to a bench. He still hadn’t seen you.

But you’d already disturbed so much, hadn’t you? You took a breath, and walked.

Every step echoed too loudly in your own ears. The gym felt cavernous now, like it was holding its breath, waiting for this exact collision. Him and you.

You stopped a few feet from him. His head was still tilted back. Eyes still shut. Bandages slack against his thighs. He looked peaceful.

God, you hated him for that.

You weren’t peaceful. You were a hurricane pretending to be a person. You were mascara smudged in the dark, whispers behind lockers, a reputation clinging to your throat like perfume. You weren’t someone who stayed.

But you were here, he didn’t see you at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His back was to you, chest rising and falling, fists still flexing at his sides. His bandages were half-off, peeling from his knuckles like scorched paper, sweat dripping down the slope of his spine. The gym lights weren’t kind, but on him, they didn’t have to be — they only carved the lean muscle of his back in harder lines.

You stopped short. Because goddamn, he looked— shut up. You shut it down. Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

Slowly. Deliberately. And the second his eyes landed on you, the air shifted. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What are you doing here.”

Not a question. A warning.

He was shirtless, breathing hard, chest streaked with sweat and god knows what else. His black shorts hung low on his hips, legs braced wide as he flexed his wrist slowly — as if shaking off the last of the fight. He sat down with a quiet thud, legs spreading carelessly as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like you weren’t even worth the effort.

You swallowed.

This was worse than cold. This was indifference, and it felt like hell.

You held up the paper in your hand, voice shaking despite everything in you trying to sound composed. “I found this. Once. It fell out of your notebook when we were—”

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You blinked. “I—I didn’t even know what it was back then, okay? I didn’t know what this place was.”

“I said leave.” His tone dropped. Sharp. Clipped. You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“I remembered what you said,” you rushed, stepping closer. “About not being free on Fridays. I remembered, and I—I was curious. That’s all.”

He stood suddenly, and you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, he was taller like this. Broader. Angrier.

And even now, when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to get away from you, he still looked stupidly good.

His chest heaved once as he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he turned, and walked.

Not toward the ring. Not toward Yoshinobu. Toward the locker room. You panicked. You followed, because you weren’t done. Not this time.

“Wait—wait!” you called, footsteps echoing as you chased after him. “I’m not here to fight, I swear—just listen to me!”

He shoved open the locker room door, and you didn’t even hesitate before slipping in behind him. The slam echoed through the tile like a slap. He didn’t face you. Not at first.

He yanked a towel off the bench, wiped his face, cracked his neck. Like you were just noise behind him.

“Megumi,” you tried again, voice thinner now, fragile around the edges. “Please.”

That made him freeze.

“Please?” he repeated, quietly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

You stepped forward. “I need you.” Silence. That got him. He turned, finally, eyes sharp and hard and fucking exhausted.

“For what?” he snapped. “To be your emotional punching bag again? I am just a emotionless virgin to you after all."

“No. I'm sorry.” He stared at you like he didn’t believe a word.

“I just—” You exhaled, chest tightening. “I need you to know I’ve been trying.” He said nothing. You pulled your bag around and yanked out a wrinkled paper. “Gojo gave us an essay about constitutional rights. I finished it.” Still nothing. “And today, Nobara asked me a civics question and I—I remembered what you said. About the electoral process. About proportional representation in the Diet. And I said it right, I think. Mostly.” Megumi blinked, jaw twitching.

You pushed on. “And yesterday, I tried answering a question about Newton’s third law. You said, ‘equal and opposite reaction,’ right? I think I got it.” Still, he didn’t speak. He was looking at you now. Really looking.

“And physics? I remember... I remember you said momentum equals mass times velocity, and I tried—” Your voice cracked. “I tried. I’m still trying.”

You laughed a little, bitter. “I don’t even know why I care. Why I wanted to get better. It’s not like anyone expected me to.”

Megumi’s hands were braced against the locker behind him, shoulders still tense, like if he moved, he’d explode.

You lowered your voice. “But I did. I do. Because I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to show you that I’m not just some spoiled, shallow bitch who uses people.”

Your throat tightened. “And maybe at first, it was just about spite. But it’s not anymore.”

The locker room was too quiet now.

You bit your lip. “You made me feel like I was capable of more. Of being someone better. You were the first person who made me want to stop coasting.” Still, he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I know I said things I can’t take back. I know I hurt you.” Your voice broke again, softer. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I wanted to.” You waited. His face didn’t change. He just… stared. And you didn’t know what that meant yet.

But you’d said it. You’d fucking said it. And now it was up to him.

You didn’t know what else to say.

You’d poured it all out—your voice raw, your throat aching, your pride shattered at his feet. And still, he just stared at you. Silent. Stone.

So you filled the silence the only way you knew how.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you muttered, eyes falling to the floor. “But I need you to tutor me again.”

That caught his attention.

Your breath hitched as you pushed forward—too fast, too vulnerable now to stop yourself. “I meant it. I remember everything you said. All those little examples, your stupid metaphors, even that time you made fun of me for not knowing what a veto was—”

Still nothing. His hands were still braced behind him. Still staring.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a mess,” you whispered. “I just… I just want to be better. And you’re the only one who ever made me believe I could be. I need you to help me get there.”

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

A blur of heat and muscle and fury, Megumi was in front of you before you could even blink, grabbing your face in both hands and crashing his mouth to yours.

You gasped, and that was all the invitation he needed—his tongue slid deep between your lips, hungry, slick, and fucking claiming. There was no hesitation, no sweet slow burn. Just raw, unforgiving heat. Teeth and breath and everything you’d both been swallowing for weeks.

His hands dropped to your waist, yanking you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, tugging hard, and he growled—actually growled—into the kiss.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want this. Like he was punishing you and punishing himself all at once.

His palms slid down to your ass, gripping hard, forcing you closer as he slotted a thigh between yours and shoved you against the nearest locker. The cold metal hit your back, but you barely noticed—your brain was too fogged, lips bruised, hips grinding down instinctively against the heat of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your mouth, voice cracked open, wrecked. “Why do you have to do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, dazed. “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your waist, dragging over your ribs, up under your shirt, fingertips scorching against bare skin. You could barely breathe, barely think. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, biting hard enough to bruise before sucking the pain away, tongue hot and wet.

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs squeezing tight around his.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed against your skin, voice full of heat and hurt and everything in between. “But I can’t stay away.”

You kissed him again—desperate, wet, open-mouthed—and he groaned deep in his throat, like he was starving for you. His hands cupped your ass again, lifting slightly, grinding you down against his leg so good it made you gasp.

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

You tangled both hands in his hair now, tugging, pulling him deeper, and he let you—let you own him for a second, just like you always tried to do. But this time, he gave in.

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

And the crashing, furious kiss of two people who’d tried so fucking hard not to want each other—and failed.

You were still gasping against him when he broke the kiss, chest heaving, lips slick and red from how hard he’d kissed you. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

You looked up at him with wide, daring eyes. “Can I?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just stared at you like he couldn’t believe what you were asking. And then he nodded.

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

He watched the whole thing—eyes dark and blown, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. You tugged his waistband down, and his cock sprang free—and holy fuck—you were right.

So right.

Big. Thick. Heavy. Veined. The flushed tip already slick, like he’d been aching for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You bit your lip, fingers wrapping around the base as your throat tightened with anticipation.

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

He was staring straight down at you, hair messy, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw flexing like he was trying so hard not to lose it already.

“You look so pretty like that,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “On your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You smiled, wicked. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”

He groaned—half growl, half prayer. “Please.”

You licked a stripe up the underside, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. His hips twitched. Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling lightly as your hand stroked the rest, wrist twisting gently.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “Your mouth—fuck—”

You took more. Inch by inch, pushing down until your throat clenched around him, spit pooling, mascara probably already smudging. He was so thick your lips were straining around him, jaw aching—and still you kept going.

“Jesus—fuck—just like that,” he gasped. “Shit—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

Your tongue licked under the head as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, letting him hear how wet and messy it was. Slurping. Gagging a little when he hit the back of your throat—but you didn’t stop.

You moaned around him instead.

His hand shot out, threading into your hair—gripping, tight, controlling.

“Fuck—fuck,” he growled. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears starting to prick in your lashes from the stretch.

“You like this?” he bit out. “Like choking on my cock?”

You moaned again, harder this time—vibrating around him.

His hips thrust forward suddenly, and he groaned deep, watching your throat bulge, your jaw stretch wide around him. You gagged a little again—but fuck it, you loved it. The way he cursed. The way his legs trembled.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “All pretty and ruined, just for me.”

You sucked him harder. Faster. Spit dripping from your chin, his cock slick with your saliva, your fist pumping the base while your mouth worked him with obscene, wet sounds.

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, voice cracking. “Fucking hell—don’t stop. I’m so close—shit—”

You sucked him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat one more time, and that was it.

“Fuck—fuck!”

He came hard—hot and thick, spilling down your throat in long, shuddering pulses. You swallowed around him, gagging again as he groaned so loud, hand still tangled in your hair as his entire body trembled.

You held him there until he stopped twitching, until he was completely empty—then finally pulled off with a slick pop, licking your lips, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He was still staring down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild and fucked-out.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You grinned up at him, ruined and satisfied. “That good, huh?”

He just groaned again and tugged you up by your wrist—dragging you into another kiss, filthy and full of spit and tongue and everything you didn’t say.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You barely had time to adjust your shirt when a voice called out—lazy, amused, and way too casual for the situation.

“Yo, Megumi.” Your heads snapped toward the entrance. Yoshinobu stood just outside the locker room, one brow raised, arms crossed, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Toji’s gonna walk in any second,” he added, voice like a warning wrapped in a grin. “If you still want to keep that pretty little lady around for your tutoring sessions, you better hide.”

Megumi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. You wiped your mouth, slow.

Yoshinobu winked at you. “Hey, no judgment. I’d let her tutor me too.”

Megumi slammed the locker door shut hard enough to echo. “Get the fuck out.”

Yoshinobu just laughed and walked off, muttering, “You’re welcome, Romeo.”

As soon as Yoshinobu disappeared down the hallway, the panic kicked in.

“Shit,” you muttered, already bending to the floor. “Where the fuck���where did half my notes even go?”

Megumi was beside you in seconds, shirtless and flushed, sweat still clinging to his chest as he reached for your crumpled worksheets. His hand was still wrapped in bandages, movements tight and clipped as he grabbed a page and shoved it at you.

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, snatching it from him. “Not when your dick’s the reason I dropped half my life on the floor—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, eyes wild. “Do you want him to hear us?” Your mouth shut instantly.

You scrambled to shove the rest of your notes back into your tote bag—history quiz key, Gojo’s half-legible assignment sheet, your favorite black pen.

Megumi cursed under his breath. “Where’s your phone?”

“Under the bench—fuck—” He dropped to his knees, grabbing it just as the locker room door creaked again.

“Megumi?” came the voice. You both froze.

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

Megumi’s eyes darted to yours, and without a word, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you hard toward the showers, around the tiled wall, and straight into the small, grimy private washroom stall. He shoved the door closed with his hip and snapped the lock shut in one motion.

The second the lock clicked, you were pressed together. Tight space. Too tight. Your back hit the tile. His bare chest brushed yours.

His hand was still wrapped around your waist. Warm. Big. He didn’t let go. You didn’t breathe. Toji’s footsteps echoed into the locker room like gunshots. Closer. Louder.

“Megumi?” he called again, annoyed now. “The hell are you hiding for?”

The stall was dead quiet. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Megumi’s chest rose against yours. He was breathing slow, controlled, but his eyes were locked on yours—burning.

His thumb moved once against your side. You swallowed, lips parted.

Outside, Toji’s boots scuffed the tile. He moved past the benches. You could hear him pause, like he was scanning the room. Listening.

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

The air in the stall was thick. Hot. Oppressive. Your thigh was brushing his. His hand was still at your waist, tighter now, like if he let go, something would snap.

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

And fuck, that look—like he wasn’t just thinking about getting caught. He was thinking about what would happen if he didn’t stop. Right here. Right now.

Toji scoffed outside. “Brat probably bolted. Whatever.”

Footsteps. The creak of the locker room door. Then a slam. Silence.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You glanced down at it. Then up at him. Then cracked a grin.

“God,” you breathed, still half-giddy, “we really just sucked each other’s souls out and hid in a locker room washroom like porn extras.”

Megumi snorted, wiping a hand down his face. “I knew Yoshinobu was up to something the second he opened his mouth.”

“Uh-huh. And yet you still let me drop to my knees.”

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you teased, voice syrupy and smug. “You were into it. You were talking, Megumi. Like, actual dirty talk. I almost dropped dead.”

His ears went red instantly. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Oh no, babe,” you said, drawing out the syllables like velvet. “You called me pretty while I was choking on your cock. I’m gonna hold onto that forever.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like kill me.

You laughed. The air lightened, just for a moment. But then Megumi’s face shifted. Softer. Serious.

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. “The pretty part, yeah. But also—” His voice caught for a second. “I’m sorry. For what I said before.”

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

He kept going. “I was angry. But not at you. Not really. I was pissed at myself, and I took it out on you. I called you shallow, I said you didn’t try, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet.

“And I shouldn’t have…” His eyes flicked to yours again, raw around the edges. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. To you.”

Your breath hitched.

To you.

He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered. Not just because you kissed. Not just because you gave him head in a locker room. But because, somewhere in all of this—he actually gave a shit about you.

You blinked fast.

“Well,” you said softly, trying not to sound as shaky as you felt, “you were kind of right.”

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

“I know. But it’s true.” You shrugged. “I didn’t try. I was mean. I used people to feel powerful. But… I didn’t want to be that around you.”

Megumi’s mouth parted, like he didn’t know what to say.

So you added, with a wry little smile, “Guess we’re both disasters.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes—but the moment lingered.

You didn’t say anything else. But to you echoed in your mind. And you knew, without question, you’d remember it.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the floor. The heat had simmered down. Your pulse was slower now.

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “For what I said. The virgin comment. That was…” You sighed. “It was mean. And low. I was just mad and stupid and lashing out like I always do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I knew it would hurt. That’s why I said it.”

A pause. You looked at him again.

He didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked… calm. Maybe a little sad.

“I get it,” he said softly. “You were angry. I was, too. I didn’t even care what I said until after you left.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care about the virgin thing, to be honest.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“I mean,” he said with a weak laugh, “not anymore.”

That made you smile—just a little.

A warm silence settled. The kind that felt… earned.

Then you cocked your head, eyes drifting down his chest.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into a smirk. “Nerd boy’s a boxer? Way to break the stereotype, Gumi.”

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

“No, seriously,” you said, pushing off the wall, circling him a little. “All this time I thought you were just some uptight know-it-all with no social life, and now you’ve got this—” You gestured to his body. “—situation going on.”

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “If you really wanted to bag Miwa, you should’ve just taken your shirt off in front of her. Instant success.”

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

You raised a brow. “You’ve got arms, Fushiguro. Do you even know that? Should I start a fan club? The Biceps for the Blue-Haired Girl campaign?”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint pink in his ears.

“I don’t box to impress girls,” he said finally. “It’s not about that.”

You blinked.

He shifted, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke again. “My dad’s really into it. He used to box when he was younger. I think… I think it’s his way of keeping me grounded. Especially since things have been rough with Tsumiki.”

Your teasing faded.

He continued, voice low. Honest. “It helps. Clears my head. Makes me feel like I’m in control of something. And he knows I’ve been struggling, so he’s trying to… I don’t know. Connect. Without pushing too hard.”

You stared at him, a little stunned. That wasn’t something Megumi usually said. Not something anyone usually said to you.

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking away again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, and you held his gaze this time.

There was still a teasing spark behind your eyes, sure—but it was quieter now. Warmer. You saw him. Really saw him, and you liked what you saw.

You leaned your shoulder against the tile again, biting back a smile of your own.

“So…” you said, voice light but curious. “Does this mean the deal’s back on?”

Megumi blinked at you. You raised a brow. “Tutoring. Both kinds.”

He scoffed, looking away like he wasn’t about to smile—but you saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then curled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

You saw him by the lockers before he saw you—hair a little messier than usual, collar loosened, black glasses perched on his nose like he was born to judge the IQ of everyone passing by.

God, he looked insufferably smart. Pen behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled neatly past his forearms like he had an oral defense due in five and a girl to make cry right after. No bandages today. No bruises. No gym sweat.

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

“So…” you said, voice lazy, teasing. “Your place free later?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just closed his locker like a professor finishing his office hours and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He looked almost amused at your expression, but of course, didn’t smile. That would be too easy.

“My dad’s got people over,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Old friends. Loud. Crude. You wouldn’t like them.”

“Oh,” you said. “And what? You’re worried they’ll scare me?”

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

“No,” he muttered. “They’ll annoy the hell out of you. And then you’ll start insulting them and I’ll have to explain why my tutor is verbally assaulting grown men.”

You snorted.

“I wouldn’t even raise my voice,” you said sweetly. “I’d just call them broke and unimportant and move on.”

He sighed, looking away like he was trying not to laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence between you crackled. People passed by in little clusters—some staring, some pretending not to—but Megumi didn’t care. He just stood there with his sleeves rolled and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, like he wasn’t the one ruining your concentration.

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Megumi’s gaze lingered, like he was trying to read between the lines.

You lifted your chin. “It’s quiet. It’s clean. My dad’s out. And I’m not about to wait another week because your trashy relatives want to drink beer and yell at the TV.”

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

That’s all he said. And then he walked off like he hadn’t just accepted an invitation into your damn world.

You stood there, watching him go, and tried to get your face back to neutral.

It didn’t work. You were smiling. Ear to fucking ear. Like a clown in Prada.

You could already feel the whispers behind your back as people glanced at you from the corner of their eyes, because yeah. Yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

He was tutoring you, and now he was going to your house.

You caught one girl staring too long and raised your brow with a sharp little smile.

“What, bitch?” you snapped. “Yes, it’s Megumi. No, you can’t have him.”

Then you turned on your heel and strutted down the hallway like the queen you were, mentally rearranging your bedroom and maybe—just maybe—deleting the playlist labeled for fucking.

Because if he showed up? You wanted to be ready.

You barely made it ten feet before a voice you didn’t ask for slithered up from behind.

“Well, well,” Aiko purred, her tone all sugar and spite. “The queen bee herself. Slumming it now, huh?”

You turned slowly.

She stood there with her knockoff handbag, fake tan peeling at the collar, and a smirk like she thought she mattered. Her eyes flicked toward your retreating hallway glance—right where Megumi had gone moments ago.

“Him?” she said. “You’re really hanging around him now?”

You didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Aiko grinned wider. “Tell me this is, like, community service or something. Please say you’re not actually with Fushiguro.”

You blinked at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean…” She scoffed. “Come on. He’s a loser. Always has been. Total social suicide.”

You just stared.

Aiko kept going, not seeing the cliff she was running toward. “Like yeah, he’s tall and all, but what else? He’s got zero presence, always alone, and he wears glasses, babe. Not even the hot kind. He looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. And you—” she waved a manicured hand toward your outfit, “—you’re you. Everyone watches what you wear, who you’re seen with. And now you’re doing hallway strolls with fucking Fushiguro?”

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

Then, You took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

Her face twisted with something smug. “What? A loser? I mean, sorry, but he is.”

That was it.

You closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of her hair so fast she gasped—and leaned in close, voice low and sweet like venom in champagne.

“You listen to me, you crusty, clearance-rack bitch. The next time you open your mouth about him like that, I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even spell.” Aiko’s eyes went wide, terrified. She didn’t dare move.

“He’s more of a man than anyone you’ve ever begged to text you back. So watch your fucking mouth. Or I’ll show you what social suicide really looks like.”

Then you let go—slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. Her lip trembled. You gave her a tight, pitying smile. “Now run along. Before I start listing your body count in front of the juniors.”

She practically bolted.

Nobara wandered up from behind, chewing gum like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Jesus. You need to be arrested for that one.”

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[ivorsblocksleeve]

the mcsm fandom fuckin sucks dude

As a long time member of the furry, danganronpa, and BNHA fandom im not the type of person who likes to generalize entire fandoms based off of experiences i hear about or have with other people in said fandoms. but the MCSM fandom is such a filthy stain on the internet and so many people in the community have gotten WAY out of hand. the constant racism and whitewashing of characters. people publicly talking about NSFW topics in numerous discord servers that have children in them, sometimes with people under 13 years old. the ridiculous amount of drama surrounding character headcanons among other things. its RIDICULOUS

im a black guy. i can care less about the "issue of blackwashing", it does not exist and never has existed. i care a LOT about the whitewashing in this community. there are multiple jesse skins for a reason, to represent a ton of different peoples races! red suspenders jesse is literally WHITE! if you want to draw white jesse draw HIM! why are people whitewashing the other jesse skins? why are people whitewashing characters like radar, stella, olivia, etc?? MCSM as a game has blessed its community with a wide range of characters of different ethnicities and races (even if not directly stated) and none of them are stereotyped, theyre all incredibly well written and have great characterizations but unappreciative morons are choosing to whitewash the shit out of them :/. the characters are so easy to colorpick. theyre minecraft characters. literally pixels. coloring people of different skin colors is NOT a difficult thing. have some common sense and use references properly.

im an adult who likes adult things. as an adult i understand boundaries and that talking to minors about sexual headcanons is NOT a good thing! woah! some of you dont understand how important it is to tag certain shit on different sites correctly or how to keep conversations about NSFW topics away from people who are WAY younger than you. vague jokes are one thing but time after time ive either heard or seen myself that grown ass people are describing explicitly sexual things with minors. gross much???? and PUBLICLY of all things. its one thing to have your own friend group or whatever, its fine to discuss things in private so long as its with someone in your fucking age range but JESUS CHRIST! MCSM discord servers have become BREEDING GROUNDS for these kinds of adult NSFW discussions with minors and it only creates a domino effect where they too start sharing that in OTHER MCSM servers with OTHER minors. ITS GROSS!!

(whole paragraph above also applies to headcanons and aus that are also potentially triggering. jesus christ some things should just be kept in private convos on the internet)

and my god the DRAMA over characters its insane. its completely fine to dislike certain headcanons and to have certain opinions on them. you can publicly voice your opinions in a RESPECTFUL manner. it really is not hard.?? at all. there are a ton of headcanons i hate personally, i rant about them in private and if i ever feel like voicing about them in public ill say it in a respectful manner. if someone dislikes a headcanon you like it is not a personal attack on your entire being. relax dude. i will always agree with the statement that fiction affects reality but my god they are just FICTIONAL CHARACTERS that you do not know personally and you do NOT need to go on a rampage and witch-hunt people because people say things like "i think xyz character has a different body type!" or "i think xyz character is a certain sexuality!". this especially applies to age headcanons. ages are NOT CANON, sure there are characters that appear to be older than others but ages are always up for speculation. not everyone is going to agree with your "minor coded" headcanons, dont attack and throw proshipper/pedo accusations on people who dont? id go into the infantilization of the characters who get this kinda treatment but different problem different day. point is, headcanons are headcanons and sending swarms of people after people who disagree with them is DUMB and STUPID and NOT NICE! stop doing that

in general this fandom harbors horrible mindsets and even more horrible people who i will not name and frankly its getting very frustrating seeing how the people in this fandom treat each other. have some respect for others and also yourselves. fix up your behaviors, dont make your bad attitudes everyones problem, and spend some time off the internet. have a good day yall

[trud-hub]

looks at you with wet sopping eyes

can we get sum mor coolkid x reder fluff by chanc... we ar starbiiinngggg

fel fre to skip

“Bile”

--TRUD!Past!C00lk1dd x Reader

notes: coming up with a storyline and characterizing c00lk1dd properly drove me INSANE 🥀🥀 im sorry if its bad, i still hope you can enjoy it tho !! criticisms welcome bc the amount of plot holes here would trigger someone's trypophobia

WARNINGS: swears, possibly inaccurate descriptions of adhd (dont be afraid to tell me if i get anything wrong), death threat

wc: 2.6k

—

Most days, C00lk1dd retreats to the embrace of his floral sanctuary — a place where nobody can bother him. The sunflowers and zinnias are old friends of his that understand him the most. Conversations held in silence are more meaningful than those plugged with unnecessary words, which is why he’s reluctant to share the garden’s serenity with other people. However, he makes an exception for a certain person who occupies the space nearest to his heart. You.

Your voice does not clash with the sounds of nature. It harmonizes. So long as you are with him, the garden needs nothing else to be complete.

Be that as it may; his tools and equipment, however durable they may be, are long overdue for a replacement. His shovel is decapitated, his wheelbarrow is paralyzed, and his lawn mower has taken its last breath. No gardener can keep a flower alive with their will alone, lest they’re 2x2 themselves. The situation has evicted him out of his home and forced him to look for a decent hardware store.

Unfortunately, the nearest one happens to be in the busy, bustling metropolis of Bloxity — Robloxia’s capital and hub. Wherever there are people; swarms of a hundred smells, sounds, and sensations follow. They’re overall nuisances; buzzing around like flies that he can’t catch.

In spite of this, C00lk1dd is determined to ensure the wellbeing of his plants. They are his purpose, his source of respite, and his pride. You’re determined as well, insisting on going to BloxWare in his stead, knowing too well of how he reacts in crowded places. That idea of yours planted seeds of doubt in his mind: what if it made him rely on you so often that his confidence grew stale? It sparked a disagreement between you two, one that either side was reluctant to give up.

Eventually, you came up with a compromise. He’ll go to Bloxity, but you’ll come along with him. That way, the errand becomes less daunting and he gets to be independent. Hesitantly, he agreed, though it was mostly the thought of being able to spend time with you that swayed him.

Maybe, he tried convincing himself, this was for the better.

…

Now, more than ever, he is grateful for your persistence.

As if the traffic on the way to the city wasn’t enough, he has to deal with people this early. Generalizing like this isn’t fair, he knows, but it’s difficult not to call out the pattern of ill-tempered drivers in Bloxity. One cursed him out, the other kept honking at him for not defying the speed limit, and this one almost crashed into him.

“Jerk.” You sneer, glaring at the silhouette of the aforementioned driver who replies with a crude hand gesture.

Barrages of insults pile up at the tip of C00lk1dd’s tongue. But instead of letting them spill out, he forces them down his throat before they make a bigger mess of things.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

They’re no longer here; there’s no point in clutching shards of glass. He knows better than this.

“Those people sure are something…” Your palm warms the tempest of his anger, and his breathing steadies.

Wordlessly, he pulls the gear stick forward and continues driving. As he passes through the bridge, the number of cars slowly diminishes, making the road more bearable to navigate through. The city’s vast expanse becomes more apparent the closer he gets; it’s clear the map didn’t do Bloxity’s size justice. A light breeze hits his cheek, the same one combs through your hair.

“Just one hardware store in a place as big as this?” You mutter, craning your neck to get a better scope of the city.

“Apparently.” His pupils flit around but land nowhere.

Bloxmart is front and center, followed by a train station packed with people impatient to get to their destination. Clothing shops, diners, and houses follow. Billboards boast the emergence of the new BloxWare store but lack directions.

He glances at the rear-view mirror, “Could you check the map?”

“Ah, yeah— okay. Let me just—” Shuffling through your satchel, you retrieve a copy of Bloxity’s map. It crinkles in the wind, which threatens to take it away. He hears you muse a few unintelligible phrases (the only ones he can decipher are your complaints about the city’s complex layout) to yourself.

“This is it? …I think.”

When he gets to an empty lane, C00lk1dd stops his car by the side of the road. With your finger, you trace the path the two of you are meant to take. It stops at a blue building.

“Should be pretty close, just gotta make some turns after Ro-Avenue.”

Upon closer inspection, the map omits a few key landmarks and buildings that you both encountered.

“...Are you sure this map is accurate?” He asks, unsure.

“Not really,” you chuckle nervously, “but this is the most recent one according to the vendor who sold it to me.”

“Plus—” You point out the nearby structures that the map had gotten correct.

“See?”

“If you say so.” His eyes get to work memorizing the route. Straight ahead, left after the first skyscraper, right after the next…

From the corner of his vision, you riskily near his cheek. Only the air kisses you back as all it took was for him to move his head a slight right.

“We’re not doing that here.” He obscures the side of his face.

You feign disappointment, “Awh. Thought you weren’t going to notice.” and with the fall of your shoulders, recline into your seat.

You shove the map into your satchel. Stubborn parts of it seeped out from your bag, but you take care to fold it neatly in place. When C00lk1dd sees you’re ready, the car engine hums to life as he sets his foot on the pedal.

“Later then, maybe?” You suggest with a clumsy wink.

Returning to the steering wheel, your lover’s hands neglect the rosiness of his bare face.

“...when we get home.”

…

Is it some sort of cultural norm that he doesn’t understand? Because the locals have their egos shoved so far up their asses that they regurgitate it in the form of vulgarities and curses. Having gotten lost (for it turns out the map was indeed outdated, your sources are horrible), you and C00lk1dd sought the help of a young woman who bore the gentlest of eyes and carried herself with such poise and elegance most fashion models would envy.

Though, as he has just learned today, the devil can take many forms: including that of a dainty young lady.

“Ma’am, please, we’ll be on our way.” He utters with clenched teeth. His patience grows thinner.

She scoffs, gripping her parasol even tighter, “Do you hasty-witted dolts think that approaching a lady so clearly distressed is anything but inconsiderate?”

“I swear we didn’t know!” You try to reason.

What the woman says next eludes his hearing.

He looks at her with knitted brows, “I’m sorry?”

“I hope your vehicle crashes into a lamp post. Or better yet, you find the courage to surrender yourselves to a bridge. In simpler words that you pillocks can understand: jump off a cliff.”

Awfully generous of her to make such an offer. So generous, in fact, that his fist itched to return the kindness by denting her beauty with purple and blue. But he doesn’t entertain the thought — he's no brute. So be it if she wishes to stoop this low, he’ll keep using the one thing she doesn’t have: basic human decency.

You click your tongue, “She’s a prick but it’s not worth it. Come on.”

One glare from him is all it takes for you to shut up. He is not backing down, especially not after what she just said. Does she think she reserves the right to threaten you after one bad day? For someone with such a refined appearance, she lacks all the courtesy that comes with it. C00lk1dd is very willing to shove the definition of propriety down her throat if that’s what it takes for her to learn.

However, as he readies his own reply, a girl with a magenta-colored bun attempts to stop things from escalating.

“Hey hey hey‐ let's all take a step back.”

She looks familiar.

“Wuh- whah-huh- is… Is that Builderman’s dau—”

…

Jane Doe is a lot more soft-spoken and quiet than her influence would suggest. By some stroke of luck, she managed to convince the hag to let go of the minor grievances (or, well, storm off would be more appropriate in this case.) It still irritates him how she got off with a mere slap on the wrist, but C00lk1dd is glad he’ll never have to see that pompous crone again. Hopefully.

With a lowered head, Jane approaches the two of you.

“I-I’m really sorry. You two aren’t from around here, no?” She asks, an asymmetrical smile on her face.

“Nope!” You reply.

“It doesn't seem very welcoming here.” The comment escapes his restraint.

Jane rubs the back of her neck, “Do forgive me for the residents’ conduct. Everyone’s been on edge for the past few days because of the rumors.”

The mention evokes a slight reaction from him, namely the quirk of his brow.

“Rumors?” You inquire further.

“A group of Robloxians have been spreading hearsay about how the admins have been demolishing people’s homes without their permission.” She fiddles with the strings of her hoodie.

You follow along with periodic nods of your head. “I see.”

“That is why me and my brother are working on clearing panic among the residents.”

He taps your shoulder, stiff in his movements.

You briefly turn in his direction, “Huh? Oh…” —you face Jane with an apologetic look— “Er, we gotta go now. But good luck with that.”

“Ah, right. Apologies for taking up too much of your time, take care.”

This will be the last distraction of the day, he hopes. Fishing out his car keys from his back pocket, C00lk1dd, almost too eagerly, rushes to his car.

“Wait!”

Are you serious?

“Were you two looking for directions to the new hardware store?”

…

Is it even worth it anymore?

BloxWare stood intimidatingly, its height dwarfing most of the small stores in its vicinity. The large, glass windows foreshadow the numerous crowds of customers and employees in the store. His shoulders droop; it’s bad enough outside. Imagine how much he’ll have to put up with once he finally enters the building.

“Staying in the car is always an option. Just give me a list of things to buy, I’ll go get them for you.” You reassure him.

“No.” It comes out a little too harshly, he can tell by the look on your face, which he is quick to correct by clearing his throat.

“Sorry. I can manage.” Sheltering his ears within his ear muffs, the outside ruckus slowly abates.

His hand is squeezed in yours.

…

Aisles of wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers — they all start to look the same. C00lk1dd tries to focus on the tools and equipment he’s supposed to get. Shovels, a watering can, a rake… Sawdust and new lumber scents aggravate his nose. The unoiled wheels of carts produce an earsplitting screech.

“C00lk1dd… You okay?” You let go of a shovel and place it back on the rack.

He’s not sure anymore.

“Have you heard?”

How can he tell you that he is trapped in a room with the gunshots ricocheting off the walls and shooting his ear drums?

“‘Bout what?”

How can he put into words the individual maggots that burrow in the fabric of his sleeves, and about how raking his fingers through his skin does not stop the visceral pain and itch buried under layers of skin that he cannot reach?

“I heard Builderman's children are being sent to cover the whole demolition thing up.”

How can he express how much he wants to curl up in a ball and block out every part of him that sees and senses and hears?

“It’s all a hoax! You people are all stupid.” “This is ridiculous.” “They’re trying to keep us ignorant.” “My friend’s home was destroyed last week…” “The admins have our best interests at heart.” “I don’t even know who to believe anymore.”

C00lk1dd’s eyes retreat under his brows. Anger. Sadness. Skepticism. Conflicting tones and snippets of information bombard him all at the same time. Glaring light from fluorescent tubes blind him. Even as he hides his irises behind his lids, the light pierces through them, intent on ripping his eyes out of his sockets.

One, two, three, four, five …

The man takes a deep breath, trapping your hand in a grip sure to break your knuckles had he not restrained himself. It’s not on purpose — he releases when he realizes — and you must understand how much the world is bent on infuriating him.

Your lover doesn’t know why but the smile on your face irritates him more than it reassures him. Nothing makes sense anymore. He’s mad at everything — those asshole drivers, that entitled bitch. You. And by extension himself.

Because he knows you deserve his anger the least.

The words that escape your lips are disorganized syllables, but he registers the wind chimes that bid you farewell.

Leather cushions his back. A car engine starts.

The intimidating skyscrapers morph into chaotic blobs. Roads and highways stretch on for longer than they should. Lamp posts form bright, four-pointed stars.

But they get farther. And farther.

Until the sights are shrouded by the trees and hills. The car stops at the foot of one of these mounds with a sudden halt. C00lk1dd thinks he’s dreaming, he hopes he is, but the prickly grass that retreats beneath the wheels are clearer than the ones his mind concocts. So do the mildew that color the leaves a grainy white.

You lead him away.

You come to a sudden halt, before you push his shoulders down — ushering him to sit. Chary, the man does so, and a suffocating pressure that drives his arms to the sides of his chest ambushes him from behind. C00lk1dd flinches at first, glares next, and ultimately gives in to that expression of yours.

He hadn’t even noticed he had been crying until you wiped away his tears. In a low, non-invasive tone, you whisper, “We’ll stay here for as long as you need.”

…

Hours pass — he’s not sure how many but you assure him that it isn’t plenty. Domineering colors, textures, and sights harmonize, instead of clash. The world slows down to a pace he can keep up with.

Sighing, C00lk1dd shelters his head beneath your chin and kisses your jaw, “...’m sorry.”

“Hm?” You tilt your head to the side, meeting his vision.

“I overreacted.”

“Now all our efforts…” —he looks toward the colorful lights highlighted by the night sky in the distance, hugging his knees closer to his chest— “...have gone to waste. The store has closed by now, and it means we have to stay longer in this godforsaken city.”

“Getting overwhelmed is not your fault.” Your arms lazily drape around his shoulders.

“None of what has happened today is, but you've handled it the best you could.”

“And if we have to wait? Fine by me, I'll be patient. After all, I've always been here for you, haven't I?”

For the first time today, he smiles. It's subtle. It's quick. But it's there.

He closes the distance between your foreheads.

Worries, doubts, and unanswered questions linger in his mind, but he’ll let them plague him another day. Right now, he clasps a hand on the side of your face and captures the confused parting of your lips with his own.

[jetsetlife138]

Imaginary: Reimagined (Alastor x Fem!Reader) - Chapter 1

Story Introduction: HERE

Chapter 1: The Descent

Chapter Rating: Mature

Chapter Warnings: Threats of dismemberment and mentions of cannibalism

Agony. No other term could capture the intensity of what unfolded during your descent into the foreboding unknown. Moments before your world unraveled, unaware of the impending danger, you casually strolled through the aisles of your local thrift store, seeking something worthwhile. Then, fate led you to an old, retro remote control from the 1950s—a curiosity too enticing to resist.

Upon picking up the remote and pressing a button, a transformative force seized you. A radiant light engulfed your senses as you found yourself drawn into a vortex of swirling colors and shapes. In the blink of an eye, you were thrust into an expansive, uncharted void, your body feeling as though it had been torn asunder and haphazardly reassembled with each passing moment. It was a visceral, merciless sensation, an ordeal unlike any you had ever encountered and never wished to endure again.

After what felt like an eternity, you descended from the emptiness of space, your body sprawled across a rigid surface. Your head weighed heavy, and tremors coursed through your body from the shock of the experience.

With cautious curiosity, you extended your arms to explore your surroundings, hesitant to open your eyes and confront this unfamiliar environment. Your hand hovered in the air until your palms met a solid surface, confirming your presence on stable ground.

It was difficult to decipher the noises around you considering the overwhelming ringing in your ears. Listening intently, you could ascertain a clamoring of hisses and whispers staggered around you. Strangely, the thought of that brought you a modicum of comfort. At least you weren’t dying alone… if that was really what was happening.

Summoning every ounce of remaining energy, you strained to focus on the individual voices nearby.

“What is it?”

“Dipshit, what does it look like? It’s another sinner.”

“Something ain’t right. They’re too… normal.”

“Too ‘normal’? The fuck does that mean?”

“Look at them! They look like we used to before we croaked.” 

“So… are they dead or alive?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“Have the rules changed?”

“Wait, has there ever been a living sinner here?”

“We should kill them, right? Or at least maim them?”

“Do you think there’s some kind of reward for turning them in?”

“Can we eat them?”

“Fuck yeah, at the very least we could gain favor with an Overlord for handing them over!”

“...Just a bite?”

It was a moment of utter disbelief. You were struggling to make sense of what you had heard. Could it be real? No, it couldn't possibly be. This surreal experience was undeniably overwhelming, and your mind must have been playing tricks on you.  From what little you could deduce, there was a gathering of people surrounding you and attempting to discern each individual voice only worsened your already fragile state of mind. Surely, they couldn't be uttering such outlandish things.

Hesitantly, you dared to open your eyes, blinking repeatedly due to the unexpected brightness. Once your vision had acclimated properly, your breath caught in your throat at the sight before you. Everything was… animated. It was as if you had been transported into an actual cartoon. Not only that, but it also appeared that you were surrounded by bizarre and slightly terrifying anthropomorphic creatures. Oh, shit. What kind of drug-induced haze did you get yourself into? Did you unknowingly drop acid? Did someone sneak an insane quantity of magic mushrooms into your lunch? No, no, no, this couldn’t be possible.

Rubbing your eyes in bewilderment, you choked down a terrified sob before daring to look around once again. Much to your dismay, your surroundings remained the same. 

As the surreal scene unfolded around you, grappling with its absurdity became an overwhelming challenge. A peculiar character advanced toward you, and in response, your instinctive reaction was to defensively raise your hands. Yet, as your eyes fell upon your own hands, a startled yelp escaped your lips. To your horror, they mirrored the animated and eerily two-dimensional nature of the bizarre world that enveloped you.

A wave of nausea swept over you, a sickening churn in your stomach as the surreal reality unfolded. The foundations of your understanding crumbled, leaving you in a disorienting state of disbelief. It felt like a twisted nightmare, an aberration that defied logic. The pressing question lingered: why weren't you waking up from this distorted dreamscape?

Continuing to survey the anomalous scene, your eyes locked onto one of the creepy creatures. Upon further inspection, she appeared to be a cross between a human and a snake, her eyes glowing yellow as she stared daggers at you.

“Where am I?” you questioned, your voice hoarse and thick with emotion.

The snake-girl cackled before hissing back at you, “Isn’t it obvious, girl? You’re in Hell!”

Hell? Is that what happened? You died, plummeted to Hell, and this was your eternal torment?

When you didn’t respond, one of the other creatures grew impatient, addressing you with a thunderous voice, “Why do you still look completely human? Are you alive or dead?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” you murmured, shaking your head, still trying to cope with your current predicament.

Suddenly, you felt a firm grip on your arm as one of the beasts grabbed you harshly, raising you to your feet. “I call dibs! Finders keepers!”

“That’s bullshit!” one of the other beings snarled in return. “I saw her first!”

A tumult of heated exchanges echoed through the crowd, as each creature vied to claim you as their own. The air crackled with fervent disputes, some demanding specific body parts with unsettling propositions like, "Can I snag her left arm?" or "Dibs on her foot!" The macabre negotiations reached a disturbing crescendo, amplifying the sense of dread that permeated the surreal atmosphere.

Just as you teetered on the brink of a complete mental collapse, a distinctly light and feminine voice cut through the raucous crowd. "Everyone, stop! There’s no need for violence! Let’s keep our hands, claws, and any additional adjacent limbs to ourselves, please!"

The crowd quieted before they begrudgingly parted to reveal a far less terrifying-looking inhabitant, who, at first glance, seemed more human than the rest of the animalistic mob. She appeared to be a young woman with large doe eyes, long blonde hair, and red, rosy cheeks, giving her a somewhat innocent and endearing aura.

"There's nothing to see here, folks! The, uh… warm welcome for our newest sinner is appreciated, but she's coming with me," she declared authoritatively, though her demeanor was timid, as if she was nervously unsure of herself.

"Over my dead body!" one of the other creatures bellowed, followed by multiple jeers and agreement from the rest.

The young woman snarled, catching you off-guard when her face abruptly morphed into something else entirely. Horns sprouted from her head while her eyes glared with multiple shades of red hues. Baring sharp teeth, her menacing expression instantly silenced the others. After a brief moment, she effortlessly returned to her former and much less terrifying self. "As princess of Hell and heir to the throne, I hereby decree that this particular sinner is under my protection… um… until further notice. Okay?"

Without warning, you were harshly shoved from behind, causing you to stumble towards the proclaimed princess who had just declared ownership over you.

She met your eyes with a tender smile, placing a hand on your shoulder before leaning toward you to speak in a hushed voice, "You're safe now, I promise. Just follow my lead."

All you could manage was a shaky nod, still unable to speak, though you were relieved that she came to your aid.

As you and the princess distanced yourselves from the ravenous mob, a clamor of discontent echoed behind you. They continued to hiss and growl in disapproval, clearly disappointed that they weren't able to feast on your flesh and bones… or do god knows what else. 

Your mind was foggy as you followed the princess to whatever unknown location she was leading you to. Dazed and feeling woozy, you struggled to comprehend your surroundings as you ventured further into what you now knew was Hell. As you repeatedly tried to pinch yourself awake, the realization dawned that this was no dream. Despite the absurdity, it felt too authentic to be a mere creation of your imagination. You couldn't have conjured up an entire world like this on your own.

"My name is Charlie, by the way," the princess greeted, cutting through the awkward silence. "Well, actually, it's Charlotte, but I prefer Charlie."

Barely managing a smile, you nodded again before stuttering out your name in return.

"It's so great to meet you!" she beamed, her smile radiating through the red haze of your surroundings. "So, um… how exactly did you end up here? We've never had an actual living soul… er… human here before! This is so crazy! Where did you come from?"

The princess struggled to contain her bubbling excitement, but her curiosity couldn't be withheld any longer.  You couldn't fault her for it. Amid the overwhelming unease and apprehension, you found yourself equally intrigued by the denizens of Hell, their peculiarities and mysteries stirring a profound curiosity within you. Despite this mutual fascination, you struggled to articulate the questions that swirled in your mind. The challenge of navigating your bewildering circumstances left you grappling for words, making the prospect of engaging in conversation even more daunting.

"Honestly… I don't know how I got here. My recent memories are hazy, at best. The last thing I can remember is visiting an antique shop. Next thing I know, I'm plummeting through different planes of existence that I didn't even know existed before I eventually landed in a place comparable to Alice in Wonderland's drug-induced nightmares, all while simultaneously morphing into a cartoon."

The princess tilted her head, perplexed by your descriptions. "A cartoon?" she questioned tentatively. "What is that, exactly?"

You gawked at her for a moment. Did she really not know? "Um… it's what you are. A cartoon is an illustration. A drawing. An exaggerated caricature based on real-life people, places, and everything in between. You know… cartoons?"

She maintained a puzzled stare, displaying evident confusion as she struggled to comprehend the unusual juxtaposition between the two-dimensional and three-dimensional realms you poorly attempted to convey. Expressing such an unconventional concept proved to be a challenging task.

In an effort to bridge the gap, you highlighted the stark distinctions between your reality and hers. "Where I come from, everything looks different compared to this place. For starters, it's not as… red." Oof. You really needed to work on your descriptive abilities. "Animations are a mimic of reality, so to speak. The people and places they're based on are created by artists, and their purpose is usually to tell stories and entertain an audience. The way you and your world look… Well, it's what we call a cartoon. It's… difficult to explain." 

Despite your endeavors, the intricacies of this explanation appeared to elude her, leaving an air of uncertainty. "I see..." she trailed off, clearly unsure of how to respond to that kind of information.

"So, uh," you stumbled, your hands awkwardly fidgeting as you attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. "About those creatures back there—what's the deal with them? You look different from them. More like me, I guess?"

She smiled warmly at you, easing the tension a bit. "Those are Sinners, the inhabitants of this Ring of Hell. They were alive once, but now they're here in our Kingdom. Their appearance is less human-like because once the living descend to Hell, they become demons and lose some of their human attributes. They can be a little... aggressive." That was putting it mildly. "I look different because I'm not from the human world. I was born here in Hell."

"That's... pretty bizarre," you mused, the words more of a quiet reflection directed at yourself than a statement meant for her ears.

"Well, we can talk more about it later when you've had a chance to adjust. We're almost there!" she squealed with excitement.

"Where exactly are we headed?" you questioned, a tinge of uncertainty coloring your words as you debated whether to mirror her enthusiasm.

A discernible twinkle illuminated her eyes as she exclaimed, "I'm taking you to the Hazbin Hotel! It's the first-ever facility of its kind with its own demon-rehabilitation program!"

Charlie radiated pride as she spoke about the project, though the notion of a demon-rehabilitation facility in Hell struck you as nonsensical. "You have your own demon-rehabilitating facility? ...In Hell? Does that really work? I mean, isn't Hell supposed to be eternal punishment for whatever mistakes were made in life?"

"Well," she murmured shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before a surge of confidence overcame her. "It's still a work in progress, but I believe in it! In fact, we've recently employed some new staff members who are already providing some much-needed improvements!"

The entire conversation felt utterly absurd. In what twisted universe was demon rehabilitation a legitimate topic of discussion? Well, apparently, in this one. Wrapping your brain around the concept was a formidable challenge, and you harbored doubts about ever fully coming to terms with it. Nevertheless, this bizarre reality was your current existence, and accepting it became a necessary step if you wanted to navigate this unfamiliar terrain unscathed.

"Hey, for what it's worth, I find your mission really inspiring," you chimed in, making an effort to convey genuine compassion for her cause. "I mean, who wouldn't want a shot at redemption, right?"

Her hand found its way to her heart as Charlie bestowed upon you the most sincere and kind expression, releasing a sigh of relief. "Thank you, truly. I wish others were more optimistic about the idea."

As you strolled along, you observed Charlie's deliberate choice of secluded paths, steering clear of prying eyes and potential hazards. She offered a brief overview of Hell's districts, referred to by the various Rings. Gradually, she unveiled the revelation that you had landed in Pentagram City, situated within the Pride Ring. You had wondered if the other remaining Rings were similar to the one you found yourself in, or if they were perhaps better, or even worse. 

"We're here!" Charlie announced with genuine excitement as you turned the final corner. Her demeanor exuded pure radiance, and you couldn't help but wonder how this gentle soul could possibly be the Princess of Hell. It made no logical sense. Then again, nothing about that day did. 

Upon arriving at the hotel, you regarded the towering establishment in awe. It defied all logic, seemingly indifferent to the laws of physics, but such anomalies were par for the course in this cartoonish realm.

The majestic hotel stood as a resplendent and imposing structure. However, its grandeur was quickly overshadowed by an array of adjacent anomalies that seemed utterly out of place. Among these peculiarities stood a steam train engine,  a massive dilapidated boat,  a somewhat operational carousel, and an enigmatic blimp jutting out from the upper floors. Lastly, perched at the pinnacle, an old-fashioned radio tower bore a bright neon sign proclaiming 'On Air,' its luminosity likely visible for miles. The overall concept of the building evoked the imagery of a glitch in the Matrix, a surreal spectacle that defied conventional expectations..

Shaking off the initial stupor induced by the colossal structure, you trailed behind Charlie as she led you inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, you were greeted by a regal entryway that hinted at the grandeur awaiting you within. The architecture proved to be peculiar, to say the least, aligning seamlessly with the unsightly exterior. Everything within bore an exaggerated and uniquely eldritch stylization, a characteristic you found yourself gradually warming up to as you ventured further.

Advancing through the entrance and into the lobby, a mirror caught your attention from the corner of your eye. Approaching it with a mix of eagerness and trepidation, you swallowed hard as you braced to witness your body in illustrated form. When your reflection finally emerged, an unexpected burst of laughter escaped you. To your immense relief, you remained unmistakably yourself, albeit with features tweaked to align with the aesthetic of this newfound universe. The transition wasn't as jarring as you had initially feared, yet the surreal nature of the transformation lingered. Surprisingly, you found yourself navigating this unconventional reality with a semblance of sanity. Perhaps the expected delirium was delayed and would later emerge during a solitary moment of contemplation.  Ah, yes, the impending existential panic seemed far more plausible.

Aware of the inner turmoil brewing within you, Charlie approached cautiously from behind, her voice soft and gentle, likely to avoid startling you. "Take a moment, okay? I'll go get my partner, and then we can figure out a plan of action together!"

Canting your head in agreement, you observed Charlie as she skipped down the hall and vanished around a corner, leaving you alone with a cascade of thoughts. What was your next move? How could you find your way back home? Was escaping this bizarre realm even within the realm of possibility? And, most pressing, how could the hopeful and sweet Charlie protect you from the barbaric monsters that seemed intent on your demise?

Amidst the torrent of questions and concerns flooding your mind, a sudden chill in the air seized your attention, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. Dismissing it as mere happenstance, you were caught off guard when a high-pitched ringing pierced the air, prompting you to flinch in discomfort. Scanning your surroundings, you struggled to pinpoint the source of the disconcerting sound.

Your unease escalated when a highly pronounced and static-filled voice, laden with malevolence, jolted you, alerting you to a foreboding presence behind you. "Well, well! What have we here?"

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Chapter End Notes: For those of you who have been reading since the beginning, how do you feel about the changes? I am open to any and all criticism.

Chapter 2: HERE

[anonymocha]

[ LONG AHH POST ]

Proud to announce that the first revision of the half-serious full-insane Kaalaa Baunaa Wall is done… I haven’t seen an intensive Kaalaa Baunaa character analysis so I decided that I will do it myself. But feel free to correct me on stuff since, again, it’s half-serious and full-insane.

PDF:

Text version of the important stuff I wrote in case you don’t wanna zoom in or open the PDF under the cut. I won’t be pasting the event story takeaways because they are very long and full of unhinged Mocha jumpscares.

Personality

The following points are derived from here:

Methodical and steady in her approach to tasks.

Known for her soothing presence and being reliable in accomplishing tasks. Very punctual.

Has a contemplative nature, often preferring solitude and observation.

Friendly but rarely intimate.

Maintains a practical outlook, prioritizing efficiency over aesthetics.

Demonstrates a sense of conservationism, as seen in her choice to mend her glasses rather than replacing them.

Character Story Takeaways

Grew up with an astrological background but chose not to believe in its prophetic accuracy. “To hell with it!”

Kaalaa Baunaa was an abandoned child. She was found by Vaquini. her foster parent.

She often engages in misbehavior and fights as a kid. Vaquini would defend her.

She refused her destiny prescribed by her astrolabe, and doodled over it.

She emphasizes the importance of understanding the underlying causes behind events rather than accepting them at face value (or just seeing it as fate).

Voiceline Takeaways

She thinks that people focus too much on linear time and notes its subjective(?) nature. But she has a good perception of time herself.

Prefers Indian food.

Enjoys observing the night sky. She feels connected to it. Human society is complex, ever-changing, and influences her identity in ways she isn’t content about. But the constant nature of the night sky comforts her.

Is humble about her martial arts capabilities. This girl can hit……..

Delulu Corner

Interpretations + Summary of Takeaways

Keeps a steady and level-headed front despite often being anxious and full of doubt towards herself. It pours out when things get truly rough, with dismay and desperation.

Tends to overwork herself and struggles with self-care. She has the incentive to wind down but the guilt would take over her and lock her back into her lab. It is even implied to manifest as an illusory monster that stalks her down.

She held considerably little value towards aesthetics or cleanliness, prioritizing practicality above all. She easily brushed off rat feces in her lab this woman won the idgaf war. She cares more about research routines than things like that, or even more, rules imposed to her.

She may be enabling Kumar... She knows when Kumar is wrong or when Kumar is trying to mess with her but she doesn't necessarily call her out on it. Yes she is very observant towards stuff related to research and the arcane, but can be fooled/lead on otherwise. She may know it but she won't voice it.

She talks and contemplates to herself a lot. Probably a pace-around-the-room-lost-in-thought enjoyer.

Based on her past, she has a tendency to be rebellious and turn her back on certain systems despite being dependent on one herself

For some time, she is quite dependent on Kumar's presence and guidance. She puts a lot of trust in Kumar despite the many questionable things she did to her and the people around her.

(My Insanity) Her tendency to conserve, paired by her predisposition to methodical routines makes it difficult for her to move on from Kumar. And she struggles to properly open up about it or confront it. Kumar left her mark in her way of doing things. The constant nature of her approaches in work/life makes the echoes of Kumar also constant. She would love to break free from the cycle of remembering Kumar by doing things differently, or taking a long deserved break from work... But at the same time, she feels like throwing herself off this 'orbit' is unreasonable, unproductive, and unbecoming of her. So it Rots.

She probably keeps Kumar's glasses, Kumar's bullet, what else? :))

[mbti-notes]

Anon wrote: Why is it always presented as extremely hazardous to diagnose yourself with mental disorders? What are the harms really? Say for example I am aware that my ‘diagnose’ is not a diagnose and just suspicion, is it really harmful to read about it giving that my intention is to get better? And why can’t people diagnose themselves? Don’t people know themselves better than anyone else?

For context, I’m 22, and INFP. And I do suspect I have (BPD) borderline personality disorder. I will try explain my reason/ intention for asking the question above next, and I’m also happy to receive any feedback or reflection questions on my ideas especially if they are type (infp) related since I always benefit from them.

I generally really hate relying on others for help, the more the issue becomes personal the more this becomes difficult. For example I do hate that I have to live on houses and drive cars made by someone else and that I have to put my trust in them, but I don’t find it as threatening as getting medical help for example. Besides the dentist, I’ve never seen a doctor ever since I became a legal adult, I put huge effort into caring for my health mainly for not needing to see a doctor as I could never trust someone to understand me. I train on my own I dye and cut my own hair by myself and I try to teach myself everything because I can’t trust anyone to understand me. Not because I’m uniquely unique but because I believe everyone is unique and it’s absurd to me how people trust others. I hate how knowledge is based on generalizations and I feel like the only way I can escape this is if I do my things by myself.

Despite this, I did seek mental health professionally. I am aware that sadly I have a non stable mental health and unlike physical health it’s more difficult for me to avoid it because most of the problems started really early in life. Since Ive been 18 I’ve tried with three specialist, a clinical psychiatrist, a therapist, and a psychologist. While they did some help, I was more stressed with them than without them, and our relationship itself was more bad than good, and very unstable. Not because they are bad but because of me, I just can’t explain myself properly, I choke when I do it. I hate when they tell me advice, I just can’t take it because of some voice inside me telling me “no one tell us what to do”. I also am sensitive and I get upset with things they do and with time I just hate them and can’t see them anymore. I also feel ‘reduced to a number/ case’ I feel like I’m not a human anymore. And the main issue is that work is temporary and I get to point zero once we stop sessions.

I knew about BPD less than a week ago and as much as I hate to accept that I have a disorder and label myself, I’ve never felt more seen in my life. If only I knew this information in the past few years I would’ve not fucked all my relationships the way I did. It hurts me that none of the specialist I saw mentioned it or at least properly talked with me about issues within its umbrella even as a general issue and not as a part of the disorders. Most of the talk I did with them was about relationships, I never in my life had a good relationship or even a deep friendship, not only they don’t exist, when they do for a short time they are insane. My specialists tell me things like I’m very ‘black&white thinker’, I’m avoidant and I need to train being close with people and that my resulting binge eating is a separate eating disorder, with not elaboration, which when I argued with them against it didn’t work. I don’t really know what to do with these advice that are random and non structured. I told one of them about one of my relationship that with my knowledge now is almost a fictional story that describes BPD, and she told me “oh you’re just an avoidant attached and not used to being intimate” and moved on. What hurts me is that this is not a one time thing it’s my only relationship pattern and she know it. It takes a lot to share these things and they don’t stop on them enough and I just can insist on something that already is difficult.

I’ve been reading about BPD and in just few days and with my awareness that I can’t diagnose myself, i feel better than I ever did. Everything makes so much sense I feel so understood that I almost think I can actually change now. I don’t think any specialist would diagnose me, because the previous ones didn’t, and because a lot of the symptoms are things I’m ashamed to share anyway. Also I’m afraid I will loose this validation I just had. It also cannot be treated medically so what’s the point of getting the professional diagnosis anyway.

So say I do want a diagnosis from a psychiatrist, from experience doctors can act superior, even my medical students friend would snap if I told her I searched something medical online and tell me that doctors hate nothing more than patients who look things online. The way she talks about patients in their practice is sometimes terrifying, they are just cases. Numbers. Not people. Individuals. and I don’t blame her or them it’s the system really of how you need the top grade to get to med school and therefore you are the smartest then overwork them till the point where it’s challenging to see humans as such. One of my friend’s psychiatrist told her if she will keep questioning his depression pills prescription she should not come to him anymore. I don’t want to generalize and there are just some cases but it’s common. And psychiatrists can be insensitive and impatient.

So how is this less harmful than me reading about a condition and trying to help myself with the love and patience that I don’t believe any professional can give me. I know that this is particularly part of my problem because I also don’t believe any human in this earth can give me love and patience, not because they don’t want to or can’t, but because of the unstable way I act.

I don’t want to sound bitter or te-grip-ish but I hate the system and the world and I wish to be on my own and be fulfilled by my love and care to myself only but sadly it’s not enough. I need love and assistance and friends and relationships and I want them too but I’m unable to neither get rid of this desire nor fulfill it. I love feelings and I live for the things and people I love but in relationships these feelings get dark and uncontrolled, almost controlling me and not being controlled by me which leaves me shocked as how the what I value the most is the cause of my suffering.

I’m sorry if this message is badly structured I wasn’t sure what to include and what to not. Many thanks. I also hope your health got better!

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I'm sorry to hear that you've had such a tough time getting the help you need. If you want to maximize the benefits you can get from professional help, there are some flaws in your thinking that need to be addressed.

(1) Self-Awareness: You may believe people know themselves best, but that is often NOT the case. People have no idea why they do half the things they do, and they often just invent a rationalization afterwards. The fact of the matter is human beings have great difficulty seeing themselves objectively, for a variety of reasons. I often mention that lack of objectivity is a major problem for all FPs when Fi and Te are too out of balance.

The degree to which you know yourself objectively and deeply can be captured by the complicated concept of self-awareness. An individual's level of self-awareness is largely dependent on their ego development (as explained in the Type Dev Guide). Ego development is essentially an empirical measure of self-awareness. Statistically, studies show that most adults hover around level three ego development or lower, therefore, the majority of people aren't very self-aware.

Your thought patterns are indicative of low/shallow self-awareness. People with low self-awareness are mainly preoccupied with ego defense, which makes them egocentric, basically unable to understand the world beyond their own experience. With the inner world being so small, the mind easily becomes an echo chamber. It is very difficult for information from the objective world to penetrate ego defenses and, as a result, the subjective world becomes increasingly filled with distorted, faulty, dark, or extreme beliefs that never get corrected. If left unchecked, one's perception becomes quite inaccurate, e.g.: seeing threats where there are none; misinterpreting people's intentions; misattributing cause and effect; not being able to tell the difference between belief and reality; etc. The more a person psychologically isolates from the world, as looping introverts are prone to doing, the worse the problem gets.

People with low self-awareness are primarily motivated by primitive negative emotions such as fear, shame, or anger. This means their way of thinking is emotionally immature, easily triggered and always reacting (reflexively) rather than responding (reasonably). Getting a better handle on one's feelings and emotions, i.e., improving one's emotional intelligence, is very important for increasing self-awareness. One must cultivate an open, objective, and nuanced approach to things, in order to make better judgments and decisions. For INFP, these qualities can be nurtured through Ne development.

Low self-awareness can produce negative effects in many areas of life. In relation to type development, low self-awareness makes it harder to learn how to use functions optimally. Low self-awareness often manifests through unhealthy function expression, e.g., Fi extremes + Si loop for INFP (you exhibit signs of both). Si loop leads to the self-concept becoming too narrow and rigid, i.e., your view of yourself is imbalanced and stubbornly fixed. The remedy to Si loop is to develop Ne and open yourself up to new ways of thinking, so that you can continually broaden and grow your perspective.

Unfortunately, people in tertiary loop are often unconsciously motivated to stay there, for a variety of possible reasons. In the case of chronic Fi-Si loop, pretty much everything "challenging" in the world is perceived as a threat against the self or an unreasonable restriction against self-expression. Thus, the mind closes up and blocks itself off from anything that might even slightly disturb one's stubbornly fixed identity, which eventually cuts off potential for growth -> stagnation. The more "hardened" identity becomes, the more brittle and easily it breaks under pressure, hence, the compulsion to protect it.

In terms of social development, when your mind is walled-off, your perception of the world is inaccurate, and you don't understand how to cope with things that make you afraid, ashamed, or angry, it is very difficult to maintain healthy relationships, isn't it?

(2) The Mental Healthcare System: You're running on the assumption that self-diagnosis is easy because you know yourself best, but I've called that into question above. However, even if you do know yourself best, you don't only need information about yourself to arrive at an accurate diagnosis, do you? You also need to have extensive knowledge of all known possible psychological disorders, including:

their cognitive-behavioral manifestations and symptoms

their etiology or underlying root causes

the history and application of diagnostic criteria

how to adjust for limitations/shortcomings of diagnostic criteria

the probability and potentiality of overlap patterns or comorbidity between certain disorders (which complicate diagnosis)

the ability to spot misdiagnosis effects/patterns

There is a reason why psychiatrists and psychologists have to spend over a decade of their life in school and training. It's a real slog because you need to hone a wide variety of skills. Even still, there is no way for one individual to learn everything there is to know about human psychology. People are forced to narrow their focus and specialize. If you suffered from migraines, would you go see a podiatrist and expect them to treat you properly? It would be similarly foolish to see a grief counselor for schizophrenia. Yet this sort of error happens all the time when people seek mental health help. Most people don't know the difference between psychiatrists and psychologists or who to see for what, let alone all the different kinds of therapies that are available out there.

In many ways, psychological problems are more difficult to handle than physical ones because: 1) they are almost always multifactorial; 2) symptoms can be mysterious or confusing to categorize; and most importantly, 3) the sources of psychological problems often lie deep within the mind, so deep that the person isn't even conscious of them. Unfortunately, due to the complicated, subjective, and hidden nature of psychological processes, getting to the bottom of a mental health problem often involves a lot of trial-and-error.

Add to this the fact that psychology is a relatively new domain in the history of human knowledge, so it hasn't had as much opportunity to develop as medicine. Add to this the fact that mental health services are underfunded everywhere, so there is a chronic shortage of researchers and specialists. Most areas of the world don't even have a mental healthcare system, so if you live in a country where a system exists, with its shortcomings, you're still one of the lucky ones. Even the best mental healthcare systems in the world are mostly a patchwork of services that can be difficult to navigate.

Nobody is saying that self-diagnosis never arrives at the right answer. Experts warn against it because misdiagnosis can lead you down the wrong path developmentally and lead you to seek out "solutions" that might ultimately turn out to be harmful or even traumatizing. Self-diagnosis can be especially dangerous for people with low self-awareness and poor critical thinking skills because, in the social media age, "doing your own research" easily leads people straight into an abyss of misinformation, where frauds and scammers prey upon fears/insecurities for profit. There is a reason why the self-help industry is worth billions of dollars yet doesn't produce great results for the populace.

It's always sad for me to see people fall through the cracks. It's understandable to be cynical about a system that has failed you one too many times. However, I think your expectations of the system are a bit out of touch with the realities of the system because you're focused mainly on personal anecdotes and not really taking the bigger picture into consideration. You've been through a winding and bumpy ride through the system for sure, but it sounds to me like you are actually getting closer to finding the help that is best suited for you. I would encourage you to not give up on the system just yet.

(3) Borderline Personality Disorder: I'm not in a position to diagnose mental disorders. The most I can say is that, with only a cursory glance, your thinking patterns and the problems you've encountered in life do seem to be consistent with BPD. While it is true that BPD is difficult to treat, it's not because there are no treatments available.

Unfortunately, the nature of BPD makes it very difficult to form healthy relationships. The therapist-client relationship is one of the most important factors that influences the outcome of treatment, so if you're unable to work well with the therapist, you won't get far. That being said, therapists are human, so the therapist-client relationship is like any other relationship in that it's not always easy to find a good match. Think about how many duds you have to swipe past in order to get to a good candidate on a dating app. Not everyone graduates as a top student, so every profession has its fair share of stars and duds, and it looks like you've encountered some duds, which is really bad luck.

You are absolutely right to leave any therapist who invalidates you or doesn't take you seriously. However, after hearing about the interactions you've had, I want to tell you that psychological change and growth are inevitably challenging, even painful at times (note the phrase "growing pains"). Think of it this way: In order to birth a better version of yourself, you have to let the outdated aspects of yourself die. To go through that "death" can be painful, especially when you've been holding on to your past self too tightly for too long. You have to gradually work up the strength to meet challenges if you truly want improvement. Setbacks, mistakes, and failures are also part and parcel of the growth process, so you have to learn to accept them more gracefully, rather than allow them to trigger a descent into unhealthy and extreme thinking patterns.

The best way to clear up unhealthy thinking patterns is to expose them to the sunlight, through relationships with others, and receive corrective feedback. Thus, it's important that you be more persistent in opening up and asserting your thoughts, feelings, needs, and wants in therapy. Express your opinions as they arise rather than stewing alone after the fact, especially when the opinions are about the therapist or therapy itself. This is an important step in being able to "work out the kinks" in any relationship.

A relationship, even a therapist-client relationship, cannot improve and meet your needs better until you learn how to be open and honest and handle conflict constructively. The therapist's office is a safer place to practice your relationship skills because you don't have to suffer as many real-world consequences, so take full advantage of the opportunity to trip and fall and learn how to pick yourself back up. If the therapist can't handle you "talking back" at them because they take it personally, then it's a clear sign they're unqualified for the job and it's better to know sooner rather than later, so that you can save time and find someone better.

If you strongly believe BPD is a possibility, that's fine, read some well-researched information about it. The danger of self-diagnosis comes in what you do next. Do you run off and try to heal yourself with questionable methods? Or do you use this new insight to target your search better, toward the right sort of professional? I hope you do the latter. You'll want to find someone who has lots of expertise/experience with personality disorders. If they themselves don't specialize in BPD specifically, they can probably refer you to someone who does.

As far as I know (and my knowledge might be dated), dialectical-behavior therapy is an effective treatment, so you can also look for therapists who specialize in DBT. The basic aim of DBT is to help people get a better handle on their emotional life and learn to draw healthier emotional boundaries - essential skills that are needed for healthier relationships. Even if you don't officially qualify as BPD, DBT is still likely to help you learn how to navigate relationships better.

[dramatisperscnae]

@personae-obscura [x]

"I was hoping to discuss some of the practices at the Asylum. I understand the name is a legacy, I've been doing my reading, however I believe the word Asylum is somewhat outdated and highly inaccurate." She started, a soft voice with clipped British tones. I also understand that Gotham City is rather unique with the number of vigilantes and the calibre of its... rogues, I believe is the common word." A well manicured hand tucked wispy blonde strands behind her hair before she pulled a notebook and fountain pen out of her puse. She flipped through the pages until she found what she had written during her first visits. "Who exactly does the hiring at Arkham? I find it odd that the place felt the need to reach out halfway across the world for a suitable therapist to reach their more unruly patients. And speaking of therapists, I find the current staffing laughable. Practically a skeleton crew and I highly doubt they are able to seek help themselves given the confidential nature of their complex cases." Not once did Imogen raise her voice, she remained polite, meeting Dick's gaze. Simply summarising the notes she'd been making the last few weeks. "And then there's more specific concerns regarding the man I've been assigned to but we can get to that. I'd like to learn a little more about Arkham from the perspective of a local and a man on the Board. Though given you can't be much older than myself, I'm assuming you haven't held the position long?"

A fountain pen…? Interesting. Dick settled in his own chair, watching her with a calm, open expression that was carefully practiced to hide just how closely he was observing her. British, he knew, and she had quite the professional reputation, having assisted with a murder case not long after obtaining her qualifications. That much he'd learned just doing basic research on her. Now he had a chance to get his own read of this woman.

So far, she was impressive. Businesslike, to the point, those traits he could certainly respect. The fountain pen pointed to a meticulous nature - the damned things were notoriously finicky in Dick's experience, requiring a careful hand to make them work correctly and not leave the writing looking like shit. And, from what he understood, she was currently working with Harvey; only someone capable of keeping close track of details could handle that man and his other half.

At her final question he allowed a faint, slightly sad smile. "Not long, no; just a few months. But I'm fairly well acquainted with Arkham and all its…troubles, growing up in Gotham as I did. My-…guardian," he'd nearly said father; god he missed Bruce. It should be Bruce having this conversation right now, not Dick. "took a special interest in the place. Did what he could for it until the day he died."

Dick sighed then. "As for your question on staffing, theoretically the chief of staff does the hiring, but I believe currently it's being…I think the polite term is 'delegated' to others. Reaching out halfway across the world for a good therapist, though, doesn't surprise me; Arkham's reputation is such that actually finding people who want to work there is difficult at best.

"There are far more problems with Arkham than there are successes at this point, though there are plans in the works to attempt to rectify that. The board has already agreed to the foundation of an independent oversight committee, as an example, to ensure that reports of abuse by security and staff are properly investigated and punished as necessary."

Dick's smile warmed as he continued, "And while Asylum may be considered an outdated term, I prefer to keep it as a guidepost as well as a legacy. An asylum is a place of safety and assistance; it's what Arkham should always have been. Besides," he added with a wry laugh, "even the board will admit it sounds better than 'Hospital for the Criminally Insane'. The term 'Asylum' offers hope that some of our rogues may yet find a way to live peacefully. I want to hold to that."

[embeddedsystems-shius]

I've got some thoughts I need to clear out about the current status and trajectory of my life. The shit I need to do, and the stuff I need to leave behind, for a bit.

First of all. My throat is stabilizing, and my voice has gotten to a point where I can probably use it to record my own stuff, properly. I'm hoping that I can spend the next few days recording everything. Finally get the new track out.

Living with a lower voice + my gov't gender is going to be incredibly difficult moving forward - its to the point that I don't know if stuff like bank proceedings will go through. What's more important is my job, tho. I'm definitely going to have to quit. Japan isn't exactly the friendliest place for trans people, or people like me, in any capacity.

This, then - leads me to the question of what I want to do next. And I already know my answer to that. I want to make music. In a professional capacity. I want to follow that dream.

...course, there's technically two parts to that same dream, because I never make life simple for myself. You could probably guess what the other half of the dream would be, if you aren't new here. And not gonna lie, you'd probably be right.

I want to stand beside them. My Reflection.

This means many things; but one of the biggest meanings is to be seen as an equal to them, in the eyes of the public. I want to be worthy of that title. To be somebody that could stand beside them.

I don't exactly want to stay in their shadow forever. There are things I want to be able to say - things I want heard.

All I've ever wanted was to be listened to. Actually listened to.

I want to be seen, like them.

A lot of the dreams I have is probably just because of my admiration for them. I'm not gonna lie, this isn't an endeavor I would have ever even dreamed of myself doing, back when I was younger.

I probably would've just brushed off the entire thing as "unrealistic", "emotionally impulsive", or "not worth the risk". I probably would have given up. And I did - I did give up, when I was younger. I was never the type to take that risk. I was never the type to make an improbable gamble, on something that wouldn't leave me with a way out. Never had the confidence to look beyond my own two feet. I always just kept my head down.

I knew that my heart would lead me into trouble - so I just never trusted it. But let me tell you:

Raw intelligence may have cut me through life - but it never made me feel alive. I relied on my own brain for so long; that at some point I forgot that I had a heart at all. And that made my life worse. That made me worse.

Cause what's the point in being "good at being alive", if you want nothing more than to just fucking die, every single morning that you wake up?

...I don't want to live like that, anymore. I can't.

I don't want to keep voluntarily pinning myself to the stake to be burned alive - so that somebody else might get a "happier ending" than me. I'm done sacrificing myself for people that I know won't ever do the same back, for me.

I can't keep catching bullets for people - and I have to stop doing that shit right now, because the next bullet that hits me might actually be my last. I can't regret my own life when I'm fuckin dead.

Even now, knowing that reincarnation is an actual thing that just happens ig - the end is still the end. You can't get back from that shit. And I kinda refuse to have to repent my own death for a second time in a row. I really don't want that.

I have to live, if I actually want to change anything.

There's so many things that could just drive me straight to my grave. My depression, my paranoia, my loneliness... Even my thoughts of them, and the thought of going fuckin insane because I can't seem to stop thinking about them, can make me want to kill myself at the literal drop of a hat. There's still so many things that make me want to lose control. But there are things that have gotten better, too.

The biggest one is my PTSD - although everything that's happened to me as a kid will likely haunt me for the rest of my life; there are things I can reason with myself, now. There are things I can now see a lot more clearly. There are ways I can fix myself so that I don't become my father. There are ways that I can help others outta that same hell that I was born in. I now know that there's a way out - I know that this is something I can help other people with. I know that I am in a place where I can teach others to save themselves.

I now have a deeper awareness of what I am, and what I'm not. I know that I will never be a hero, in a way that I see my own heroes - but I can be the person that teaches heroes to become what they are. It's what I want to do.

I want people to learn from me. I want people to surpass me. I want to be the person that inspires others to become heroes. To save somebody - even if that person is only yourself. I want to be the person to let others know that it is possible to be saved.

I want to be the proof that change is possible. That you can get out of hell. I want to become that undeniable evidence of somebody who was saved.

I want to give back to the people who saved me.

Because I've been saved.

I'm not a hero - I never will be, but I've seen them. I've seen heroes, in action. I've wanted to become like that, my entire life.

To help somebody, like that.

...and yeah, you could say that I put everyone around me on a pedestal. You could say that, and you'd probably be right. But I haven't exactly had the easiest life - I have my own reasons for believing so strongly in others, the way that I do. I'm not exactly naive to the ways that so many people can be like.

But thats why the ones that I choose to be important, are held so closely to my own heart. I regard these people in such a high light, because there is literally nobody else, that's been able to affect me in the manner that they have.

My father, my reflection - and one of my closest friends. There's only three people in this entire world, that I have ever pledged this loyalty to.

The only people who've ever influenced me to want to live. The only people who've ever even given me a glimpse of what life could actually look like, beyond the messy static of my own fucking brain.

All people who've known me for at least a decade. All people who've watched me change, and grow. All people I've seen, change and grow with me.

I hold such a high regard for these people - because they have changed. Because I saw them change.

I've wanted to be like them, my entire life, almost.

...I know I'm not even remotely close to getting anywhere near who they are. Not to the eyes of the public. I don't even really know if they hold me in their hearts, the same way I hold them in mine. I'm not even close to any of them.

But I want to live up to what they see in me.

I want to give back, what was once given to me. Even if that's just a stupid fantasy that I might never even achieve. I want to be seen as their equal. To be seen like I see my own heroes.

I want to follow that dream, even if it ends up killing me.

Because even if I die before I reach that goal of being seen, beyond a shadow of the people that I admire - I know that I would have made enough shit, by that point, to prove that a person's life can change for the better. That somebody was saved by the actions of others. That this can be done.

I want to one day be able to see myself in the same light that I see them, in. Even if I fail. I want to take that risk.

I want to live like them.

[tvckerwash]

hello! I hope it’s okay if I share some thoughts regarding the whole ‘something about ct’s storyline doesn’t read very well’ thing.

I think the biggest reason why ct’s story reads so poorly is because s10 tries to separate it, and by extension, ct herself, from wash. admittedly, ct’s character and story being tied to wash is an issue of its own, but I’m going to ignore the root of that problem because I don’t want this to be a “rewriting ct from scratch” focused reply instead of a “trying to make sense of what we were given” reply. 

essentially, s9 sets wash up as a deuteragonist of sorts, and ct’s story is written in a way where it’s meant to be told through—or in conjunction with—wash. this makes a lot of sense considering wash’s role in previous seasons, and we also already know his position regarding the director’s actions, so by connecting ct to wash we are able to very quickly understand what type of character she is supposed to be—the lone hero working from the inside to tear down a corrupt military organization (who everybody thinks is crazy).

this is a lazy writing choice, but due to the freelancer saga being a prequel rt was put into a very restrictive situation when it came to the story they could tell, so I can understand the decision to do what they did. that doesn’t mean it was a good decision, but it is what it is.

in s10 however, while wash still has a decent amount of screen time, he’s been pushed out of his deuteragonist-ish role and is mostly regulated to comedic relief rather than being important to the progression of the story like he is in s9. this is an issue because as I mentioned above, wash IS the underlying context to ct’s character and her story, and without wash acting as the foundation she comes off as flat and one dimensional.

that is of course assuming that they always knew that the ct we meet in s7 wasn’t going to be the real ct, because prior to s10 a lot of people assumed that desert ct was the real ct, she was just using a voice mod like tex and south. 

anyway, I’m probably going to sound insane for a minute here because my brain is having issues coming up with the words to connect my thoughts together. my other line of thinking regarding ct is that her crumbling relationship with wash, her alliance with the ‘insurrectionists’, and her relationship with the leader was SUPPOSED to parallel/foreshadow york’s alliance with tex, and carolina breaking up with him at the end of s10. this is NOT how ct’s story reads AT ALL in s10, but I feel like there is sound logic behind this line of thought considering everything I’ve written thus far.

so ct’s relationship with the innie leader wasn’t supposed to be read as her “choosing a romantic relationship over the right thing”, but since her relationship with the leader isn’t properly explained and comes out of left field (undoubtably the doing of miles), and the fact that wash isn’t a part of her character anymore, that is unfortunately how it comes off.

I feel like that could have been remedied somewhat by having wash be the one to confront ct and the leader with tex instead of carolina, allowing the two of them to have their own ballet breakup moment of sorts, but that would’ve required miles to understand wash’s role as a character in ways that he did not.

I have so much more I want to talk about but I’ve been typing this up for a few hours now and my brain is sick of it lol. I hope I managed to get across what I’m trying to say in a way that’s at least somewhat understandable, but ct is also very difficult for me to discuss for many of the same reasons you lay out op, so I apologize if it isn’t lol.

oh and optionally, here and here are two posts where I talk about some of the ways wash and ct are connected as characters, as well as a short reading of ct that might add some helpful context to this reply? 

I love hearing all your thoughts on RvB! I was wondering if you had any thoughts on Agent Connecticut (CT)?

Thank you! I enjoy thinking about these weird little GI Joes :) I will always take questions/shooting the shit about rvb in my inbox :D

As far as CT, she's... kind of difficult for me. I have a lot of issues with her character on a writing level. While on the surface I quite like what's set up-- someone who's very clearly against what PFL is doing, whistleblowing, working with insurrectionists, sowing discord and suspicion in PFL members, etc-- she's just... Unfortunately written very flatly.

To put it simply-- she feels like a rough draft of a character, and it makes a lot of her scenes that would and should be narratively impactful/rewarding just... Not.

A lot of it is Rooster Teeth's misogyny, obviously. They have a hard time writing women who are empowered and not just flattening them to 'badass bitch,' and CT most definitely suffers from this. But the biggest issue is the leverage of her relationship with the insurrectionist leader as structuring it as a flattened love story. I think it takes away a lot of her agency. Now, there's nothing inherently wrong with prioritizing or showcasing a romantic relationship-- York and Carolina's is usually my go-to for how Rooster Teeth does it right, but even there, you can see how a lot of the romantic narrative beats are the underlying text to support the actual PFL plot, rather than framing the romantic plot over the insurrectionist plot. I... Have a hard time putting this into succinct words, but there's just something about CT's storyline that really, really, really doesn't read well. It attempts to leverage her attachment to this man over her attachment to... Doing? A? Good? Thing? (Not to mention, I'm still really unclear of what the Insurrectionist goals even are.)

What could be a really fascinating portrayal of a character who is trying to navigate the truly heartbreaking, difficult, morally-grey aspects of revolutionary thought, her genuine care for her comrades, and her romantic love interest just so often is... like I said above. Flat. A rough draft. There's not a lot of nuance, or a lot of thought, and any depth here gets relegated to plot. That's the problem. CT doesn't have a character, she has a plot device. She is a plot device. At all points, every time we can get more from her, we get her regurgitating the parts of the plot RT wants us to get out of the story. She's... Kind of just a lazy Physical Moralization Of the Story?

Here's what they do right-- I really like the subtleties in her and Tex's relationship dynamics. Leaving the thumb drive in Tex's locker. CT's genuine concern and desire to let Tex navigate and figure out who she is. The righteous anger involved in that action, and their relationship. I don't know if I want that aspect to be explored more-- When you have a character like CT who just... spells out the plot for you, it's nice to have these subtle moments that don't try to wack you over the head with an ice pick about how to read the text. CT often seems to be used to spell the plot out to people, which I find to be more than a little demeaning. (Then again, I guess I can't fault them for having a fanbase that is probably not as invested in like. Media Literacy on the whole. lol. but that's mean.)

I think there's something genuinely heartbreaking in CT. Her relationship with Wash is fascinating, and I find the moments of her genuine frustration and the futility of trying to break through soldier mentality to be interesting. There's the bones of a really cool character, here, but it just... She just... Ugh.

If you can't tell, the construction of her character just frustrates me to no end, lol. So I'm sorry for this mess of a text, but this is a rough draft in and of itself, because trying to dissect her character is just... It's like staring at a brick wall that's been graffitied to say MAYBE THE DIRECTOR IS A BAD GUY, GUYS? ALSO I'M A WOMAN, DID YOU KNOW THAT? and it's just, simply put, kind of disappointing.

[hitnran]

KISSES (gender neutral! reader)

kisses headcanons with them

includes: ran, rindou, hanma, sanzu

notes: i enjoyed writing hanma’s, i might just make a boyfriend headcanons for him

— RAN HAITANI

With first kisses, it’s most likely him to be the first one to initiate it. It may happen earlier on the relationship and most likely out of the blue to get a reaction out of you. He would do it in the most nonchalant way.

Ran just needs to show you his love and affection in any and every way possible. He wants you to feel comfortable though, so he wouldn’t want to rush anything, but how badly he thinks about wanting to shower you in kisses.

Ran would watch over you as you’re paying more attention to whatever is occupying you. His eyes will gaze over your lips and without even thinking, he gives a small smirk.

“Y/N~” He coos as he calls out your name.

You raise your head, giving him attention but before you could ask him what it is he needed, he closed the space in between the both of you. You feel his lips press against yours - they’re on the colder side but immediately warms up against your touch.

Ran will pull back after a couple of seconds, wanting to see your reaction. He’ll take any reaction (just as long as he can tease you about it), especially if you’re all flustered and stumbling over your words.

“What..was that for?” You lowered your voice out of embarrassment, lightly grazing over your lips with your index finger.

Ran shrugs, grinning at your expression that he found so cute to him, “If you want another one, you’ll have to be the one to do it〜”

His kisses are quite soft, but last a long time. Ran treats you like an angel and he’ll have his hands on your waist with the other cupping your cheek.

In general, Ran is always the one to kiss first. His favorite places to kiss you is everywhere - if there’s a free and open space, he’ll use it to his advantage to kiss you. Though, he frequently will place his kisses against your eyelids or your lips.

When it comes to where he likes to be kissed, Ran melts when you kiss his jawline. He doesn’t know why and there isn’t a particular reason, but he enjoys it.

— RINDOU HAITANI

You’re going to have to most likely be the one to give the first kiss, or it would feel that way for a while before it actually happens. Rindou has thought about it numerous times, but overthinks it too much.

He’ll try to convince himself that it isn’t a big deal, but after seeing that you haven’t said anything about it or not even feeling bothered, it makes him a lot more worried. Though, Rindou wouldn’t show it.

Unlike his older brother, Rindou would be someone who would most likely try to plan it out because he doesn’t want to make a mistake. Little did he know, you were trying to do the same thing.

You two would be out on a date, nothing too fancy nor something that would take too much energy - something as simple as sitting along the water bank after going on a ride on his bike.

“Rindou,” You called out his name. His ears perked up and his eyes look your way, he hums to confirm that he’s listening. You swallow the lump of spit stuck in your throat, taking deep breathes, “I..have something for you. So could you close your eyes?”

Rindou was a little hesitant, but he trusted you enough. He closed his eyes and you prepared yourself. You knew that Rindou was stubborn and nothing was going to change between you two unless you did something about it.

One more deep breath from you and you slowly leaned in, trying to get to his face. But you hadn’t realized how much time you spent stalling, that he opened his eyes out of worry from your silence.

Rindou’s pupils grow a bit enlarged, seeing your closed eyes and lips out foreword coming his way. He couldn’t help but chuckle out of relief that you felt the same way. With your eyes still closed, he held both sides of your face and placed his lips onto yours. It was rather aggressive, but he was just a little excited than he thought he’d be.

He pulls back away first, realizing what had just happened, and his face would heat up. Rindou would clear his throat, avoiding eye contact, and trying to act all cool.

“You really thought I’d let you be the one to have the first kiss?” Rindou bluntly said, scoffing. “Who do you think I am?”

Rindou’s kisses are a little bit aggressive and short, but not with the intention of hurting you. He just honestly doesn’t think about it, but if it’s in private and an intimate moment, he’ll get a lot softer, especially if you two are laying down.

He always has his hands cupping your cheeks, acting like he’s afraid to lose you if he lets go.

His favorite place to kiss you his your shoulder and collarbones especially if he’s embracing you from the back or if he is laying on top of you. Rindou just likes to kiss you wherever and whenever you can’t see him because he’ll get flustered otherwise.

For Rindou, he surprisingly likes being kissed on the cheek a lot. He thinks it’s a childish place to be kissed, but he really likes it. If you do it out of no where, he’ll act like he’s irritated by it and that it’ll taint his image, but he doesn’t really care about it that much. In fact, he’d rather let everyone see who it is that he’s allowing to get so close to him.

— SHUJI HANMA

Hanma is a little unexpected. He would also be a little anxious over it like Rindou, but try to suppress it and not overthink it. He would rather the first kiss come naturally on its own time, and it’s not like he doesn’t want to kiss you, but it’s nothing he wants to spend time worrying about.

It would most likely come naturally and the build up would happen slowly. Hanma enjoys his life to be at a quick pace, but with you, he likes to take his time. He gets bored insanely easily but if doing nothing was what you wanted to do, he’d do it with you.

“Y/N〜” He calls out to you, his eyes fixed onto your ceiling. He sighs, rolling his body over and staring at you. You thought he was going to complain about how bored he was and ask how it is that you could just sit around and do nothing, but he wasn’t thinking that at all.

Hanma, just looking at you, thought about how lucky he was. He’ll move closer to you, just wanting to talk to distract himself of the boredom. He’ll joke around with you a bit, mentioning a funny memory he remembered or teasing you for something you hate about yourself but something he loves so much about you.

Just as it got quiet between the two of you again, eye contact was exchanged. You had never seen Hanma so still and hear him so quiet. He had been staring down at your lips and gave into his desire. His fingers lightly hook against yours and he tilts his head a bit, placing what felt so gentle against your lips.

Hanma’s kisses usually just happen. Again, he doesn’t want to put too much thought into it other than that he just wants to kiss you and show that he loves you. They’re often more on the firmer side though and he likes to take his time with you.

If it’s out in public, Hanma will kiss you anyway, leaving them to be quick and short. Sometimes he does it just to tease you in front of others, but in private, he thinks if it more as an intimate act.

His favorite place to kiss you is on the cheek. There are times where he just bites your cheek or licks it before placing a kiss. Hanma usually has his hands on the sides of your body or hooked around your fingers.

His favorite place to be kissed is both his hands or the side of his nose. His hands because Hanma thinks he finds it so ironic that someone would be willingly to even hold a hand that has been covered in dirt and blood. Hanma gets into fights when he is bored, but having you kiss them just makes him feel a little bit more grounded in life. The side of his nose because he can tell that you’re spending so much time analyzing his face, and kissing the center of it just makes him feel more appreciated.

— HARUCHIYO SANZU

Sanzu honestly doesn’t think about it. If you really want it, then communicate it with him. He isn’t naive to know that kissing is an intimate act often used to show appreciation and love.

He is a highly loyal individual, and he knows that he can show his loyalty to you in many ways. But he just doesn’t know how to go about approaching this. You’re going to have to be the first one to kiss him.

Getting into a relationship with Sanzu was one thing, but physical touch was another. He wasn’t doted as a child and having physical affection wasn’t something he was exposed to all the time. You knew this, and it made you incredibly nervous on how to properly kiss him without making him uncomfortable.

“Y/N,” Sanzu snaps you out of your trance, leaning forward and making eye contact with you through his lashes. “You’re spacing out. What are you thinking about?”

Even if you lie to Sanzu, he’s going to know. Again, it’s just better to communicate to him what it is that you want. You look at him straight in the eye, trying to find courage to ask him.

“Haruchiyo,” You clearly said. Sanzu hums, staring at you and waiting for you to finish your sentence. When he looks at you like that, it’s difficult to not get nervous and flustered. You gulped down, trying to shift your gaze around to distract yourself, “Well..”

He picks up on your body language; he can tell you’re in distraught. He moves in a little closer and it makes you even more nervous.

“Hey,” Sanzu spoke, squishing your cheeks together using one hand and making you make eye contact with him. “Why are you so nervous for? Did I do something?”

“N-No!” You muffled out. “I just..I just wanted to ask if..”

Your words were so quiet, barely audible out of shyness. But it was enough for Sanzu to hear. His gaze was kept fixed onto you, and without losing his composure, he repeats it, “You want to kiss me?”

You nod, gulping down at how embarrassing you thought it was for this to be dragged out. But your mind goes blank when you feel his lips come in contact with yours.

Sanzu doesn’t like too much PDA unless it’s him having his arm or hand on you; he would rather keep kisses private. His kisses are rather soft and short, he honestly doesn’t give them very often. But he’s willing to give you a lot of you want it. He’ll kiss you out of the blue if he wants to and keeps them short, nothing to make a big deal out of.

His favorite place to kiss you is your knuckles. Sanzu treats you like loyalty, so he’ll kiss you like one too. He often does it before placing a kiss directly on your lips.

His favorite place to receive kisses is the corner of his lips where his scars are placed. His scars come from bad memories that Sanzu would prefer to not be reminded of, but having you kiss them makes him forget that anything even happened. For someone as strong-willed and charismatic as Sanzu, he kinda turns into mush when you kiss him there. His eyelids get a little heavy, and his hands shake his way to the sides of your face, wanting to smother you in affection just as you’re doing with him.

[neverendingdeath]

This guy was insane. He thought as much back with the fireworks but he...really didn't understand the brunt of their situation. Before Blade could properly warn him, things had already gone somewhat tail up. That glance was not missed and all he could offer were eyes hell bent on not taking fault for it. Who just walked up to IPC officers like that anyways? "That's..." He let out a harsh sigh as he felt that power begin to well in his hands, course through his body and down through the heels of his shoes. "Those with gifts always say such difficult things. 'It just happens.' 'Just will it.'" Irritation wormed its way into voice that held so little place for it. Perhaps it was the frustration of being caught in this situation though the more likely answer was...for as tightly wound as the threads were to his soul, stray ends would unfurl at the slightest it. He tries once more to target the IPC but...the efforts fall flat. Where Geo had been meant to fly out of building in attack, instead, the building had broken off and floated t surround the man inhabiting that shell of his. "...it's something I suppose..." Was this how Silver Wolf felt when he was critiquing her? Hen she'd accidentally done the wrong thing and knew some snarky remark about it was on the way? This wasn't easy in the slightest. ...mentally he sighed. It wouldn't hurt to apologize for it even if he only knew what it was for. The task at hand felt easier with that thought in mind. Regardless he would always go back to them. That place whether as mission support as nothing but a Blade. Something like this was nothing. "I am not someone as grounded as you..." The words feel heavy on his tongue as sultry voice foreign to his ears speak them. "But I'll provide you cover. The quicker you kill them the sooner you can stop fighting." That polearm was once more brought forth and held at his side. At least this he could use despite the horrid feeling that settled in his gut. It was through gritted teeth he could even make the suggestion. "Don't take any hits. I'm your shield to use."

Dreaming of you (as me)

Harmony Commission - Dream Syrup [ Zhongli / Blade ]

[difx-writes]

Wildest Dreams - In the Death of the Night

Masterlist

After turning 10 and losing her soulmate, Marinette would imagine how Damian Wayne would be.

Would he be tall or short? Did he have blond hair or brown or did he dyed it? Would he be shy or have a bold personality? Perhaps he was an artistic soul, a poet, a writer? Or would he be a baker like her parents? Why did his last name change?

The wonders and questions took over her mind for days with no end.

On good days, she imagined how he would interact with her friends, how her parents would take him in as their own son, how he would fit into her life.

She liked to talk to him, pretending there, alive, with her. She asked his opinion on what to wear, how she should do her hair, what colors with go well with the design. He was her voice of reason. Talking to "Damian" brought a smile to her face, even when she knew she was deluding herself.

On bad days, she pretended he was right there with her, comforting her, encouraging her, whispering that everything would be alright... Sometimes it worked and she felt better the next days but most times she felt bitter, she felt robbed of a future where he was in her life.

The realization that the person she was supposed to share her soul with was no longer alive, that his death was painful, gruesome, and... lonely... It always ended with her taking a few days to prevent a breakdown...

When she turned 13, Hawkmoth appeared and Marinette became Ladybug, the hero of Paris.

Soon after, Marinette stopped talking with "Damian", she couldn't afford to wonder about him anymore. She couldn't afford the bliss of her own delusions. She couldn't afford to let herself grief and fall pray to Hawkmoth's manipulation.

As she couldn't fail Paris and its citizens, Damian Wayne mostly disappeared from her life.

But there were days when her “friends” demanded a lot from her, akumas were too violent and draining and everything was just too much, those the godawful days.

On godawful days she wished Damian was there to take her away to a place she could feel she belonged. Away from everything to a place she could call a home.

_______

Most nights Damian recalls a voice talking to him during the time he was dead.

His soulmate, he supposed, talked to him regularly, she started her day asking his opinion on her outfit for the day, when at home she would tell him how her day went, what she did with her friends, what she learned in class, etc...

At first, Damian was pretty much annoyed that he couldn't "rest in peace" with all the noise pollution but after a few weeks, he slowly started to tolerate her talking to him.

Unfortunately, he couldn't talk to her nor see her very clearly so it was a pleasant surprise when Marinette would ask his opinion to make a decision, she always picked what he chooses.

Perhaps it was their bond that allowed her to know what he was thinking without actually hearing each other's thoughts. Or maybe they were more in sync with one another. Most likely it was pure luck on her part. (Him being dead is enough proof of how bad his luck was.)

In the months he was dead, Damian learned a grand lot Marinette. He liked how she made him feel he wasn't alone, like how her voice calmed him when he remembered the family he left behind in his death. Marinette was his only lighthouse in the vast void of the afterlife

_______

Impotent, despair, and hopeless.

That's how Damian felt every time Marinette had to relive his death. He hated it so much. She didn't deserve that and it broke his heart every damn time.

Why did he have to die? Why did it have to be in such a painful way? Why did she have to feel it on repeat over and over and over again? Was it a twisted way the universe tried to make them reunited? If they can't find each other in life, then they can be together in death? That isn't right!

But it always hurts more when she wakes up and talks to him. Wondering if he was happy and in peace, in wherever place he ended up.

He was there but she didn't know.

He felt sick.

After being revived, Damian felt an immense sense of loss. Sure, he was kinda happy to reunite with his family and grateful for being alive again, but he missed her.

It was difficult to readjust to being alive again, it was crystal clear that Damian Wayne wasn't okay. What hurts him the most was how her name turned into a scar on his wrist.

During the day paranoia settled in making him always on high alert, lashing out when it got too much for him.

In the night, he couldn't sleep properly as a feeling of unease latched onto his every nerve and when he did sleep, nightmares plagued him.

Damian tried to calm down in various ways, but ultimately it was Marinette's voice that soothed him and lulled him to sleep.

It quickly became a habit to replay their one-sided conversations as he tries to fall asleep.

He went over what Marinette Dupain-Cheng spoke to him time and time again as to engrave her voice in his mind. Unfortunately, her voice was fading away, every time he recalled it, he hear his own voice.

At least some memories remained, which was relieving for Damian, even when important ones like what language she spoke or the name of her school were completely wiped out.

He never told his family his experience while he was dead, he guesses Jason was the most likely to know about it but he never brought it up to anyone, so Damian did the same.

Now he was lying in bed, remembering about the time Marinette tried embroidery for the first time.

She started by searching up what she wanted it to be and after much talking, she chose a Robin, Damian smile at the eagerness he felt for her to chose it. It was a fun day, with her making comments here and there about the work, he wishes he could see it.

A knock woke him up of his thoughts, Alfred emerging from the door.

"Master Damian, I'm here to inform you a guest will be joining us for tomorrow's dinner."

"Whose guest?" He didn't really feel like dealing with new people.

"It's Master Jason's guest."

Damian groans, perhaps he could go visit Kent.

"It would be in your best interest to participate, Master Damian." Alfred gave him a look.

He sighed, definitely can't miss tomorrow or he'll have to face Pennyworth.

So, I've written another chapter while listening to a sad song on repeat :') I know it doesn’t really connect to the last chapter but I wasn’t feeling okay and didn’t know how to continue from where I left off.

I hope y’all enjoyed this and have a nice day!

P.S.: The taglist is temporarily closed as some tags aren't working. Again, I'm very sorry if I missed anyone. If you no longer want to be tagged please hit me up.

Taglist:

@thestressmademedoit @moonlightstar64 @dast218 @moonystars14 @buticaaba @urbanpineapplefarmer @thedragonbug  @little-lady-bird @an-actual-changeling @ladybug-182 @ash-amg @g-arya @nnon-it-up @hateswifi @maribat-is-lifeblood @kikooaaaaaa @jessigurl-design @vixen-uchiha @acoursedprophetwithasmothie @snow-leopard-777 @theatreandcomicfreak @zalladane @fusser90 @finallyaniguana @danielslilangel @dreamykitty25 @corabeth11 @ellymae21 @books-and-left-behind-journals @hetalia-lover-is-here @dorkus-minimus @magic-miraculous @waywardpeachgardenshark @darkthunder1589 @jaggedheart11 @daminettes @todaylillypads @schrodingers25 @pheonixashtree @mikantsume @eliza-bich @miraculous-simmer7 @goblinwhoships @fidget-eep @rosalineandrosemary @lunarwolfspn @more-or-less-human-i-guess @aestheticnpoetic @amayakans @abrx2002 @karategirl119 @agentofscifi @flower-and-drawing @itsmeevie01 @suddenly-i-kin-oikawa @ii-fox-demon @thatonecroc @dawnwave16 @bigpicklebananatree @violentbisexualprophecywriter @scribblinggraveyard @heaven428 @toodaloo-kangaroo @ravennightingaleandavatempus @chylou34 @silvergold-swirl @magictragic-world @snowstar1016 @heldtogetherbysafetypins @awkwardoneout @novicevoice @thenillabean @bookishdork13 @laurcad123 @thezestywalru @k-poplunardreams @coloursforyourportrait @fandomsaremylifeline @goddessofthewestwind @captainmac6 @chocolatecatstheron @princessanimeangel11 @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @ur-beautiful-when-u-smile @batlover1303 @softlysobbingpostendgame @justconfusedperiod @clumsy-owl-4178 @bluesimani @iwritelikeimrunningoutoftime @kokotaru @totalyasexual @professionalfangirl1738 @nitholites @zestyzealot @pawsitivelymiraculous @autiegirlshit @raz-b-rose @thanks-captain-obvious @emilytopaz @nightstarblue @2confused-2doanything @niknak-3 @blackroserelina @fortunatelyoptimisticdeer @ira-sairain @pepelachanel @naimena @iloveitwhen @disneyfoxuniverse @ur-average-reader @lylshyt @jerusalemandolives @anonymously-odd @southamericanghotamite @a-star-with-a-human-name @we-want-mini-mini @literallytryingmybestbutok @alenee13 @animegirlweeb @our-preciousss @prudencerika @byronsacademics @ivymala07 @shamefullove @susiej1118 @technicallyburninggarden @sentimentalcrap @ertyzeta @tomanyfandomsonmymind @starmist19 @synnesstra @nokia75 @swiftie-miraculer13 @solideogloria172 @a-door-into-my-mind @road-work-ahead123 @madking-warqueen @caseoftheblues @buginetye @ihavehomeworkbutistillhere @i-wanna-go-to-outerspace @insane-fangirl-of-everything @ultimatetornshipper @chaoticstarworld @adrestar @wolf-for-life @blacktea-ba @pinkk-sheep @autiegirlshit @chocolateherringtacofan @blackroserelina @samopotahto @blur-of-colours @stainedglassm @redbullgivescaswings @khneltea @amigotasbien @sdg-demachera @alyssadeliv @greatcatblaze @raesofmoonlight @galla02006 @sunflowers-and-mooncakes @novaloptr @qualitypeacepainter @solangelo252 @unnamed2357 @thespianlesb @mildlydeadly @yuriyuhitsu @hewantedbeefintheparkinglot @literaryhiraeth @luna025 @henie04 @trashesa @castle-bookworms-world

[sweetea-rosey]

Ooo hi I saw you take requests? I have a writing request if you want to :))

So here is my idea:

Remus has a notebook given to him by the other sides to write his thoughts down in. See, Remus has clear impulse control problems so this notebook of for him to write his thoughts down instead of just doing and saying whatever comes to mind. It gives him a chance to think about it. Sometimes, maybe like once a week give or take a few days one of the other sides will sit down with him and read his thoughts with him just to make him feel validated and heard. Well this particular time one of the sides (of your choice) sat down with the notebook and found some rather interesting things.

Now, you can take this one of two ways (it’s really all up to you!)- You can make this something angsty (hurt comfort), or you can make it something shippy! It can be any Remus ship you want but I personally am more partial to intrulogical hehe 💙💚

Take your time and have fun with it!! Have a good day :)

Ah! Ty for the request! I started writing it on the day you submitted it, but Tumblr deleted it after a while of not saving :') so now my motivation to do this is deterred

Anyway, this'll be my first time not writing something Roman centric =w=""

Remus held the book in his hands. He remembered the day Roman gave it to him, when he risked traveling into the dark scape because he knew his brother needed this. Because he did, too.

An outlet.

A place for his monstrosities to be, other than inside his head, allowed to torture him to their best abilities. The illusions his mind creates are no longer just in his eyes. It's no longer insanity- it's creativity. The journal isn't the first one. But he and Roman make sure to keep eachother stocked up; they get filled rather quickly. The Imagination holds an entire library dedicated to their filled journals from over the years.

The journals have also become sort of diaries to them. So, imagine what were to happen if one of them got lost? The possibility of their secrets being seen by unbidden eyes.

Remus burst into Roman's room, "Ro!"

Roman jumped from his spot at his desk, "Jeez- ! What is it?"

Oddly, for Remus, he seemed almost anxious, "Have you seen my latest journal?"

Ah, that explains it. Roman understands the severity of losing something that holds your private thoughts. He stood up from his desk chair, turning to face Remus better, "No, I haven't. Is it missing?"

Remus nodded, unable to speak through the panic coursing through his veins, the hormone mixing with the feeling of the plasma we call blood rushing through veins and arteries, rest in his heart, which is thumping with vigor, the- Remus shook himself. The imagery coming on its own with nothing to do with it, "Thoughts, thoughts thoughts, thoughts, blood, where? Everywhere? It is me, I am thoughts and blood and gore and death and slime, and..."

Roman pulled his brother in, the physical touch of his second half grounding him, finally balanced out with his brother there to help him.

"Breathe, Ree...I get it...I'll help you look for it, okay? Do you have any spare journals?"

Remus shook his head. He had just started this one, he was too busy brainstorming on the pages to remember to restock.

"Okay, do you have the focus to conjur any, right now?"

Remus shook his head again. No no, of course not! He's too focused on the one that's missing!

"Alright, that's okay, Ree. I get it. Here, use this for now," As Roman spoke, he pressed a plain black book in the unstable man's hands, "Get some thoughts out on that, then we can start looking, okay?"

Instead of answering, he made the rest of the way into the prince's room and started letting the thoughts out.

.

.

.

"Feel better?"

Remus let out a breath and nodded, "A lot, thanks. Can we go look, now?"

"Of course, let's go."

It took hours. The sun was gone in Thomas' living room and they were still tearing the place apart, searching absolutely everywhere. Remus was tempted to just dismantle the mind palace and look through the stuff that gets left behind. The fear was boiling in his gut in the ocean of acid.

"What if we don't find it? My blood, sweat, and tears went into that book! Pieces of my heart are in there, I can't lose it, what if someone else finds it and reads it?"

Roman shuddered, because he didn't believe that Remus was being metaphorical, "I understand the severity of the situation, Ree. We should go look in the Lightside, now..."

Remus shrugged as much as his slumped posture will allow, "Sure..."

"We'll find it, Ree..."

"That's not what I'm worried about. If I lose it? Fine, I have others, I can start a new one. I'm scared of someone else finding it and reading it... there's things in there I don't want others seeing..."

"I get it, you know I do. We'll get it back before anyone else can even know it exists, alright?"

Remus just shrugged off his comforting hand, "Stupid prince, always making promises you don't even know if you can keep. Don't do that to yourself and don't do it to me. I'm not stupid enough to fall for that shit."

Roman recoiled, almost physically, "Sometime, people just need reassurance."

"And then, when you're wrong? I know you don't like breaking promises, Princey."

"...Then hopefully we'll figure it out."

"You're such a fucking optimist, it's gross."

Roman rolled his eyes, "I'm helping you look, be nice, you doofus."

"Oh wow, "doofus", I'm so offended," Remus said without much effort.

Roman ignored him.

.

.

.

"It's not HERE!" Remus screamed, a pot crashing through the wall.

Roman manged to muffle the noise and quickly put it back together, "We will, this was only the first room in the Lightside. You need to calm down."

"I can't! What if someone else already found it and read it? What if they hate me? What if they never wanna talk to me again because nothing in there makes sense, what-"

Roman caught his hands, "Woah! Woah...Remus, when did you start caring so much about what the others think of you?"

"I don't!"

"But...-"

"I don't care about what Logan and the other think of me."

"Of what...Logan and the...? Remus...is this about Logan?"

Remus hesitated just long enough.

"Oh great Aphrodite, it is..."

"Aphro-? NO! No, I don't!"

"Remus, is there something about Logan on that book?"

Remus said fuck it in his mind and sighed, "Yes... I...some fantasies...that he might not approve of..."

"Oh, Remus..."

"What if he finds out, and he...? He just doesn't...?"

Roman hit his brother on the head, "This is why you're a doofus. It doesn't matter if he finds it, you have nothing to worry about."

Remus rolled his eyes. Literally. He rolled them like dice and Roman had to look away, but got the message.

"How would you know?"

It was Roman's turn to roll his eyes (PROPERLY).

"I'm leaving you to figure that out. But, I do."

"Sure. Whatever. Asshole."

Roman moved on to look in the next room.

.

.

.

A flash of green leaped onto him and he was tumbling over, the item in his hands flying out.

"Remus!"

The man scrambled over and snatched the book up, "Did you read it?"

"I- no, Remus what is it?"

"It's mine. Roman, I found it!"

Roman? Since when do those two talk? But, as Remus said, Roman walked in.

"Oh, thank Hades."

"Logan had it."

Roman sucked in a breath, "Did he read it?"

Remus shook his head, relief is a weird expression on the man's face.

Logan wouldn't mind seeing it more.

"What is this about?"

Roman took the liberty of answering, "The book is Remus' and it's private. Reading it would be invasive."

"Oh, my apologies, then. But, I had just picked it up, it was left over from Remus' running through the room and into the Imagination, along with some other debris I cleaned up."

"It's alright, nerd."

Logan's gaze lingered on Remus a bit, before he bid his farewells, reminded Roman of some work he needs to do by Friday, then left.

"Y'know," Roman said as they turned to walk back, "You could tell him how you feel."

Remus scoffed, "I'm not self destructive, like you, RoRo."

Ignoring Remus' jabs is difficult for the prince, nevertheless, "And do, pray tell, how it's self destructive?"

"Because he'll say no and that will hurt. I don't like when things actually hurt. I'm not risking him hating me even more."

"Woah, woah, he doesn't hate you."

"Doesn't he? I'm chaotic, irrational, vile, ik everything he fights to keep under control."

Roman digested this and thought hard on how best to explain this, "But that's exactly why you two are perfect for each other. You help him let loose when he's being a stick in the mud and he helps you keep in control of yourself and stay organized.

"You're delusional. He doesn't like me, he can't Ro. It goes against our very beings! Go ahead and fool yourself, but you can't do that to me. That's just cruel." Remus disappeared and Roman sighed as he tried to brush off his brother's words.

As the embodiment of romance, he thinks he'd know when a couple will work out or not. How will he convince his brother and Logan of that? He supposes he can't blame them for that, who would listen to the love advice of someone who loves someone that loves someone else? Kinda hypocritical.

.

.

.

"Just leave me alone!"

"Remus! Would calm down? Just listen to me!"

"No! You're a liar and I hate you! Do you want me to get hurt? You're an asshole you good for nothing prince!" He screamed. Why won't his brother let this go? Doesn't he see that everyone is better this way?

"Fine! You're right! Is that what you want to hear? Call me an asshole, call me stupid, call me evil or whatever! But I'm not wrong! Why don't you believe me? Ha! Why am I trying to reason with the self proclaimed unreasonable?"

Remus looked down from his perch on the guillotine, "Wait, RoRo-!" But he was gone.

"Fuck."

He rushed out, hoping to Loki that he didn't do too much damage.

"Roman!"

But he found who he wants looking for.

"Why are you screaming in the middle of the common room?" Came that cool and sexy voice.

"Looking for my brother, duh."

"Funny, I just spoke to him."

"Where'd he go?"

"Not sure, but he told me to stop being a robotic fake and confess to you."

"He- ? ROMAN!" Remus summoned a hammer and maybe there's a new hole in the wall.

"He was right, surprisingly."

Remus was not expecting that, "Come again?"

"I have noticed, over the course of our interactions, that I have developed feelings that I didn't recognized until Roman brought them to my attention. Remus...I have romantic feelings for you."

And it was the last casual and calculated confession Remus ever heard. He imagined something with ropes. But it was the best thing he ever heard. He didn't expect to be crying.

"Remus?"

"I like you, too..."

Logan brightened and stood up, his heart beating unnaturally, yet pleasently, as he moved closer, "Then... perhaps we...?"

But before he could finish, Remus pulled him in and there was no need for words.

Part 2 with what happened with Roman afterwards?

Ty so much for the request and I apologies for the long wait.

@fireflyjunkie

[jinx-jade]

Secret Dreams Chapter 9: Let’s have lunch.

Alfred had picked up Marinette, Penny, and Jagged from their hotel, driving them to Wayne manor. Once they arrived Alfred led them to a large sitting room that seemed to be the living room. 

“Lunch will be severed in half an hour. Feel free to socialize until then.” Alfred informed Jagged, Penny, and Marinette before leaving them in the living room with the Waynes.

No one got a word in before Cass took action. She immediately stood from her spot on the armchair, rushing to Marinette’s side before grabbing her hand and pulling her to sit next to herself on the chaise. Once seated Cass looked towards Bruce with a smirk. Of course like the mature adult Cass was she stuck out her tongue in a taunt.

Bruce simply let out a tired sigh, seeming too used to his children’s antics to be embarrassed by them. The rest of the Waynes seemed to be trying and failing to stifle their laughter.

Jagged looked around at the Waynes before seeming confused.

“Ya know, I could have sworn you had another kid. The green-eyed one, uh, Damian was the kid’s name, ya?” Jagged questions.

Before Bruce could answer, someone else answered for him.

“Tch. It can be rather difficult to keep up with father’s addiction of picking up strays.” Damian states as he walked into the room. “After all, they all seem to look the same with black hair and blue eyes.”

He looked around the room only to raise an eyebrow at Cass who was pretty much draped over Marinette’s shoulders. Cass raised a brow back as if challenging him to question her actions. Damian simply shrugged in response.

“I don’t believe you two have met yet,” Bruce remarked. “Damian this is…”

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” Damian said with a nod of acknowledgment, as a small smile made its way onto his lips. Marinette grinned at him, before breaking free of Cass’s hold, sending an apologetic look her way.

 “Long time no see, Damian!” was stated with amusement ringing crystal clear in her voice. The Waynes looked between Damian and Marinette with an observant gaze. As far as they were aware, the two have never met before.

“You two know each other?” Dick questioned.

“Yup!” Marinette replied with a cheery tone of voice as Damian made his way towards her. He easily took the now vacant seat that is next to Marinette. To everyone’s surprise, Damian stuck his tongue out at Cass. Which served to confuse all the people present except Marinette and Cass herself who started pouting again. 

Damian then turned his attention to Marinette, easily slipping into a conversation as they seemed to forget anyone else was in the room. 

Marinette then leaned against Damian’s chest. Surprising the Wayne’s once again as Damian didn’t throw her off but instead wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Sorry, but how do you two know each other?” Tim asked. Seeming to voice both the Wayne’s and the Rolling-Stone’s question.

“Hmm?” Marinette inquired as she turned her attention back to the room full of people. Damian simply cuddled closer to Marinette, content to watch the chaos she was creating unfold in front of him.

“Tim’s got a point, little star. How do you two know each other?” Penny doubled down on the question, seeming to block off any hope of avoiding answering the question. 

At least that’s what they all seemed to think. Marinette proved them wrong as she let a smirk on her face, then proceeded to point towards the doorway in which Alfred seemed to appear out of thin air.

“Saved by the bell!” Marinette cheers, causing Damian to let out an amused huff.

“Apologies if I’m interrupting, but lunch is ready to be served,” Alfred informs them.

With that announcement made, everyone proceeded to get up from the living room and move towards the dining room.

The subject as to how Damian and Marinette knew each other was dropped till after lunch. Although everyone had taken notice of the almost flirtatious back and forth banter. The chemistry between the two was really interesting to watch.

At one point Damian would be teasing Marinette, only for her to somehow turn the teasing upside down and give it back as good as she had gotten. They both interacted with the main conversations while holding their own completely different conversation.

At the end of the meal, the group moved back to the living room to socialize. Cass sat next to Marinette and Damian sat on the other side of Marinette. Once again, Damian wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close. The movement seemed rather protective to everyone. Cass tilted her head to the left in puzzlement, as she and Marinette got into another staring contest. When the silent impromptu staring contest seemed to be over a look of shock had made its place on Cass’s face. Breaking eye contact with Marinette, Cass snapped her head to Damian. He simply raised a brow and smirked at her. Cass let out a happy little gasp as she seemed to have gotten confirmation about something. The Waynes will have to ask about that later.

The only ones who seemed to understand this silent communication were Damian, Marinette, and Cass. All the Wayne’s and Rolling-Stones know is that whatever they had said or communicated to each other made Cass very happy and excited.

Just as one of them was about to ask what had happened, and bring back up the question of how Marinette and Damian know each other, a phone started ringing.

“Well, it looks like our time here is up.” Jagged informs them as he turns off the alarm. “Tell ya what, we can try and wiggle the answers out of them at the gala tomorrow night.” Jagged continuous.

The Wayne’s agreed, but Marinette could see the look in their eyes as they silently promised an investigation. Alfred led them out to the car, driving them back to their hotel. On the car ride back Marinette looked out the window wondering why the Waynes had not asked her about شبح (Shabh) yet. 

Then it hit her.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

.

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.

.

The Waynes thought there were civilians in the room with them.

tag list: @little-bluestar @redbullgivescaswings @stackofrandomstuff @meismu @maskedpainter @nyx-in-line @iamabrownfox @m0chik0furan @jjmjjktth @icerosecrystal @machichannx @a4-machete @our-preciousss @justafanwarrior @animegirlweeb @loopingtangent @buginetye @blueslushgueen @solangelo252 @officiallydarkgreek @toodaloo-kangaroo @melicmusicmagic @alysrose-starchild @lunathealphafemale @frieddonutsweets @marvel--unsolved @user00000003 @henie04 @anonymously-odd @jayjayspixiepop @eggadoodle @demonicbusiness @laurcad123 @how-to-fuction-properly @stormfox2411 @legends-live-in-memories @moon5608 @insane-fangirl-of-everything @yin-390 @daughterofnyxandhell

[taexual]

i’d love you to stay but that’s simply insane // JJK (17)

    jungkook is an uncontrollable lead vocalist of the campus band, and you’re a goal-oriented top student that’s known his rich and complicated family since childhood. you don’t want anything to do with each other, until each other is exactly what you want to do.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: college au

warnings: angst → smut (dom!jjk themes but only because he can’t control himself lol)

words: 8.2k

    chapter seventeen

Namjoon dropped you off back on campus and was even kind enough – or guilty enough – to offer his help in your search for Jungkook, but you didn’t want to take up any more of his time and, in the case of actually finding Jungkook, you didn’t think you’d make the situation better by having Namjoon with you.

The first thing you did after you exited his car on campus was leave the campus – because you thought that Jungkook may have lingered by the club where Parental Advisory performed tonight; even if his bandmates didn’t seem to think so, since Yoongi insisted they’d lost their lead vocalist – and walking around in the shoes you’d picked today was almost enough to make you regret not asking Namjoon to drive you around, after all.

You hadn’t worn heels but the ballet flats were still not fit for this much walking and, once you circled the club twice and even asked the manager – who was having a smoke outside – if he’d seen Jungkook, you decided that you could understand why Yoongi had been so upset about his bandmate’s disappearance. 

As you returned to campus, you decided that you were also ready to strangle Jungkook once you finally found him.

“Have you heard anything from him?” you asked in your text message to Yoongi and then informed him, “I’m on my way to my dorm now to change into more comfortable shoes but I’ll check some of the buildings where he has classes after that.”

Just as you passed the library – and peeked inside because, although slim, there was the possibility that Jungkook may have been hiding out here (he wasn’t) – your phone buzzed with Yoongi’s reply.

“The guys and I will check them,” he was saying, “are there any other places on campus that have some significance to you and him?”

You did a double-take when you finished reading the text, not liking the wave of awkward and misplaced guilt that returned when you fully grasped what Yoongi was implying – he may not have been accusing you of anything, but he was, clearly, convinced that you were the reason why Jungkook missed the encore of his show and then disappeared off of the face of the Earth.

“I’m not sure,” you started to type back as you walked past the double-doors of your dormitory, startling your seemingly drunk RA who had been dozing off on the couch in the first-floor lounge. You stopped typing to press the elevator button, but then resumed, “I’ll walk around. He couldn’t have gone far.”

“He could have,” came Yoongi’s arbitrary – but, frankly, objective – response and you sighed as you read his words, your reflection looking very gloomy in the mirror of the elevator. “But let’s hope he didn’t. If you find him first, kick him where it hurts most. And then punch him for me, too.”

You couldn’t help snickering at the absurdity of the situation that you were in – you definitely never thought you’d end up bonding with Jungkook’s bandmates over your mutual frustration with him – as you typed back your response.

“If his phone isn’t back on within the next ten minutes,” you were saying in your text, stopping for a second when the elevator ding! announced that you’d reached your floor, “I will be doing a lot more than just—”

You stopped typing as an audible gasp escaped your lips, prompted by the sight at the far end of the hallway, right by the door of your dorm. Your phone nearly left your hands, on its way to crash on the floor. You’d caught it—miraculously—your eyes still locked on the figure, sitting on the floor by your door.

“Jungkook,” you said, meaning it as a question but not being able to articulate it properly due to your shock. The dim lighting of the hallway made it difficult for you to make out if it the silhouette was actually him, or if it was someone who was incredibly similar to him.

“Oh,” the person replied and – clumsily – stood up, relying heavily on the wall to help him support his weight. It was Jungkook alright. But barely. “You’re here.”

“I’m—of course, I’m here. I live here,” you said, not sure how to react. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

Various unintelligible sounds left your mouth after he said this – the first syllables of all the words you wanted to say in the moment; all of them rated-R – until you settled on watching him for a minute to get some time to form a coherent thought and to asses the damage.

It didn’t look like he’d been in a fight. It simply looked like he got very drunk and plopped down on the floor next to your dorm room.

“Waiting for—Jungkook, fuck—do you know that your band is literally out there, looking for you?” you demanded after inhaling sharply. “There’s a whole search party for you and you’re—you’re here.”

“I was waiting for you to come back,” Jungkook said. He was a lot more sober now than he was hours ago, but he still wasn’t sober enough to recognize his own guilt. Actually, he was probably never sober enough to feel guilty about anything, but alcohol had little to do with it. “I was going to drive over there to find you—”

“You’re drunk,” you snapped, interrupting him.

“Yeah, and that’s why I didn’t,” he said, pausing for more effect as he waited for you to express your admiration for his self-control but, after it didn’t come, he cleared his throat and, sounding disappointed, explained, “I knew you would give me shit if I drove a car drunk and I promised you that I wouldn’t. So I didn’t. I waited for you here instead.”

“You should have known that drunk-driving is unacceptable because that puts you and everyone around you in danger,” you countered, the moral superiority in your voice clouding the meaning of your words, “and not just because I would give you shit if you did it again.”

He rolled his eyes but chose not to expand on this argument because you didn’t look like you were in the right mood to understand his point of view about “conforming to societal norms”, even if it meant that he was putting himself – and those around him – in danger. Not to mention, he was still too tipsy to hold out a proper conversation.

“How long have you been here?” you asked after he didn’t reply.

You were well-aware that you were having this conversation in the hallway when you could have, theoretically, had it in your room. The door was right there. The key was in your handbag.

But entering – and inviting him inside – wasn’t something you were ready for just yet. The adrenaline from not knowing where Jungkook was and what had happened to him still hadn’t faded. Your breathing still hadn’t calmed down – funnily enough, it would not calm down for the rest of the night, but you didn’t know that yet.

“A while,” he replied just as you remembered you were supposed to let Yoongi know you’d located the missing boy. You got your phone out while Jungkook continued, “I bribed your RA with my six-pack of Heineken. Well, actually, it wasn’t really mine, I just took it from the bar, but—”

You stopped typing the text message to give him a hard look. “You stole six bottles of beer?”

Jungkook blinked, thrown off by the fever in your eyes. “No. I took them.”

“Without paying?” you asked. He nodded. “That’s stealing.”

“I do it all the time,” he waved his hand dismissively – and pushed himself off the wall in the process, only to lean back against it again a moment later, when he realized he was still not steady enough on his feet. He nodded his head at your phone, “ask Yoongi. The manager knows us there. We get drinks on the house.”

“I’m—how do you know I’m texting Yoongi?”

“You said there was a search party for me,” he said, taking you off-guard with his accurate conclusions. You wondered what sort of effect alcohol had on him, “Yoongi is the only one that cares enough to lead it.”

He didn’t mean to make it sound sad – in fact, his facial expression remained the same: somewhat cautious and a little irritated – but you still felt an unpleasant pang of misery in the pit of your stomach.

“He’s—well, I care, too,” you said with a nervous cough that was meant to rid you of all pity you felt towards him because pity didn’t justify what he did. “A lot of people care. You can’t just disappear like that in the middle of your show and—”

“It is Yoongi you’re texting, right?” Jungkook asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Not someone else?”

He was probably trying to be nonchalant about it but, consciously or not, he ended up making his question unbearably obvious. The “someone else” may have been an abstract concept to outsiders – your peers, lurking by their doors and watching the argument play out through their peepholes – but you both knew whom Jungkook had in mind.

“Yes,” you said. “I was texting Yoongi. We’d agreed to let each other know if we found you.”

“Okay, good,” Jungkook said and proceeded to act like this was all a mere misunderstanding that wasn’t worth a lengthy discussion. “Can we go inside now? It’s weird to talk in the hall.”

“Are you going to tell me why you got drunk before your show?” you asked, your voice on the edge of yelling. “Or why you skipped out on the encore?”

Understanding that answering this was the one condition to enter your room, Jungkook sighed. 

He was hoping you’d come to your own conclusion about this and he could just roll with whatever you thought was the truth – that he was useless, untrustworthy, reckless, and any other thing that people regarded him as – because explaining himself meant talking about his feelings. And he was so good at pretending that he didn’t like to do that.

“Because you weren’t there,” Jungkook answered.

You couldn’t help but groan. You’d gotten so tired of his no-more-than-four-word responses to serious questions, you couldn’t hear any more of them. You hated having to ask specific questions to get him to talk when he knew very well what you wanted to know.

“What is that supposed to mean?” you questioned irritably. “I wasn’t at your previous shows and that didn’t seem to be a problem.”

“Before—”

“Not to mention,” you continued, choosing to let it all out now that he’d shown you he wasn’t going to be completely upfront with you, “you knew where I was. We’d talked about our plans for tonight extensively, and I wasn’t supposed to hear from you until the barbecue ended and you wrapped up your show.”

“Okay, fine,” Jungkook said, his voice rushed. He didn’t want to hear any more of your accusations because he knew he would lose the battle of wits – he would have lost it on an ordinary day, but today, everything he said seemed extremely wrong. “It’s because you were with him.”

“With Namjoon?” you clarified, crossing your arms over your chest.

Not liking your defensive stance, Jungkook swallowed and said slowly, “yes.”

You looked away from him then – as if you were gazing into an unseen camera and waiting for someone to yell that you’d been punk’d – your eyes losing focus.

“Are you kidding me?” you asked with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m not,” he replied, his jaw clenched. “My own father sent me the picture.”

“The picture?” you raised your eyebrows, almost laughing. “It was just a picture of the company employees! Namjoon happened to be standing next to me. You can’t seriously be acting like that because of something as minor and irrelevant as this. I thought we’d already talked about this.”

Completely forgetting every past conversation, Jungkook rolled his eyes.

“Minor and irrelevant,” he repeated, an undeniable snarl in his voice. “Is that what this is? At this point, you spend as much time with him as you do with me.”

“Why is that a problem?” you challenged. “We’d already agreed you wouldn’t do this! I am allowed to hang out with my friends. You have no reason – or no right, for that matter – to react like that. You know there’s nothing going on.”

“I’m not—”

“And I spend even more time with Inna than I do with Namjoon,” you cut him off, “why was she never an issue?”

“Oh, so, Inna, Namjoon, and I are all the same to you?”

You squinted your eyes, trying to see through the trap he must have set for you with this question. “Yes.”

“Oh, how brilliant,” Jungkook scoffed, pushing himself off the wall and turning his back to you as he spat, “your three closest friends.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

He turned around suddenly, his gaze full of blazing fire. “Do you kiss them the way you kissed me last week?”

His words seemed to punch you right in your lungs and all breath left them as you stood there, trying desperately to inhale and suddenly feeling a lot more drunk than he was, despite not having had a single drop of alcohol tonight.

“I didn’t think we were going to talk about that,” you said lamely, all conflict having left you along with your breath. It wasn’t really a response to his question but it was the best you could do when he was looking at you like that.

“We weren’t,” he said. “But only because I could see how much you didn’t want to. I could tell you were pushing me away—”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he interrupted you before you could properly interrupt him, and continued his tirade, “and I understand your reasons. I left you seven years ago and friends aren’t supposed to do that. They don’t abandon friends.”

Faced with this point-blank truth, you were forced to lower your eyes to the floor as you attempted to lie, “I-I didn’t—”

“I told you of my reasons back then,” Jungkook said, not needing your excuses. He knew what the truth was and he didn’t blame you for feeling insecure. “I wanted to keep you safe from myself. And maybe I have my reasons now, too.”

“What?” your stomach dropped. When you looked up at him again, he was already standing a few steps closer to you. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to walk away from you,” he said, spilling his next words in one single breath, “but I can’t handle just fake-dating you because the thought of someone else dating you for real, makes me want to tear the fucker up to pieces.”

You didn’t say anything, not entirely sure if you understood his speedy delivery correctly or if your heart was banging against your ribs for no reason.

“And maybe that’s why I should leave,” he spoke then, taking another step towards you and taking over your personal space not with just his words, but with his presence, too. “But we’re both adults now. I’m still learning how to properly be one, but I’d already missed one opportunity to be with you and I can’t miss another one. So, even though I should, I can’t fucking leave. I don’t want to.”

Speaking quietly, you asked, “then don’t.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he said and you couldn’t find it in yourself to lift your eyes to his and settled on watching his lips instead, which was about ten times worse, “I am—I’m in love with you and I don’t want to be the same as the rest of your friends for you. And I really don’t fucking want to be the same as Namjoon.”

“Namjoon—he drove me here,” you found yourself saying as your mind short-circuited, “to look for you. He’s kind and understanding but neither of us are interested in one another. He… I think he always knew that my heart was elsewhere.”

This time, it was Jungkook who needed a full explanation, not an off-handed excuse. “Where?”

Right here, you would have said but you chose to show him instead as you leaned in closer, removing the remaining bits of distance between you by gently touching his lips with yours.

Jungkook reacted immediately, responding to you and refusing to let you pull away by placing one of his hands on your right elbow and another one on your waist. He wasted a split-second when he pulled back to inhale, but then he made up for it by kissing you again, his lips closing against yours in a tight lip-lock.

You pulled back, however, a smacking noise echoing around the hallway as you did, whispering to him, “are you still drunk?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jungkook replied breathlessly before pressing his lips to yours again.

Kissing him back and feeling how the quick, gentle pecks turned into deep, open-mouthed kisses as his tongue caressed your lower lip before making its way into your mouth, made your mind hazy and you were forced to hold onto him tighter.

He sighed into the kiss; the feeling of you clutching the flaps of his jacket was more than enough to make him lose his mind. 

And then you let go suddenly, pulling away yet again.

“Are you going to do it again?” you asked because you had to hear him say it. “Are you going to leave? Stop talking to me?”

To be honest, Jungkook would have promised you the world in that moment. Hell, he’d have promised you the whole universe when you looked at him like that – with eyes full of need and parted lips as you tried to catch your breath.

“Never,” he told you.

You seemed to read his mind. “You better not be saying that so we could keep kissing.”

He could have laughed at this if he didn’t know how much this meant to you – how much this meant to you-and-him – but he did know, and that’s why he took your hand, pulling it away from the flap of his denim jacket, and placing it squarely on his chest.

“I promise,” he said in tandem with his heartbeat.

Your lips crashed against each other again and the collision could have had painful consequences if your hands wouldn’t have been there to soften it. You held onto one another, pulling each other closer despite already touching everywhere it was possible to touch.

You could still taste the alcohol on his tongue but you could also taste him – mint and strawberries – especially when he used one of his hands to tilt your face in the right angle that allowed his tongue to play with yours. And then, as if he’d just snapped his fingers, you completely forgot about your surroundings and focused on kissing him back.

His touch ignited your skin and, as soon as he lifted the corner of your shirt and barely grazed your bare hip with the tips of his fingers, you already knew he’d started a fire you couldn’t put out.

In a rare moment when your mind cleared – all because Jungkook needed to inhale before he kissed you again – you realized that you were still in the hallway where, technically, anyone could have seen you.

Except that didn’t scare you much.

What scared you was this very realization: you wouldn’t have cared who saw you here, as long as he was still so close.

“My keys,” you whispered. He understood what you were saying – and what you implied by that – but he’d have rather been struck by lightning than voluntarily pulled away from you.

And so, forgetting your sanity for a yet another moment, you cherished in the feeling of his lips on yours, letting him push you against the wall next to your door.

Only when his body was pressed so tightly against yours that you found yourself trapped in the most delightful way possible, did you realize that this wasn’t going to be enough and you needed to leave the hallway before it escalated.

“Jungkook—” you tried again, pulling away this this time. Naturally, he lowered his head to kiss the side of your face instead, going down to your jawline and planting kisses on your neck, all while you desperately tried to find the keys in your handbag, your hands – and your entire body – shaking. “I can’t—ah, please, let me—the door—”

Jungkook would have pulled away from you if you’d asked but you weren’t asking – you didn’t want him to. And he had a hard time focusing on what you were saying anyway, especially when the beginning of his name never left the tip of your tongue.

Finally, your fingers located your keychain and pulled it out from your handbag. But blindly unlocking the door proved to be even more difficult than finding the keys.

Had you been less lost in each other, you could have stopped kissing for one minute to enter your dorm room, but any thought of disconnecting your mouths and bodies seemed ridiculous and impractical. Why would you waste your time by not kissing each other?

You managed to push the key into the lock through sheer luck, and then, hoping to open the door, you took a step forwards, away from the wall and into Jungkook – who didn’t mind being the one who held you, not letting you get too far away from him.

The speed with which you entered your room once the door was opened, would have probably knocked you both off your feet. But God favored those who were in love, and, the thing that you ended up knocking down, was just the bowl for keys that you and Inna kept by the door. You couldn’t have cared less about it – you barely even heard it clatter against the floor.

Following the invisible pull towards your bed, you and Jungkook successfully maneuvered past the door frame separating the bedroom area from the hallway, and – only stumbling once, when he pulled back to take his jacket off – you finally reached the privacy of your room.

“If you want me to stop,” Jungkook mumbled against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours as he held your body against his; your bed was right behind you and you knew you’d have fallen on it with the smallest push from him, “you have to tell me now because—” he kissed you again with the same raw hunger as before, “I don’t think I’ll be able to leave otherwise.”

“No,” you breathed, matching the intensity of his kisses with your own, “don’t stop.”

And that was the permission he needed to nudge you forwards until he landed on top of you on your bed, leaning on his elbows on either side of you. It was so similar to the way you’d made out on Sunday night in his parents’ house, and yet, it was so different, too, because you were past the point of caring about any interruptions now.

If someone knocked on your door right then – if someone walked in – you wouldn’t have even flinched.

Lifting your shirt and exposing more of your skin for his impatient fingers to explore, Jungkook was forced to break the kiss again, so he could fully take the garment off. And then he had to pause again so he could take a quick breather because of how ethereal you looked like this: half-naked and daring him to keep going with your eyes.

“Jungkook,” your soft whisper brought him back to life and helped him realize that this time, he wasn’t dreaming. This time, he had you here with him.

And so, he took his own shirt off before leaning down to kiss you again – clumsily and sloppily – and the new feeling of his bare skin against yours was enough for you to arch your back off the bed, all so you could feel more of him.

“Fuck,” Jungkook cursed before bringing his hands up your sides and kissing down your neck. Encouraged by the sound of your whimpers when he gently brought his teeth over the spot below your collarbone, he sucked on the skin there with more force, leaving faint bruises.

Your hands slid down to his waist – reaching for the buckle of his belt – but they froze when you felt his tongue soothe over the new mark he’d made on your neck. It stung but you felt more pleasure than pain and, for a good minute, that pleasure was all you could focus on.

You felt his fingertips dance around the edge of your bra and heavy breaths left his lips when he brought his face back to yours, stopping just close enough to feel the pull of your lips, but far enough to still be able to look you in the eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, successfully undoing your bra in his first attempt – he wouldn’t have called himself an expert in that particular area; he was just determined to always get what he wanted and he wanted you.

You barely had enough time to hum in response before he lowered his face and reconnected your lips, sliding the straps of your bra down your shoulders in a motion so slow, you nearly threw him off the bed and did it yourself.

Instead, you chose to concentrate on finally undoing his belt, which wasn’t going well due to how badly your hands were shaking. But, once you finally succeeded and got through to the zipper of his jeans, it seemed like Jungkook was no longer so dead-set on taking this slow, either.

“Oh,” a sigh passed your lips when he threw your bra to a side and repositioned himself in-between your legs, his hips grinding into yours in a dangerously satisfying way that only left you wanting more. “Please, Jungkook.”

“I know,” he spoke and his normally melodious voice seemed deeper now.

He placed a kiss to your lips again and then pulled away to slide your jeans down your legs, tossing them aside before bringing his hands over the bare skin of your ankles, then up your calves, over your knees, and down your thighs again.

“Jungkook,” you tried again, “do something, please.”

“Hmm,” he wasn’t entirely aware of his surroundings as he cherished in the feeling of your skin right under his fingertips. He had to touch – to feel – all of you, so every bit of your body, every crevice and every wrinkle, remembered him.

Your breath got caught in your throat when he finally reached the waistband of your panties, and Jungkook was convinced he was going to die when he took them off of you – but he didn’t mind dying in the slightest, not if he got to see you like this first.

“I’m going to make you feel so,” he said, lifting your hips off the bed—just barely—so he could slide your panties down your legs, “so good.”

And he resolved to show you that he meant it, peppering the insides of your thighs with butterfly kisses that were the complete opposite of the tight grip he had on you. 

Hooking your legs over his shoulders, he felt the way your body shuddered in anticipation as his kisses neared your core and he could feel his own pants tighten uncomfortably around his now rock-hard length.

Placing a soft, chaste kiss right above your clit, Jungkook heard your deep breath and that encouraged him to keep going, applying more force to his kisses as he went lower. Finally, just as your hands grabbed fistfuls of the sheets underneath you, he spread your lower lips with his tongue and lightly—so lightly, that you weren’t sure you didn’t just imagine this—licked his way up to your clit.

“Oh, shit,” you threw your head back and Jungkook – who’d already proved how much positive reinforcements meant to him – released a guttural breath that vibrated against your core.

The sensation added more to the blissful feeling of his tongue as he finally flattened it against your mound, licking and sucking with a loud and sloppy slurping sound.

You gasped when the previously teasing motions increased in speed and his tongue circled around your entrance, touching and tasting you in clockwise movements, never forgetting to pay special attention to the most sensitive spots on and around your clit.

“You taste so sweet,” Jungkook spoke breathlessly and you struggled to understand him not just because of how good he was making you feel with his mouth, but also because he did not pull away far enough and his words quavered against your core. “Talk to me.”

“I-I’m—that’s good,” you tried to say but your head was spinning, “so good, you—oh! Oh, fuck, Jungkook!”

Almost screaming out in surprise, you felt his fingers against your core, gentle and careful for the first second, but eager and energetic the next as Jungkook explored the wetness around your entrance. Bringing his tongue over your clit, he slid two of his fingers inside, ready to stop and wait for your reaction but that was not needed.

Arching your back off the bed, you sighed deeply and pleaded far louder than you’d intended, “p-please—”

Smirking to himself as you struggled to finish your sentences, he sped up his movements, not giving you a moment to collect your breath as he rubbed the insides of your walls with his fingers and sucked on your clit, the slow movements of his tongue contrasting with how quickly he was moving inside of you.

“Good girl,” he said, his hot breath against your core making your whole body tingle. He felt one of your hands touch his hair, grabbing onto it; softly at first, but gradually pulling harder when the circling motions of his fingers sped up. “Are you close, baby? Tell me.”

You were close – and the pet name only increased the burning pleasure inside of you – but, at that point, you were only capable of moaning weakly, “hmmm, yes. Don’t stop, please, d-don’t—”

Gasping again as Jungkook removed his mouth from you, readjusting himself on the bed so he could move his fingers in and out of you quicker, you squeezed your eyes shut and tried desperately to keep your sounds to a minimum.

“Nngh—so close,” you spoke and just then, you felt his thumb rub vicious circles on your clit. The motion was so delicious, you were forced to abandon your attempts to stay quiet, almost shouting when you felt your walls tighten, already so close to your edge.

He could feel you clench around his fingers – a feeling that did no good to the painful hardness in his pants – and applied more force to his movements, maintaining the same speed that allowed him to pay equal attention to your swollen clit and the soft walls inside of you.

“Come for me,” he said, his voice coarse. “I want to watch you come for me, baby, please.”

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you groaned, barely able to catch your breath as he thrust his fingers in and out of you, circling and curling them in a way that was just right, until the knot in your stomach unraveled with a pop so strong, your whole body seemed to lift up from the bed as you whimpered, unable to make any other noise.

Watching you lose control of your body, Jungkook used his free hand to hold you down as he kept the pace up with his fingers while you rode out your high. Barely any sound left your mouth when you reached your peak but your heavy breaths and the rise and fall of your chest as you came still overflooded his senses.

Jungkook didn’t think it was healthy to need someone this much.

When you opened your eyes a moment later, still breathing heavily, he was hovering above you, leaning on one arm as he sucked on his fingers, exhaling shakily when you bit your lip.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to have you here like this,” he said, “how long I’ve wanted to hear you sound like this.”

Still overwhelmed and momentarily rendered speechless by the strength of your climax, you replied to him by sitting up so you could reach his lips with yours.

Kissing him – and hearing him growl into the kiss as soon as your hips pressed into his, adding pressure against his hard length – you could distinctly taste yourself on his tongue, but Jungkook wasn’t going to give you a lot of time to analyze all the different sensations you were feeling; he flipped you over until he was on his back, and you were straddling his hips.

Being on top of him gave you a lot more control of the situation, but it also made the shaking of your hands all the more obvious. You lifted yourself off him slightly to slide his jeans and boxers down, not bothering with teasing him – even though, that would have been the fair thing to do, considering how slowly he’d undressed you before.

He didn’t regret that one bit – that was plain obvious in the darkness of his lustful eyes that followed your every move – but he did wish you went a little faster because each brush of your hands right by his length made him think he was going to explode.

“There’s a condom,” he said, swallowing, “in the pocket of my jacket.”

You had to look around the room to find the jacket and, when you located it, it still took you a few minutes to get the glittering wrapper out. Biting your lip as you made your way back to Jungkook – sprawled almost helplessly on your bed – you couldn’t help yourself.

“Do you always carry condoms around in the pocket of your—”

“No,” he replied, obviously not very interested in discussing his condom-bearing habits when you were unwrapping the packaging with your teeth after your fingers weren’t enough.

“Ah, so today was a special occasion?” you asked, smiling teasingly because your heart wasn’t really in this conversation, either – you could analyze why he’d brought the condoms with him later.

Unrolling some of the latex in your hands, your fingers finally touched his length as you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it down his shaft. Jungkook exhaled with a low grunt, not particularly enjoying himself in a position this vulnerable – he didn’t think the simple act of putting a condom on had ever aroused him this much before – but not being able to do anything about it because this was you.

And if you wanted to take your time with the condom – since you seemed to double-check to make sure if it was really properly on; he thought you were just teasing him, really – then, he was going to let you take your time.

For the first twenty seconds, anyway.

Just as you raised your eyes to meet his, Jungkook sat up and pulled you closer to him, only lying back down on the bed when he made sure his arms were wrapped around your body, which was pressed against his as tightly as he could manage without breaking any of your ribs with his arms.

“If I wait any longer,” he whispered, his mouth so close to yours, you could almost taste him as he spoke, “I’m really going to pass out.”

“Well,” you said, your heart beating wildly behind your ribcage and echoing against his chest, “then don’t wait.”

“Fuck,” was the last word that left his mouth before he connected your lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss and sat up a bit to reach his length with his hand and position himself at your entrance. “Tell me if you want me to stop.

“Mmhmm—oh,” your hum of approval was quick to turn into a shaky gasp as his length slid inside of you, stretching you out far more than his fingers had before.

He watched your facial expression the whole time, entering you slowly, inch by inch, so he could stop if he noticed any pain. Mercifully, the only thing he noticed in your eyes was a silent plea to keep going – well, that, and the fact that you did most of the job for him by lowering yourself on him until he was fully inside of you – and Jungkook was sure of it: he was most certainly going to lose it.

“I’m not going to last long,” he warned breathlessly, “you’re s-so tight—you feel so good—I—”

His grip on you had loosened, which allowed you to place one hand on his chest and push him into the bed, until his head landed back on the pillow. As soon as he bottomed out inside of you, he stopped and you closed your eyes, focusing on your breathing for a second, before you looked up at him again and lifted your hips.

“F-fuck,” Jungkook whispered, his hands clutching your hips so tightly, he was probably going to leave imprints there.

Lowering yourself on him again, you sighed deeply, unsure what brought you more pleasure – the sight of his starved gaze and swollen lips as he allowed you to set the pace, or the feeling of his length, caressing your inner walls and reaching places so deep inside of you, you could have used a warning.

“Y-you’re so—mm, good,” you mewled, your hips rising and falling on top of him as you tried to get used to the feeling but failed, your walls clenching around him each time you moved.

“Baby,” Jungkook said and it was almost a whine, “I need you to go faster. Can you do that for me?”

“Hmm,” you weren’t sure what he was saying.

Your senses were malfunctioning as you lost yourself in the feeling, so, instead of going faster, you lowered yourself until you could feel your walls hug his entire length. You stayed still for a moment, but hearing him sigh in desperation, you finally started to move again – grinding your hips against his quicker.

“O-oh,” the sudden change of pace took him off guard as Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut. The feeling of your warmth wrapped so tightly around him was pure bliss. “That’s good. Y-you’re doing so good.”

You continued to move on top of him, grinding your hips in large and smaller figure-eights, as Jungkook slid his hands up and down your sides, feeling your silky skin and gently kneading your breasts. He brought his fingertips over your sensitive nipples and, noticing how your breath got caught in your throat as soon as he did, he applied more pressure to his touch.

“Jungkook,” you said weakly and then completely lost your voice when he sat up – suddenly reaching even deeper inside of you, even though that probably shouldn’t have even been possible – and brought his tongue to your nipple, carefully toying with it at first, and then sucking harder later.

Your hips were still moving against his but you were losing your stamina, not at all helped by the fact that his smallest touch nearly tipped you over the edge.

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you sighed and, somewhere in his own name, he heard the request for him to take over.

Fully immersed in the feeling of having you on top of him, Jungkook had no plans to change the position. He pulled away from your breasts, licking his lips, and then, finding a more fitting position on the bed, he locked both of your arms behind you by wrapped a hand around your waist and lifting his hips off the mattress.

He roughly thrust into you once – and then once more because he couldn’t stop himself – and then paused to gauge your reaction. Your head was thrown back and your eyes were closed, but your parted lips and the excited movement of your hips as they met his when he moved, was a clear indication that you didn’t mind the faster pace.

“Look at me,” he instructed, not moving until you did. “Good girl.”

Finally, he slammed his hips into yours again, this time not pausing for a single second, even though both of you were completely breathless already. His length drilled into you, rubbing your walls until the fire in your stomach started to spread and you involuntarily closed your eyes again, throwing your head back in pleasure.

“Jungkook—”

“What did I tell you, baby?” he asked, holding your hands behind your back with one of his arms, as he used his other hand to bring your face to his again. You opened your eyes. “That’s it. Are you close?”

“Hmm—I-I’m—” the next words didn’t come out when Jungkook straightened his posture and thrust into you with enough force to send you backwards until you were laying flat on your back again. “Fuck, I’m really close.”

His hips continued the relentless pace but he wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep going, especially with the way you squeezed around him each time he re-entered your warmth. You could already feel your orgasm creeping in as you bit your lip and felt your vision go out of focus, the ceiling of your room spinning as the whole place seemed to shake from the force of his hips.

“Don’t look away,” Jungkook spoke, breathing heavily and setting himself up for failure because he nearly collapsed as soon as you returned your eyes to his – all dark and clouded with near-euphoric delight. “I want you to look at me when you come, yeah? Will you do that for me, baby—please?”

“Y-yes—” you managed, barely getting the word out before you felt Jungkook readjust his weight by leaning on one arm and lowering his other one to your core.

He brought his thumb over your clit and, matching the speed of his hips thrusting in and out of you, he began to rub circles on your already over-stimulated center.

“Jungkook!” you weren’t sure if you were screaming, your heartbeat was too loud in your ears as you felt yourself tip over the edge. “Oh, fuck, fuck—right there!”

“Y-yeah? Does that feel good, baby?,” he groaned, “I can’t hold out for much longer, so I’m going to need you to come for me. Hmm?”

“I’m—please, fuck—” your pleas turned into an incomprehensible mess when Jungkook applied more pressure to your clit, flicking it before rubbing it in circles again, and you were completely done for.

Throwing your head back against the mattress and lifting your hips to meet his, you reached your high and Jungkook – cursing and trying his hardest not to lose his balance – bit his lip because he knew he was going to follow right after you.

His hips had slowed, although only a little, as he continued the assault on your senses by thrusting his throbbing member into you and simultaneously rubbing your clit all through your orgasm. 

Your warm walls that hugged his length tightened around him when you came and, groaning loudly, he felt his own climax take over him. He stopped moving with one final thrust into you, loud grunts mixed with your name leaving his lips as he released himself into the condom.

Breathing heavily but still not getting enough oxygen, you both stayed still as you tried to recover.

“F-fuck,” Jungkook exhaled when he regained some control of his body. His eyes met yours and he did not hesitate before adding, “I love you. I’ve loved you for so fucking long.”

You allowed a heavy moment of silence to pass as you watched him. Then, you propped yourself up on your elbows and brought your lips to his. The kiss may have been less enthusiastic than the one in the hallway earlier tonight, but it still didn’t lack any heat.

“I love you,” you replied, the words as pointless as they were necessary, because your feelings for each other had been obvious from the very beginning, but neither of you confronted them. “I’ve loved you for much longer.”

“No,” he disagreed, kissing you again as he pulled out of you and rolled off to the edge of the bed so he could discard of the condom. Turning to look at you one more time before standing up, he said, very matter-of-fact, “I’ve loved you my whole life. Through every happy moment and every fuck-up, and every—”

With your lips stretching into a smile, you warned, “don’t try to one-up me with your pillowtalk.”

He already had his back turned to you as he walked towards the bin in the corner of your room, but you heard him laugh. When he turned around to return to you, there was a wide smile on his bright, red lips, still wet and swollen from kissing you.

“That’s not pillowtalk,” he countered, laying down next to you and draping an arm over your waist as he nuzzled his face into your neck with a delighted hum, “that’s just me telling you what I was supposed to tell you on the day I talked to you at my party.”

“I’m glad you told me now,” you replied, lifting one of your hands to touch his disheveled hair and the few stray curls that were stuck to his sweaty forehead, “even if you did cause a scene today.”

The softness of your touch was almost the exact opposite of the hidden razor-sharp meaning behind your words. Jungkook – who’d closed his eyes so he could breathe you in – suddenly lifted himself up on his elbows and gave you an inquiring look.

“I did not cause a scene,” he said, not in a very defensive manner because he did not think he needed to defend himself, “I was peacefully waiting for you to come back home. You caused a scene when you saw me.”

“I—oh, wow,” you scoffed in surprise, “you really are an expert at blame-shifting.”

He would have protested – and he was going to – but laying here next to you, with not a single piece of clothing preventing him from feeling the softness of your skin, he just shrugged. There were far more important things to focus on, he decided as he traced indiscernible patterns on your navel.

“Don’t do that again, though, okay?” you asked him then.

Smiling – because he was proud of his title as the resident Little Shit – Jungkook replied, “which part, exactly?”

The feeling of his fingertips dancing on your stomach was distracting, but you persevered for the greater good.

“Don’t change all of your plans if I spend time with someone else,” you said, swallowing. “Don’t put yourself in danger.”

“I won’t.”

His promise was brief but he leaned down to kiss you to seal it, and the feeling of his lips against yours had more impact than just his words alone. Then, pulling away a moment too soon, Jungkook surprised you with a warning look in his eyes.

“But don’t ask me not to kiss you in public,” he said. “Don’t ask me not to hold your hand. Don’t—”

You blinked, not following him. “W-wait, why? I wasn’t going to ask.”

“No, but you already did. At the last party we went to?” he said and then tried to jog your memory by adding, in a vexed tone, “when you were talking to Brock, and I—”

The party – and the long, long conversation that followed – returned to your mind even before the mention of Brock. You were just trying to understand why Jungkook was thinking about all of that now.

“Well, that’s because you were being a possessive dipshit,” you told him as an explanation, not an excuse.

You weren’t apologizing for standing up for yourself when you felt like your dignity was threatened, and he didn’t need you to. What he needed, was for you to understand that:

“I still am a possessive dipshit,” he said with the most unapologetic grin you’d ever seen adorning his features.

“Oh, yeah?” you raised your eyebrows, the mock-surprise completing your sarcastic look, “would not have guessed.”

“Funny,” he leaned down to kiss you again before making it clear, “I can’t stop myself from wanting everyone to know—”

“But they do know,” you said, cutting him off but not sharply, “everyone knows, Jungkook. You’ve made your point.”

“No, people still have doubts about us,” he said, “they’re still not fully convinced that you’re—that we’re together,” he paused, flashing back to the night at the party and remembering the words you’d said to him then, “but they don’t matter. It’s not about them. It’s about us. And I don’t want to imply that I own you or that you’re an object—or anything of the sort. I know you’re a person. You’re a great person. And you belong to yourself. You’re yours. B-but can you be a little bit mine, too?”

“I am,” you said and, even though you may not have always liked it, this was the truth. There was no way around it. So, pressing a soft kiss to his waiting lips, you admitted, “I’ve always been yours as much as I’ve been mine.”

keep reading | masterlist

[ktheist]

CEO!JK + - prompt list - + #47 “You’re seriously like a man-child.”

“ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

“you’re seriously like a man child.”

muses. ceo!jk 

genre. e2l / arranged marriage

word. 2.6k

warnings. implied smut

synopsis. your family legacy is falling into ruins. your father is on his deathbed and your mother and sisters have never worked a day in their lives. their only hope is the jeons - the family of the fiancé you abandoned.

x

it can’t be said that you know nothing of jeon jeongguk per se. for one, he was lightly nudged in your direction by his mother at the age of 6 because he’d been hiding behind her legs since the jeon’s arrived. clad in navy blue kindergarten uniform and gripping tightly onto the brown teddy bear he uncreatively called ‘teddy’, he’d stolen a glance at you for a split second and fixed his gaze to the ground.

“____, say hi to jeongguk, you’re going to be seeing each other often from now on,” your mother nudged you from behind, her voice awfully sweet in the presence of mrs. jeon and her extremely shy son.

you’d found out at 11 years old and him 13 years old, what ‘seeing each other often’ actually entailed.

“i don’t wanna marry you!” you’d screamed in his face when you were left alone by the adults.

“i don’t wanna marry a kid with snot running down her face 24/7 either.” jeongguk’s retort, though held no substance, still made you wipe your nose on your sleeve after you’d left him and locked yourself in your room.

at the age of 13 and him 15, you’d managed to escape the clutches of your family by proposing the idea of attending a prestigious boarding school in zurich where you’d spent most of your adolescent years skipping classes and crashing parties.

by 18, you wanted to laugh at your teachers’ relieved faces when your name was called to receive your diploma, marking the end of your great era in that school.

that was when your mother called you back to south korea, claiming that she’d missed her youngest so very much. but you’d continued to make excuses to stay in zurich, applying for a scholarship and getting into a local university there.

none of your friends knew anyone from home and you’d only passingly mentioned that ‘oh, i don’t talk to my family much’.

but just as you were finishing your degree, the news of your father in his death bed latched onto your limbs and had you hopping onto the first flight home.

“what do you mean? so we’re broke?” yuqi’s voice cut through the air like a knife. even her ray bans couldn’t hide her burning gaze.

to think you willingly walked into this mess of a family.

“yuqi, let dad speak,” miyeon glares.

minnie asks after a lapse of silence, “dad, what do you mean the company’s wounding up?”

your father, a man with greying hair and cheeks losing most of their fullness, stares at nothing but the ceiling, as if seeing the angels welcoming him.

“do you remember uncle jee?” even breathing seems difficult for a man that used to work out everyday at the private gym and always invited you to join in on his healthy lifestyle, “he transferred all the company’s assets to his name and fled the country. even his family doesn’t know-”

“oh, for heaven’s sake!” your mother cries, shooting up from the sofa farthest from the bed - you should have known something was wrong when a wife wasn’t waiting by her husband’s bed and took the seat that’s on the far end from her husband, “just admit that it’s your fault! you trusted him too much even though i warned you about him! you ruined this family!”

“i should’ve brought popcorns,” soyeon says from next to you, shooting you an unapologetic - heck, even entertained smile - when you craned your neck out of mild disbelief.

this family’s a little fucked up in the head.

but they call you the black sheep that got away.

“so what now? do we have to... work?” soojin asks, a horrified look spreading across her face.

those several inches nails aren’t made for work. that’s for sure.

“the jeons...,” he coughs, “jeongguk promised to help us rebuild the family business because my father - your grandfather, supported the jeons when they were starting out.”

all of a sudden, seven pairs of eyes turn to you as if you’re the rabbit in a cage full of wolves. the air turns chilly as if someone’s turned the ac to a minus degrees celcius.

“well, don’t look at me, i haven’t talked to him for 9 years,” despite your hands held up and your shoulders almost making your neck shrink into your body, all they see is a little gold piggy bank.

“what? what about the times when we talked on the phone? you sounded so close!” your mother’s source of rage shifts to you.

“well, i mean, he’s pretty active on instagram-” you couldn’t even properly finish your sentence when a hand lands on your shoulder and you’re staring into your reflection in yuqi’s ray bans.

“start talking,” her cherry lips curl as she holds out your phone that you don’t even notice she’s swiped out of your hand bag which, “hey, how did you-” you remembered was zipped shut.

x

“you got something to tell me?” the jeongguk before you wears a smirk that exudes confidence and billion dollar legacy backing him up.

no longer the shy kid that avoids the gaze of those he’s not used to and keeps his head hung low. if anything, his chin is looking too tilted for your liking. though you can’t say the same for the muscles that fill out his suit and wraps around his biceps a little too snug.

he’s finally foregone the side swiped bangs and grew it enough to have it tied back into a man bun, enhancing his sharp jawline and proving once and for all that puberty isn’t just for anyone.

the hesitant hum reverberates against your chest. you can only hope that it’s not audible for persons besides yourself, “you look great.”

his head drops as he chuckles but you can still see the way his jaw clenches, cutting off every humor that’s ever present before looking straight at you through his lashes, “can’t say the same for you.”

you resist the urge to shoot up, handle of your handbag tucked in the juncture between your arm and forearm and strut out of the restaurant without looking back.

“that rotten attitude of yours hasn’t changed i see,” allowing the smile to sneak up your face, you feel your nails digging into your palms underneath the table, rooting you back to your reason for being here.

“it’s the thinking you’re better than me for me,” he states, back leaning against the chair.

“oh, baby, i am better than you,” the words escape your lips as naturally as breathing does.

“i don’t know about that, i certainly wouldn’t bring an on-and-off boyfriend of mine to a restaurant where my potential clients usually go to,” there’s a gleam in his eyes.

but before you can dissect the meaning of his words, the sight of a familiar jet black haired man trudging from toward your table with a distorted expression and waiters hurrying after him from a few steps away - catches your attention.

“___! baby, i’m sorry!” if you look closer, you could see the tears welling up in his eyes when he spots you.

“eric,” the hiss under your breath is venomous, threatening, “what are you doing here?!”

“i’m here for you, baby. i realized you’re the only one for me,” he drops to his knees, pulling out a velvet red box from his pocket. the waiters that were chasing after him now freezing, looking at each other back and forth before eric proclaims his undying love and his desires to, “i don’t want to live a life without you- marry me, baby!”

“stop,” you say curtly, body involuntarily leaned forward to make sure your voice reaches him. the sight of a smirking jeongguk adds to oil to the flames growing inside of you, “stop it. you’re acting insane, right now.”

“...i promise, i’ll never cheat on you again...” eric goes on, tears freely streaming down his cheeks as his shoulders sag, “i even tattooed your name on my chest.”

the italic curls of your name is inked in black a few inches underneath his left collarbone, probably where his heart is supposed to be. but at the moment, all you can see is jeongguk’s leisure wine drinking, “oh my god, security. please, take this man away, he’s disrupting lunchtime.”

the two waiters seem to snap out of their initial trance, marching over to eric and gripping his arms with all their might before dragging him away at the manager’s instructions. it’s only then, do you notice the flash of camera from one of the tables on the farthest left side of the restaurant, its position allowing for a full view of your expression and possibly only a view of jeongguk’s back.

“you,” a whisper slips out of your mouth once you’ve assured the manager that everything was settled and you’d continue eating, “you planned this.”

“what an assertive deduction. i almost thought you would’ve missed it altogether,” he remarks, a look of pure awe spreading across his face.

“fuck you, jeon,” slamming your fist against the table, you slip out of your chair and march out of restaurant, fully aware of the eyes that follow you until you’re out of sight.

x

no word got out.

sns was oddly silent about the incident at the restaurant but your sisters know anyway. shuhua knocks on your door, fixing you one of her calming smiles before dropping the bomb.

“mother and elder sisters don’t know, i’m not gonna tell them but i think it’s better if you talk to jeongguk about it.” is what she suggests.

but she doesn’t know he was the one that orchestrated it, as if your life was a show and he was there for a good time. either way, to ease your sister’s heart, you make your way to jeongguk’s office.

he made you wait for a good two hours, having his assistant retell that he’s busy and can’t be disturbed at the moment. but once you’ve had enough, you barge into his room, nails digging into your palms at the lack of meeting partner and the man’s too casual appearance with his blazer draped over his recliner and his sleeves folded up till his elbow.

“i heard you were in a meeting,” you announce, making sure to glare at the secretary that stopped dead in her tracks when you managed to slip past her and through the door of jeongguk’s office.

“as you can see, i’m quite busy,” he nods, hands gesturing at the open mac in front of him.

“what are you playing at, jeon jeongguk?” a smacking sound echoes through the air as you slam your palms on his mahogany table, glaring down at him “because i swear to god, i will make sure you regret messing with me.”

but instead of the panic you hope to raise, a chuckle trickles out of his lips, “ooh, you wanna kiss me so bad.”

how the prettiest pairs of lips could smirk like that is beyond you. natural pink lips, curving deviously as his bunny lips peek innocently underneath. you don’t notice you were staring until his voice fills the silence, forcing you to tear your gaze away from those kissable lips and meet his gaze.

“you really do wanna kiss me,” there’s that gleam in his eyes - that of realization and something - something - you can’t pinpoint.

gone is the boy that used to tell you your pigtails are lopsided and proceeded to fix it for you - he made it worse but you didn’t really mind because it was the effort that counted.

but that was almost a decade ago.

“you’re seriously like a man child,” you shake your head, the initial reason of marching over to his office now shoved to the back of your mind. the last thing you want is to be in the same room with a man who seems to only be interested in making someone else’s life his own personal entertainment.

but before your fingers brush the metal handle of the double doors, another hand brushing on top of yours, feather-light fingers pleading for you not to walk out on him.

“i’m sorry,” he doesn’t sound like the jeon jeongguk you’ve come to know within the short span of time - like a man stripped off his cards and games, “i went too far.”

you don’t - can’t - say anything but your body isn’t exactly listening to your mind’s instructions to move out of his grasp. out of his presence.

“i didn’t know the reporter was there - i made sure he’s keeping his mouth shut after you left,” his breath is hot against your neck and his front brushes against your back but not really touching.

“why did you do it? why did you bring eric all the way here?” you pray to thank the stars for the strength in your voice despite the feeling that’s slowly disappearing from your knees.

“i found out  you guys broke up because he cheated.. i wanted to make sure he knew you were mine,” his clicks his tongue, “i didn’t know you dated such a psycho-”

your world spins for the briefest moment before you come face to face with a wide eyed jeongguk.

“first off, you don’t own me,” you announce, arms coming to cross over your chest in show of protest, “and second off,” the semblance of surprise and panic finally slips through his facade when your hands grip his collar, “kiss me.”

the last thing you remember is jeongguk nodding ever so slightly before his eyes flutter shut just miliscends before yours. you feel his arm band around your lower back, free hand digging into your hair and pulling you closer into the kiss. he tastes like mint and lemon candies that your nanny used to give you and you’d give it to him, saying something like “it’s my favorite candy but i like you so i’ll let you have one”. you don’t miss the small jar he keeps on the side of his desk full of those candies.

but the matter of this and getting married in order to save your family from falling into ruins are two different matters altogether.

and somewhere down the line, you find yourselves still arguing about the littlest of things.

“um, what do you mean that red roses aren’t romantic? it’s literally the symbol of undying love,” surprisingly enough, it’s jeongguk that’s fighting for the fiercer shade of the petal.

“you think fuchsia pink doesn’t symbolize love?” you roll your eyes.

then comes the time when your mother and magically healed father asking for a grandchild to which jeongguk grins, “we’re working on baby jeon.”

(you’re married and the petals themed in your wedding are both fuchsia and garnet)

“excuse me?” you turn to him, brows arching. that alone warrants a break of cold sweat on jeongguk’s forehead as he cautiously laughs.

“i mean, w-we’re not ready yet.”

rather, you’re not ready to forego your child-less phase in exchange for late night awakenings and learning cry-languages.

but you’re not exactly being careful either, what with the two of you finding the holes in time to slip away from your family and into your childhood room only for jeongguk to slam you against the wall and bend you over the vanity.

“jeongguk did you bring a condom?” you ask.

“i’ll pull out,” is all he says and you’re barely listening as you clasp your palms agaist your mouth, trying not to let out the moans pass through your lips.

when you go back to your family, jeongguk’s arm is around your waist and you both sit together as you joke and laugh with your sisters whilst jeongguk raises a glass to joining your dad at the gym.

x

note. hope yall enjoyed!

see drabble game! for how to request!