#i really wanted to write something for a more popular character

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (4)

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

parts. chapter 03, chapter 05

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.38k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, their whole family needs lozenges.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like now.

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Some people enjoy full sentences.”

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

He didn’t respond. Just watched you.

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

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

You were just… you.

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

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

You glanced up at him suddenly. “What?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

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

You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

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

But you did.

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

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

And Megumi… didn’t either.

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

Miwa was soft. Safe.

Everything that should’ve been good for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She paused. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she didn’t have to ask why.

Because Megumi was in your head again.

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

And he was climbing it anyway.

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

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

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

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

From you.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re self-destructing again.”

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

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

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

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

“I need your help, bitch.”

Nobara blinked. “The fuck?”

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

“I want to help him.”

Nobara stared. “…Help who?”

“Megumi, dumbass.”

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

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

“I didn’t say thank you.”

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

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

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

“You’re serious.”

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

“And what exactly is the situation, princess?”

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

“He’s always been like that.”

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

Nobara wheezed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care what people think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s low,” he muttered.

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

Nobara wheezed.

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

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

“I’m not putting this on.”

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

Nobara choked. “Not again?!”

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

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

“Please die,” Megumi said under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Am not.”

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

You swallowed. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi stepped out again.

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

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

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi.

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

No—this Megumi was different.

Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.

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

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

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

Megumi frowned. “It’s just a shirt.”

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

He raised a brow. “That’s specific.”

“I have taste.”

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

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

Now you couldn’t even speak.

It looked too good.

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

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

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

“Yeah, fine. Don’t get cocky.”

Nobara gave you a look.

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

“I was just thinking,” you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

But you both went silent again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it was just the two of you.

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

Your heartbeat spiked.

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

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

And that was all it took.

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

The door clicked shut behind you.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t answer—not with words.

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

Clothes still on. Dignity long gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Gumi…”

He stared at you.

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

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

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

And Megumi noticed.

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

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

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

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

But it cracked.

Just a little.

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

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

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

“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was supposed to be the awkward one.

You were supposed to be untouchable.

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

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

You said nothing.

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

So he dropped you.

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

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

And still—you smiled.

Smug. Crooked. Unbothered.

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

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

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

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

You nodded. “A hundred percent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi blinked, genuinely confused. “My hair?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t having it.

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

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

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

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

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

Nobara snorted. “Y/N, be nice.”

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You and Nobara turned to him in unison.

“Yes,” Nobara said solemnly. “It is.”

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

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

You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because we have eyes,” Nobara said.

“And standards,” you added.

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

You stared at him. Silently.

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

Dangerously so.

Because it brought out everything.

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

And you hated how hard your chest clenched.

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

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

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

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

“You look hot,” Nobara said bluntly.

“I said calm—”

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

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

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

“I need them to see,” Megumi deadpanned.

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

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

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

And you— you couldn’t breathe.

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

Because this wasn’t your Megumi anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The buzz started before first period even began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shot her a look.

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

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

She smirked. “Sure.”

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

You stared. Blinked. And felt your blood boil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clenched your jaw.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t smile back.

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

Aiko blinked. “What?”

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

The girls went quiet.

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

Aiko’s face started to pale.

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

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

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

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

Not like you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You barely knocked.

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

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

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

You didn’t. And you felt it, too.

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

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

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

Megumi frowned. “What?”

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

He blinked. “That’s… disturbing.”

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

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

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

“No,” he muttered. “I don’t care.”

There was a pause. A little too long.

Then—

“…Do you?” he asked, quieter now.

You tilted your head. “Do I what?”

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

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

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

You felt something pinch in your chest.

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

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

He didn’t blink. “I asked first.”

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

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

That made him frown, just a little.

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

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

The words were soft. Like they cost something.

You blinked. “What?”

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

“So?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused.

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

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

“Why?”

You blinked again. “Why what?”

“Why did it matter that people saw me?”

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

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

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

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

You turned your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I mean.”

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

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

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

His brow twitched. “So you are upset.”

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

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

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

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

“And what?” he said, voice low.

Your throat was dry. “And nothing.”

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

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

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

“I’m fine, Megumi,” you snapped.

“No, you’re not.”

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

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

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

“What?” Megumi asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. “Everyone else wants you now.”

“I don’t care about everyone else.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. “You safe?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… stuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jab caught you off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

You groaned. “You remembered that?”

“You literally just said it.”

“Well, I’m not wrong.”

“Whatever.” You glanced at him.

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

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

“Miwa’s taking an interest in you.”

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

You wanted to throw the fucking candle at his head.

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

You raised a brow. “And?”

“And you can’t leave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was two.”

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

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

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

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

He didn’t answer right away.

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

You frowned. “You get noise?”

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

The answer made your chest ache a little.

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

His brow ticked. “You saw five minutes.”

“Still.” Another beat.

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

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

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

Really listening.

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

A pause.

Then Megumi asked, “And now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither of you had spoken in a while.

You didn’t know why the words came out.

Maybe it was the dark.

Or the quiet.

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

“My dad’s out of town,” you murmured.

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

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

A pause.

Then: “But you’re close.”

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

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

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

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

Megumi stayed quiet.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your legs.

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

Megumi turned his head a little, watching you now.

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

Megumi didn’t interrupt.

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

You blinked. Fast.

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

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

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

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

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

Megumi shifted then, just slightly.

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

Steady. Present.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nudged him gently with your knee under the blanket.

His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

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

A breath of a laugh escaped him. Barely.

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

Your teasing died instantly.

“Oh.”

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

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

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

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

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

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

He didn’t pull away.

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

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

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

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

You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want to lose her.”

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

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

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

You just sat there.

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

You leaned your head against his shoulder, barely touching.

“I’ll be here,” you said softly.

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

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

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

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

Everything else faded.

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

“…What?” you whispered, pulse skipping.

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

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

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

He leaned in.

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

You didn’t.

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

You tilted your face up, deepened it slowly.

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

When he pulled back, his breath was shaky.

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

He didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

He shook his head once.

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

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

Your chest ached.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

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

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

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

Not out of fear. Not discomfort. Just awe.

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

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

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

You arched a brow. “No?”

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

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

You froze.

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

Beautiful.

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

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

“Nothing,” you whispered, blinking quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I…?” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, a little frantic.

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

You paused. Blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sank down on him slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

The nickname made his hips jerk up. Hard.

Your moan cracked in your throat.

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

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

Something snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

Your whole body shivered at the name.

“Say it again,” you whispered, breathless.

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

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

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

He couldn’t take it anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“F-fuck, Gumi—don’t stop—”

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

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

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

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

“Megumi—!”

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he kissed your temple.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Better than okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, and you’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what.”

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

Megumi coughed, looking away. “Shut up.”

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

He didn’t answer.

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

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

“What.”

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

Nobara blinked. “Who?”

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

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

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

His chest sank. “Oh.”

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

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

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

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

Just honest.

Megumi blinked. “…When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. He did.

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

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

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

“Thanks,” he said, voice flat.

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

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

Three days.

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

Not that you were counting. Obviously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You looked every inch the untouchable bitch.

But your chest ached in that quiet, hollow way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, bitch!”

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

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

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

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

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

You scoffed. “He’s not mine, Nobara.”

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

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

She smiled. “You’re lonely.”

You hated how that landed.

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

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

But you missed him.

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

He wasn’t here.

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

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

“I hate this.”

“What, feelings?”

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

She cackled. “You’re such a brat.”

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

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t need to.

You knew it was him.

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

“Megumi—?” He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

You gasped as his thigh slotted between yours.

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

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

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

You’d missed him.

More than you realized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gumi—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck—Megumi—”

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

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

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

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

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

“No,” you gasped. “Of course not.”

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

You whimpered. “Say it again.”

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

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

“Louder.”

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

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

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

“Fuck—you’re so perfect—so mine—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know what to do with that.

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

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

“Nice.”

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

You shrugged. “Just… not used to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I asked Miwa to the dance.”

parts, chapter 05

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

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

[lizzieisright]

i really love the way you write abby it’s always so humanizing of her and her character and makes her feel all the more real!! could you write hcs about abby little quirks as a girlfriend

Thank you so much! ❤️❤️

I did the hcs thingy, guys!

Definitely had a "I'm so straight" phase.

Loves stand up comedy and will make you watch it with her. This woman will find comedians that no one has ever heard of and in a few months they will suddenly become popular. She has a sixth sense for it.

Lives under a fucking rock. She doesn't have tiktok or twitter, uses Instagram as her archive.

However. Abby loves insta stories. Yeah, she could post a thirst trap in the gym, but why would she if she can post a video of a hedgehog she came across? Or a weirdly existential poster she saw? Or you doing some stupid shit like trying to open a bottle of wine with a screw and pair of pliers? (You fail, and the next video is her opening the bottle)

Obviously a gym rat, hates going to the gym with someone (even you), unless she goes the separate ways with her company. However, if you're new to the gym, Abby will gladly show you around and will abandon her own workout just to take care of you. If you hate gym, it's fine too - again, she prefers to train alone.

Abby's care is quiet: she is one of these people who does things and never talks about them. There's a famous story about Yoongi (BTS) who gives his teammates water bottles without even looking at them - that's Abby for you. She doesn't ask or even draw attention: she gives you snacks, puts her jacket on your shoulders, washes the dishes after you've cooked, and all of this is just so natural to her she doesn't even recognise it.

Abby is not the person who gets into your hobbies, but she remembers everything you've told her and will let you talk her ear off.

The most hardworking person you've met. Even if she has her family support, she still tries to find some kind of job, or puts all her effort in her studies.

Abby hates all these healthy recipes, so she tries to come up with her own that won't taste like absolute shit. She is doing great, by the way, and tricks you into healthy eating with her cooking.

If you have any kind of ED, Abby will be the most supportive person ever. She will bite everyone's head off if they dare to comment on your eating habits, help you through recovery and never, ever judge you.

She doesn't like gossip, and is pretty private about her own life.

(this one is self-indulgent) If your hair needs any kind of extra care, Abby will help gladly. Brushing, braiding, hair care routines - she is there for you. She cares about her own hair and understands your struggles.

Abby is confident: not cocky confident but in a way that she knows there's nothing wrong with her and no one can tell her who she is or pretend to know her better than she knows herself. It's impossible to make her feel self-conscious.

So she really doesn't get it if you get self-conscious, especially around her: she sees you as a whole, complicated person and to her, you have nothing to be self-conscious about. It's just you, and you're perfect the way you are.

The woman of action - Abby never promises something she can't follow up on. If she tells you she will do something for you, she will no matter what.

Can't clock people for shit - for all her own confidence, she is oblivious as fuck. Has some bullshit detector built in her, but interpersonal relationships are not her strong suit. Didn't know Mel and Owen were dating for like four months, or that Manny and Nora were awkward around each other because they slept together and figured out they don't work sexually at all.

So flirt with her all you want, but she will think you're just bantering. She will flirt back shamelessly and still think it's just friendly banter. Idiot.

Combine her obliviousness and confidence and get Abby who uses her words all the time. She wants to ask you on a date? She asks, absolutely not scared of being rejected. She is straightforward as fuck and will ask whatever she wants to know.

Really appreciates if you can hold your own against her. Abby is not pushy, but she is more at peace knowing you will establish your own boundaries without fear.

She is an octopus when she sleeps. Her nose will be buried in your hair/neck to the point she will have trouble breathing, but she doesn't care. Holds you the whole night and genuinely won't let you go if you try.

Buys you flowers every week, and when you start living together, Abby starts buying house plants. Eventually your place looks like a greenhouse.

Loves gaming. Abby will seat you between her thighs and play her little games while you can nap or scroll down your phone. If she plays something with a good plot, you will watch it like a movie.

If you're into gaming too, then you'll be two nerds who fight over who gets to play some game first.

If you're a Sims 4 girlie like me - Abby buys every pack they release for you. Doesn't matter if you want it or not - she hears you watching announcements, she pre-orders it. Good luck with the Journey to Batuu pack.

+ nsfw

Abby is gentle and caring to her core. Very big on the consent, so if you find asking if she can do something annoying - too bad, because in the beginning your sex will sound like a very hot interrogation.

On the other hand, if you're into dirty talk - you're in luck. She sounds extremely hot and doesn't even know it.

She is a switch and her preference depends on her mood.

If Abby tops, she is 100% service top.

Everything you say will be weaponised and used against you.

You like how she kisses your neck? She will master it untill you start to shake just from the brush of her nose against your skin.

She is very thoughtful and goal-driven. (The goal is to have you half-delirious with pleasure)

Loves eating you out, can and will do it at every opportunity.

When Abby bottoms, she thinks she is pretty chill. In reallity she is so damn bossy, will tell you what and how to do.

If you want her to shut up and take it - your best bet is a strap. Abby turns into a whiny, sweet mess, and if she tries to talk you can always fuck her harder.

Abby is very open to trying out new things, does all the research and then nerds out to you about it. The most unsexy sex talker outside the bedroom.

The rule of thumb is: don't make her cum as long as you can, otherwise Abby will just have her orgasm and lose all her sex drive.

That's why Abby is the strong supporter of "sex is a journey, not a destination" philosophy. She likes sex for the intimacy and fun, not for the orgasms.

okay I'm stopping there otherwise I'll never finish

[azure-arsonist]

You're confusing wrathful compassion with hypocrisy. I didn't say there's something deeply wrong with you to dunk on you. I said it because you projected hate onto my words where there was none. (Aang haters comment) assume things of others who like characters you hate, or criticize characters you like on your blog, and you made assumptions about the Buddhist ethics of characters being "neolib" without actually knowing what you're talking about in regard to Buddhism or even approaching in good faith.

There is something deeply wrong with you. Thats not cruelty that's clarity. It doesn't mean you're unreachable you're just deep in the mud. You bring up Doylist critique but you made no effort to frame your first response as grounded in that so of course im not gonna immediately assume you want a Doylist breakdown.

As a whole, yes the narrative of atla is neoliberal, major systems of power dont change, nonviolence is prioritizes over active justice, and reform is centered rather than revolution. It was written by a majority white western neoliberal writers room. And by that logic all atla characters, as tools of storytelling fall into being neoliberal, not because they actively hold those beliefs but because those are the confines of the story they exist in. (Jet and Hana suffer not necessarily because they "hurt katara" but because they also exist within those confines. Katara herself sometimes gets treated as "too much" by the same narrative)

But my post (and response) was not about the whole of atla, my post was about two specific characters and how they as individual characters embody Buddhist ethics and philosophy throughout their journey. It was diegetic.

As for your whole cult of personality thing. I think you confuse resonance and emotional impact with "cult of personality" that term doesn't just apply to popular figures or characters. A cult of personality is specifically about image and control.

A cult of personality specifically refers to the creation of an idealized, larger than life image of a leader, often political but not always. It is typically done through concerted efforts to manipulate media, hijacking the arts and history and censorship. Its not just about making an idealized image of somebody, its about using that image for control. Cults of personality don't form in vacuums.

Now can that apply to fictional characters? Sort of but its not really about control at that point. If a character is mythologized in the narrative and the fandom rolls with that without question then yeah maybe but its still not quite the same. A good example of this is like, light Yagami stans, gojo simps who don't question the whole "strongest" mask and Eren Yeager dick riders. Can people be dicks about their faves yes but that's not what I was doing.

I never claimed zuko was the best, I never claimed he was perfect or beyond criticism. You projected that onto me. I never even said you had to like him.

A lot of people resonate with him because of his journey, which as I stated before, follows the Buddhist path of enlightenment. Maybe not as a conscious writing choice of "lets give him rhe Buddhist freedom from illusion arc", but for many thats what makes him all the more resonant.

Addendum: also if we're talking war crimes, zuko is a child soldier that makes him the victim of war crimes too. Child soldiers don't face war crimes charges its more complicated than that. Not every member of an imperial power or occupying army is a war criminal again, not how that works. He does harass civilians and destroy properly/buildings, but again, his whole arc is about reckoning with that and accountability.

If you don't like him then that's fine. Projecting onto others is less so.

Anyway, you didn't actually engage with the focus of the post and response itself about how these characters embody Buddhist ethics. Which is fine. Silence can be a kind of wisdom. But it comes off like you're less concerned with actually engaging with the content of my posts and moreso want to engage in bad faith. (Especially since your response zeroed in on tone policing and a leap to cults of personality and a macro analysis i never asserted) Which if thats that case, I see no need to engage with you further.

My hot take is that katara and zuko are both more Buddhist functionally than Aang is. argue with the wall

[proshippers-against-censorship]

Felt like sharing my experience with antis if that is okay? To start off I'm very anti-contact, I don't actually want to hurt anyone and I am very hesitant about aligning with pro-ship or saying I was technically one at some point. it makes me feel guilty and uneasy when I say that I enjoy producing and consuming dark graphic content, and that I sometimes (rarely) get off to it (most of the time it's like absurdist horror to me, still fun to read but very uncomfy) I am the Shinji Ikari of Marquis De Sade, more or less.

So basically I wrote a dead dove/noncon fic and would constantly leave long AN's about how I was doing sort of to vent/cope/talk about my artistic process. I have a rape fetish and was sort of playing into it a little with the fic. I confessed to this multiple times in ANs that I'd often edit or delete depending on my embarrassment or shame with how long they were, because they were LONG! I will get to this again later.

I really enjoyed working on this fic, as it was just my art piece of the month and due to the fandom it was for being very popular I got a lot of hits, kudos and even comments! The comments were very positive and supportive and made me want to keep writing, and I was just really happy, maybe a little addicted to working on this story. Like it felt good to get this much attention for it. So I wanted to see if I could find other people in the fandom to talk about it with.

I actually got in contact with someone who was pretty big. They didn't know I wrote this specific fic yet and I warned them it was really dark, thinking they wouldn't get upset. I was very much so in the mindset that they wouldn't think much of it. Looking around I saw the space was pretty anti-proship and I was like gosh, okay... I mean this isn't really proship tho like I'm not showing this activity as good and it mostly focuses on the aftermath and how it hurt someone sooo then I should tag it to get the people who are creeps and actually wanna hurt people away from it!

That... didn't work. It actually backfired. This person in the fandom I reached hadn't gotten back to me when I sent them a summary of my fic (that I spent five hours on probably!) at the time, but I did get negative comments telling me that I was gross, and someone else reassuring me that the error in my tags was posted out of context and I just mistagged it and should fix it. I can't remember what specifically the tags said but it upset a lot of people and I saw how bad it looked so I fixed it, briefly acknowledged it then for whatever reason erased evidence of the mistake ever happening to prevent any further harassment.

The big person in the fandom got back to me! By which I mean she blocked me! Everywhere! Literally everywhere. Other people were blocking me too.

I wanted someone new to talk to. I was almost done with the story and I wanted someone to write with. I asked on twitter (where I found a lot of porn for the fandom I was in) if there was a discord for a specific ship in the fandom I wrote for and soemone sent me the link!

So I joined on my main account and the rules say "no proshippers, no dead dove writers. If we catch you for doing this we will kick you out of our server." I'm like okay so I won't mention I wrote this then! Just gotta make sure that one person isn't here....

She was. She was there.

So I dm the person who invited me. I deleted the discord this was on so I'll write the conversation from memory.

Me: Uh... is (fic writer) a member here?

Them: I think so, why?

Me: I'm sorry I can't join I wrote something messed up.

Them: What kind of messed up?

Me: Dead dove. But it's not fetish material or anything it's

Them: is it that one (main character) fic?

Me: :(

Them: Why didn't you just open with that?

Me: I'm sorry I'm really sorry

Them: You're lying by the way it says here that it is fetish material.

(they sent several screenshots of my now deleted author's notes.)

Me: Well yeah but like only partially.

Them: Do you have any sexual trauma?

Me: Yeah sort of. I was abused that counts right?

Them: Counts enough, I guess. Still this isn't a good way to deal with it.

Me: I'm sorry.

Them: And the way you tried to infiltrate the safer spaces by giving people a false sense of security? All the creeps DNI stuff? Completely messed up.

Me: I won't join your server I'm sorry. I didn't mean that I was just anxious I got scared.

Me: You aren't gonna dox me or come after me.

Them: No, we won't. Just don't post for this fandom anymore.

Me: Okay. I'm really sorry.

I forget where but they said "We don't want you here, dude." Which is just, fuckin suicide causing words. I also forgot to include the part where I said I regret writing it and they said "how can you regret writing a story you made 28 chapters for" and I said "I just needed to keep writing" they said "No you didn't" I left a lot out but that's the gist.

Anyway it's just awful to be made to feel like a monster because you don't know how tagging works and have a couple weird fetishes. Like, I see now how it looks REALLY bad but in all honesty I just thought I was writing a story that was a little messed up. I didn't consider that people might be upset by the poor handling of the subject, my fucked up sense of humor, or how it looks like I'm trying to hurt/shock them when in reality I was lonely, desperate for approval/attention and wanted someone to talk about my favorite show with.

Because of what happened, I'm now too scared to post about the show in question anymore. Like, I'm worried they might recognize my interests (I was dumb enough to not be anonymous and posted art on an account a few people saw and have a pretty distinctive style) and then like say "OMG ITS THE FREAK WHO POSTED THAT RAPE FIC DURING THE FALL OF 2024!" and like doxx me or something.

I'm like really scared. I genuinely love that show, even still, and I want to draw art for it and participate in the fandom without making anymore dark fetish content for it, but I'm really scared people will remember who I was in the past. Like I'm not even into an underaged character it's a grown ass man, I understand that rape is wrong, I mentioned a lot in the fic itself I don't want to hurt anyone, and I said it everywhere, I don't hurt people but these antis scare me I don't think they care that I'm harmless or a victim of abuse (so my fetishes changed a bit as a result) I don't think they care that I write this stuff as a way to relieve stress because the violence and cruelty is cathartic, freeing, let's me express my id freely.

I want to keep writing for this fandom, more dark stories, but I just, I'm scared to. I'm scared they'll see me again and hate me, hurt me. I want to draw, write, make art, make friends but these people they aren't welcoming and I completely understand why.... it's a largely american fanbase for an adult animated cartoon so I'm scared of the proship side since American cartoon fanbases are horrific.

I don't know, I guess I just want some comfort after all this happened, some reprieve? Some sort of reassurance that I'm not a bad person, I don't know. Some encouragement to keep liking this cartoon. I'm really sorry this note was so long. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. I'm a broken record at this point haha.

Fuckin hell I need therapy.

<3

[nightvio]

I know that everyone ever has already pointed it out but. The implications of this. I'm so excited for what s4 will have to offer

Long walls of me ranting down below

A lot of fans seem to be surprised/disapproving of the more mellow tone that this season will seem to have, but I actually quite like it myself. I remember being a younger fan, when it was only s1 and s2, wishing that we had more slice of life oriented episodes. The gags and the comedy are really funny, but I think it's something that could get old if they just strictly stuck with that. From the beginning of the more mellow episodes starting with ESP Kitty, I think they've always wanted to do something like this with the characters, but they just didn't, or couldn't at the time

Relating back to Osomatsu, even though he's shitty, he really does care for his brothers and enjoys being around them. I think he and Ichimatsu are a lot more similar than people think, they just have different ways of expressing themselves/coping (all the brothers share the same sentiment, but Osomatsu and Ichimatsu share more than that together. I think they both suffer from the same kind of loneliness). Where Ichimatsu copes with being antisocial and reserved though, Osomatsu copes with it by being carefree and extra shitty. As in, he takes the role of being the shittiest in stride, because then at least he's SOMETHING to his brothers. Basically, it's a role to him. His brothers are everything to him, which we can see when they all get jobs in the earlier season (except for him), and he is left feeling extremely lonely and missing his brothers. Relating it to season 4, I think they're going to explore this part of Osomatsu more, or at least I hope they do. I like Ichimatsu because I relate to him the most, so like as an Ichimatsu looking at Osomatsu, I want to see and understand that part of him more. I also want to see them have more interactions in this season, I just feel that they're an underrated duo

Random but Ichimatsu writing something down on his tanzaku and expressing his wish is really nice, I wonder what it is? He does say that he wants a cat in the episode, so it might be just that. It's nice to see him grow as a character though

OKAY for the OP/ED. I sort of like them. I've seen some fans saying that they're being lazy, but I don't think that's what they're going for? They've always been experimental about their OPs/EDs. I've been in the Japanese side of the fandom on YouTube and NicoNico (I know a little bit of Japanese), and a lot of fans are saying it reminds them of MMD, and it makes them feel nostalgic. It seems that Osomatsu san MMDs were popular in the fandom, especially on NicoNico, so I think the true intention with the style they chose was to give a nod to the fandom (and also partly a gag because they look funny). Scary to think that the people working on Osomatsu san are lurking in the fandom though... there's no way they made such an MMD-style video by pure coincidence though

On a side note, look at how they massacred my boys:

Poor unibrow and frogface :(

Something else that's important about the ED though (and I think someone pointed this out already) that relates to my point about Osomatsu is how he is posed in a couple of frames. Maybe it's a bit of a stretch, but it's worth noting...

He's turned away from his brothers in the first picture. The second one isn't as significant, but he's still turning away, which I still think should be noted. An interesting comparison is how Osomatsu is the furthest back, standing a bit away from his brothers, as though he's distant from them. Which brings me to this:

Here he is also in the back, distant and observing his brothers. Yes, there's the empty tanzaku implying that he already has his wish, but I think there's a little more going on here. A little darkness underneath the light some might say. I already explained what I think is going on with him earlier, but I think (if my stretch is right and I'm not just insane) that we might expect a little drama in this season, a long with the more chill slice of life tone

Anyway, end of my insane bullshit ranting. I'm gonna leave off saying that I think season 4 has a ton of potential, and I really like what we have so far! Looking forward to the next episode tomorrow :)

[slashingdisneypasta]

Freddy Krueger x FinalGirl!Reader || Drabble

Plot: You think its your boyfriend. Well, he's dead and it's not.

Warnings: Non-con kissing.

Tagging: @ghouletka , @gr4veyardg1rlv , @kawaistrawberry21 , @lady-love88 , @masqueradeball , @miss-understood , @slxsherwriter , @spookiifi , and @thecourtofgraywaves .

When your eyes fall on him, his soft brown eyes and his crumpled band t-shirt waiting for you just outside of class, you feel happiness bubble up in you and a beam spread across your face.

"'M here to pick you up sweetheart- you ready to go?"

Before he can even get his keys out of his camo pants you've thrown your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder. "I missed you!"

"Bunny- I appreciate the warm welcome but I dropped you off this morning! You okay??" He sounds baffled, and a little amused, but he drops the pursuit for his car keys and rubs your back instead; making you sigh. His hand lands on your hip then, and squeezes, and you press your face more firmly into his shoulder. You missed him so much.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Love you."

"Heh... I love you, too."

After a moment, you pull back and look at him. That ruffled hair, that sharp jaw, those happy eyes. You don't notice the slightly off-kilter way he's standing; his left shoulder dropped ever-so-slightly- or you ignore it.

It feels so real. It's gotta be real. You swear, that it's real.

Gently you lean up and press your lips to his, feeling his kiss for the first time, since-

God it feels so so real. He melts into it, pressing his mouth so softly-firmly against yours that your head goes fuzzy and fizzy. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, under some discarded papers, there's a part of you telling you it can't be, though. That this doesn't taste like him, that he's not wearing his usual cologne. That you're not kissing him right now, it's impossible, because he's-

But you don't listen. It's totally real, you think, tilting your head and wrapping your arms more snuggly around his neck. It's real, it's real, it's real, you chant in your head.

You missed him so much, you can feel it in your bones. The relief at having him here against you again makes you ache and feel better then you have in days, since he went to sleep and he was- since he went to sleep and the next morning, he was found-

Again, your thoughts stop just before they can finish. They fight to get through, but you... You almost don't want to finish them. A part of you knows what's going to happen when you realise, a heartbroken part of you aching dully inside.

Slowly the hand on your hip grows out, the fingers stretching longer and getting sharper. You hear it like a sword coming unsheathed and you feel blades sliding against your hip.

But you keep kissing him; theirs a desperation, now. A need to hold on, to keep him. Him; Your highschool boyfriend. The one you survived elm street with that first time in your senior year. Who you broke up with in your first year of college because the work load was too hard. Who you found, again, a year later. Who Freddy finally, after 3 years home-safe, kil-

The feeling of the brim of a hat, soft and warn, grazing your forehead.

Right now this is him. This is your. him. You don't wanna let go, you know something's wrong here, so so wrong, but you're so heartbroken and so hurt you cant let go-

You don't want him to go, again- you just got him back!-

Polyester turns to wool under your touch as he suddenly deepens the kiss, forcing your lips open wider. His tongue grows out longer down your throat, and-

You choke, the spell broken and reality crashing down around you as you realise the wolf in sheep clothing that you're kissing. Eyes opening, you use one forearm to shove Freddy off of you- and he's smirking and leering like a goblin at you as you trip back onto your ass; covering your mouth. Tears grow in your eyes from choking on his horrible tongue and also remembering that your boyfriend is dead.

He's dead. And Freddy's back again. And you're in a nightmare that never ever fucking ends.

"What's the matter there, princess, you wanted me pretty bad a second ago~ "

"You evil, evil freak." Tears overflow, filling up your furious eyes and then bubbling over onto your scowling cheeks; holding yourself up with the heel of one hand digging into the boiler room floor behind you. The other still covers your warm, tingling lips.

With a too-pleased grin, Freddy takes off his hat and does a deep bow in front of you, holding his hat to his chest like some kind of gentleman magician. "... oh you're too kind~ "

[doverstar]

actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-

[necrotic-nephilim]

in lieu of having posted any writing/headcanons/asks in the past few days because i have been *so* busy and unable to do anything fandom-related which is terrible and evil, i have a poll out of morbid curiosity and self-indulgence. i've been meaning to ramble here about how i feel about DC's lack fo Deaf representation and which Batfam members i would personally make Deaf, but i am mildly curious about the larger opinion and now i will subject you all to the question, i would love to hear thoughts/opinions/headcanons on any specific choices. (would love d/Deaf/HoH opinions esp but i'm mostly expecting this to reach the hearing crowd, so opinions from hearing ppl are ones i'm very curious about. if you've never given it thought before you are going to now or else /lh)

[meownotgood]

a lot of the time and I mean like once per week I somewhat wish that I wrote ship fics like a normal person instead of x reader. the problem is. I am not normal

[lohstandfound]

Brooke as Rapunzel, Jake as Flynn not in a ship way but a sibling way I think that would be fun

Jake reluctantly agreeing to help this girl he accidentally found in this tower he decided to hide in. Sure there are wanted posters for him all over the kingdom but some people are willing to let him slide by because he's nice enough

He has some friends he wants to take care of too. And thus became his robin hood act. Only narrowly escaping capture every time

But on their travels and trying to scare her off back to her tower, he decides Brooke isn't too bad.

Something something they make it too town. Something something he introduces her to his friends. Something something Brooke heals the burn scars on rich. Something something the dance sequence happens with Brooke and Chloe with Jake watching on the sidelines. Something something the whole trip has basically been them annoying each other only in the ways siblings do

(something something Brooke realises she's the missing princess and at the end of all of this Jake somehow gets adopted whether officially or not by the royal family and he's just there now not completely sure how he managed this /hj)

[doodlebeeberry]

what implications do u think the amelia investigations episode (possibly) being last has......

thinking about it im not sure implications is the word i was really looking for, rather i think theres like. a particular weight, to me, in placing her episode as the last one (presuming, of course, that there are only 5 episodes in investigations like is generally whats being assumed. for all we know though there could be more than that but thats the assumption im working off of)

ive always read the lack of any particularly tangible details about her pre-plane life, let alone the lake of an actual disappearance scene for her, as a means of further alienating her from her previous life. It drives in this wedge between Amelia and Scenty, such that even though shes probably the most vocal (at least throughout s1) about wanting to go home, her desire is countered by the fact that pretty much her entire existence in the show is defined by exclusively her time on the plane. The lack of a background for her (as absolutely crazy as it drives me) does play a pretty notable role in how her relationship to earth and the plane and herself are laid out.

This, in my mind, creates a bit of an interesting situation for investigations to play with. seemingly, investigations kinda requires an exploration into everyone's pre-plane lives, a certain insight into their lives that amelia just doesnt have. so, unless they do something a bit radical in the presentation of that episode in particular, youd have to explore her old life on some level without undermining the dynamic with it that we already have. I guess the most obvious answer is that it wont be amelia telling her own story to the audience. We wont be hearing her explain or be in her perspective, we'll be hearing from (presumably) garret. Its a story about her that isnt her story to tell. even when we do finally get to see it, her life, her disappearance isnt hers. not really. and i think placing it last in the sequence, the final mystery to unravel, the hardest answer to get, implies at the very least an acknowledgement of that.

but i do have a degree in Reading Into Things so like. who knows. maybe thats just what i want

[dayurno]

are you going to read tsc when it comes out? and, if not: would you like your acolytes to give you the important kevin day updates or would you rather not?

oh my acolytes huh! well i don’t know :) it’s so nice of you to ask and i’m very touched actually…. nice to me 🥹…. i guess any (good) kevin updates would be nice and probably sway the balance on whether i read it or not, but at first glance i probably won’t read it unless it sparks my curiosity once it’s out and the story starts making its rounds around my circles :) i’m plenty interested in the period where jean stays with the foxes but i don’t much care for the trojans nor the proposed storyline*, though even a picky reader like yours truly can be convinced into buying a story if kevin day’s in it

*by this i don’t mean that i Dislike the process of jean healing but it’s just overall not my favorite theme and, to be frank, i don’t have much interest in reading about a normal well-adjusted team either. from my view tsc is aftg without my favorite parts (namely kevin day as a main character, the foxes’ messy dynamic, problematic and controversial side characters, neil’s narration, The Mafia, andrew in general) and while i am always and forever a ride or die for jean moreau, and i am glad he’s going to get better and be happy, a lot of my feelings for him don’t really stem from the idea that there is a softness underneath all the grit but actually and sincerely the fact that he is crazy. i Love jean because he’s horrible and scared and cruel and i don’t know if i’ll care much for him once he’s out of that state :) i meant it when i said a few months ago that i would’ve been more onboard with a story about the ravens (no matter how gruesome) or even a glimpse of jean’s pov in the nest, though of course nora sakavic should probably choose to be happy every once in a while so i wouldn’t ask her to write that

so tl;dr: you can send me good and relevant kevin updates if you want to and if they’re interesting enough i might read tsc in the future

[gaylightisminetocommand]

also do we think writing fics in first person is cringe or no

[catnippackets]

yet another reason why queer romance in media that is very subtle or more queer-coding than actual explicit rep is so much more compelling than the wealth of straight stories that are out there is bc I think a lot of romance writers forget that you have to like. show not tell. and imply things. and if you hustle things along and put two characters together for the sake of it instead of really working to build their relationship and show how well they work with each other it's not really going to be as interesting to people. and for some reason, a staggering amount of people do not know how to write romance properly so you get a very bland forced dynamic that either feels like an afterthought (he's a boy and she's a girl, hey they could be together because that's what happens!) or the only thing that matters about their characters (see her? she's the Love Interest. that is all she's there for)

however if you're being censored and you literally can't make your characters say "I love you" or kiss or maybe even hold hands you're going to have to come up with more creative ways to tell your audience that they're in love and that usually results in the most poetic beautiful stuff you've ever seen that's SO much more interesting than two characters who make eye contact and go into the slow-mo rose petals scene that's basically screaming at you "hey look at these two. they're in love. you're supposed to be invested in their relationship now. do you get it?" eye contact held for slightly too long in an emotional scene is more compelling. a hand very lightly touching their back is WAY more compelling.

and might I add this is not even impossible to achieve with uncensored straight romances at all like Pride & Prejudice is wildly popular for this exact reason. how many times have I seen people going insane over the hand flex scene. they didn't even kiss in that movie unless you count the extended ending. and everyone loves it. because it's done RIGHT.

tldr; romance is hard to write and you have to put in the effort if you want people to care about your ship. now go forth and imply something

QUICK EDIT TO ADD ALSO when things are more subtle that gives people more space to interpret the dynamic as whatever they want. something might be subtle because that's all they're allowed to show, but something might be subtle because that literally what it's supposed to be. as an aroace person I personally see a LOT of queerplatonic vibes from more subtly played relationships and it's so incredibly exciting and heartwarming for me. and that's a whole new realm of relationship that I think should also be given more attention

[fragmentedblade]

I care about the Bloodhound Family Member blocking our way more than about Firefly, ngl. He seems so honest and principled, and he feels awful for bothering us while trying desperately to get ahold of the little dignity he feels he has. He says he'll die trying because he has nothing left to lose, and here I am, manipulating his emotions only to get this shady liar to her "secret base" like she is an eight years old that has watched too many cartoons.

[cursedcola]

Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw (Here) | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: Putting all my brain rot from my notes into something cohesive. Contrary to my love for ripping your hearts out, I've come with some fluff this time around. BTW you may or may not already do things mentioned - I write my works with a specific Yuu in mind for each character so this is based on them. Just a reminder.

Habits You Steal

Sleep like the Dead (Inherited): Nothing wakes you anymore. Leona is as "selfish" as they come, and has no regard for your schedule. He doesn't feel remorse for soaking up your time in the slightest. Why should he? Other people do it for 90% of the day. Take a load off, the bags under your eyes are unsightly. If he doesn't want to wake up in the morning? You ain't either. It's a done deal. If the building isn't up in flames then don't bother asking. Evidently, prolonged and frequent daytime siestas take their toll on your circadian rhythm. You now need just as - if not more - sleep than Leona. Napping out in public and at the rowdy Savanaclaw Dorm bestowed upon you a disturbance immunity. Ramshackle could be in the middle of a raid and you wouldn't move. Not unless something singed your skin or really did some damage. It's become an actual problem. Crewel is considering a sleep study.

"Oi, herbivore...stop squirming so much. You almost crushed my tail. Hah? Class? You don't need it. Just borrow notes from one of those little friends or make the cat go....fine. Gimmie your homework later. I can teach you a thing or two. That is, if you can handle it." <- Grim can't be trusted on his own? Not Leona's problem. You're half of a student. Half. Not full. Half. There's your loophole now go back to sleep. Yap any more and he'll roll on top of you. Good luck talking with a mouth full of hair.

Perfume (Developed): This comes about in an awkward manner. Beastmen have keen smell. It's a given. Bada bing, bada boom, Leona knows your scent. He could point out the Ramshackle Prefect from a half-mile radius. Now he's never said your scent is unpleasant. Quite the contrary, although the lion would never admit it. The issue here is that your scent acts as a calling card, and Leona is clingy. So you ask Vil for the most popular perfume, potion, cologne - whatever - and start wearing it to mask your scent. At least enough so Leona's de-buffed to a one-fourth mile radius. It doesn't work entirely. No perfume is that strong. It's also an active assault on Leona's nose...but it had to be done. Side note - this was his plan all along. He isn't keen on non-human folk sniffing you out easily. Beastmen, most Mermen, and even select Fae have keen noses. Not that his own scent isn't a deterrent, but some masking perfume is worth the occasional nose-shank if it keeps snickering busybodies off your tail when he isn't around.

"Here. Take this and throw out whatever crap it is you've got on. You want me to say it flat? You reek." <- Take the scent masking balm he's giving and don't shop retail ever again. His nose hairs are literally burning off. The balm costs more than your entire dorm to make, but Leona won't ever admit it. You have an ultimatum. It's either this, or wearing one of his old vests around Savanaclaw. Now unless you want to be twinning with him and Ruggie, do the man a favor and comply.

Hair Ties (Developed): Bless his genetics for that wonderful, silky mane - but he needs to tame it. With how smothering Leona can be, you end up with a mouthful of hair at least twice a day. Man is tall, and he loves using his prefect as a leaning post. Which is cute but he sheds. So your arm is perpetually wrapped with hair-ties 24/7 like a cased sausage, because every time you give him one it disappears. It's on purpose, of course. He also snaps them whenever you aren't paying attention. Spiteful bas-

Biting (Inherited): Biting is a common display of affection in beastfolk culture. Not that Leona ever bothered to tell you this. His little nips (in no small amount) were usually passed off as punishments for being annoying. A lie, naturally. One could say it’s the human equivalent of cute aggression? Yet it has more meaning since it’s reserved for close connections such as family and lover. Although drawing blood or leaving a mark behind is reserved for the latter. You had to learn all this from a textbook, of course. No one in Savanaclaw was going to butt into Leona’s affairs, and Ruggie found your ignorance a funny game to taunt his Housewarden with. You were on your own, on a quest to save your skin. Literally.

Regardless, it’s Leona’s way of affection. Bonus points since he can do it without you knowing why. It’s only natural that you return the favor, playing along whenever he has to hold composure. Acting as if you don’t know and relishing in his micro- reactions. It’s only a matter of time before he figures you out, but it’s so nice to have the upper hand for once.

"That's for showin' up late. Don't like it? Not my problem...yawn if is' so bad, just take my bandanna...Why do you care if it's got Savana colors? Ya spend enough time 'round here, no one's gonna say anything." <- If it really bothered you, he'd stop. King of consent and of reading body language. Otherwise it's a go-go. Also if someone did have a problem with you sporting Savanaclaw colors? He doesn't need to kick their ass. Beastfolk got better hearing than most, and if one of his overhears you getting shit for wearing their dorm's colors then the classic night raven pride will pop out.

Habits He Steals:

Vegetables (Inherited): Leona sticks to meat, cheese, bread, and more meat. Bring on the steak. Bring on the beef. Bring on the deluxe cutlet sandwiches. Savanaclaw's kitchen is the most costly of all the dorms purely for how much Beastmen eat. If Ruggie can guzzle down seven plates in a sitting yet still look like a stick? Imagine a Lion's appetite. No one knows how you managed to get this guy to eat a salad like a true herbivore, but it's a cold day in the Savanaclaw dormitory when Leona's facing down a spinach side-salad on top of his lunch. Meanwhile you're happily munching away at the table, picking random veggies off your own plate to put on his. Each instance accompanied by an agitated twitch of his tale, but the lion's eerily silent. Dire Crowley is right. The Ramshackle Prefect is a Beast Tamer indeed...

"Now I know you didn't just pick at my plate, herbivore. Your luck's running thin...Oi. That's enough. I'll sooner eat one of your limbs than another turnip" <- he, in fact, did eat the turnip. The threat scared his underclassmen so much, that seeing you come around still in one piece the next day earned you a warrior's respect.

Correspondence (Developed): Leona's used to getting a sea of letters from ministers, attendants, and a particular little menace back at the palace. Unless it was an urgent message - he'd let the letters go unchecked after skimming them. Replying always took too much effort, and he'd rather not encourage unexpected visits like during the annual Magiift tournament. That is until you start receiving them as well. Nowhere near the amount Leona deals with - but he'd rather die than have his family telling you things without the ability to intercept. Falena blackmails him into responding to Cheka's letters, or else the little furball is going to use you as a penpal for writing practice. Side Note 2.0 - regardless of Leona's 'cooperative' ways, you still write to the mini lion in 'secret'. He knows but gave up caring.

"Another one? Just toss the damn thing. No - hmph. Give me that. I'll respond, just don't start up the lecture." <- You always manage to find the letters Cheka sends over before Leona can get to them. It clicks that you're a middle-man once they start showing up at Ramshackle instead of his dorm. Leona can't wait too long to respond, otherwise you'll start harping him over how cute the kid's handwriting is or whatever picture he drew. He lets you keep them. Cheka's got his own exhibit on the Ramshackle fridge.

Accommodating (Developed): Leona’s not necessarily a ‘verbal’ communicator, despite his smart mouth that always manages to get the last word. He will not openly lend his aid without a bit of pressing before hand - his pride would never allow it. Take the three days you and Grim stayed in his dorm as an example. Inevitably you earned the right to crash in his room, but there was a roundabout to get there. Mainly for show, since in Savanaclaw things are earned not given. You also weren’t close back then. He wouldn’t go easy on anyone, even if they’re from a different dorm or stranded homeless by some octopunks.

The tides change for you, and only for you. His morals are held high, and his ability to treat a partner well is no exception. There is no glory in being above your supposed equal. Everything is shared. This means Leona’s room is now your room, just as Ramshackle is now partly his. He’s clearing some of his closet out, filling it with your stuff, and doing the same back at your place. Doesn’t even ask and doesn’t give a damn that there are dozens of open rooms. It’s the principle. Sharing a space is letting someone see your most vulnerable being. Not that he’d think you could ever do any significant damage (lies) - but considering he doesn’t want anyone within a five foot radius during his leisure time, Leona giving you open access speaks volumes.

"Hah? So what? It's not like I'm forcin' them into it. Got a problem with how I act? Enlighten me." == Talk about nonchalont. Leona is well aware of the imprint he's left on you. He sees it in the way you talk. The way you think. Not just in the chess matches he makes you sit through over and over. Round after round until you can put him into check. You're confident. You're demanding. You're ripe potential that he got to first before anyone else. You chose him, and no amount of backtalk on your end outshines that you like him enough to mimic his ways. The Ramshackle Prefect’s presence isn't something people can overlook anymore, and Leona is damn proud that he's left a mark.

Habits You Steal:

Extreme Couponing/Haggling (Inherited): If you do not think Ruggie spends his Sunday mornings going through sales ads? You are sorely mistaken. This man is an absolute menace when it comes to hitting the market and squeezing a shop-keep for everything they are worth. Sam fears no creature in all of Twisted Wonderland aside from this particular hyena. Screw fighting blot - grab some popcorn and kick back to observe the game of verbal chess those two engage in every week. It's more entertaining than any battle or show. You will become Ruggie's apprentice. Ain't no partner of his going through life without the ability to haggle. Sam stands no chance.

“Ya get this week’s ad? Good. C’mon over and we’ll get the clippings going. I think I saw somethin’ about a buy-one get-two on those candies ya like. Maybe if your nice enough, I’ll shmooze Sam for a bonus!” <- Ruggie honestly enjoys having a coupon buddy. He makes a show about how you take too long, and that if you don’t wake up early then he won’t stick around! Can’t miss the sale, so he isn’t lying there. Except he does grab what you need on the off chance you do miss the meetup. Side note - he doesn’t just take an apprentice without ulterior motives. This is all in preparation for you to handle the slum markets. If you can’t fight off a few broke students, then you won’t last a day back home.

"Shishishishi" (Inherited): There is no escaping it. For the countless times you've poked fun at his little wheezy laugh - imagine the utter mortification when it came not from him! No no. From you. It's unconscious and in the moment you don't recognize anything wrong. You were only laughing over a won victory against Sam. That new lamp you wanted for your work-desk finally within reach, and 70% off no less! Said conman looks at you with eyes blown wide, because great seven there are two of them now. It takes a moment for self-awareness to hit, but you're too late. Two fuzzy-satellites atop a mop of shaggy blonde curls perk up, and your laugh from before echoes from the original culprit's mouth.

“I heard that! You’re doin’ it wrong. Gotta put more air, Shishishi~” <- Ruggie’s a taunting little turd on a good day. Be prepared. You won’t be living this down. Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it? Next thing is to train ya in the art of sticky fingers - no? Ugh. Fine. Ya Goodie-Goodie.

Hands Up! (Inherited): Ruggie has a very unique way of standing. Hands behind his head, laced together to support his neck. One hip normally supports most of his weight, and he's always in a deep-slouch. Bro doesn’t need to cast ‘Laugh With Me’ for his movements to be mirrored, because you’re already following along without realizing. Leona finds the mimicry unsettling. Take that freaky shit out of his line of sight.

Habits He Steals:

Sharing Food (Developed): This is the inner hyena coming out. Just like in the slums, it's demanded to share amongst your own. He might be a sleaze to other people, but not to you. This also backfires into Ruggie thinking that what's yours is his as well - but that's not the point. He'll plop down next to you at dinner and wordlessly offer up half of his meal. You need more meat on those bones, he'll say if protested. In turn he'll then take half of your dessert. It's a sign of trust, instinctively believing that whatever's on your plate is safe to eat. Yet also shows that he's taken you as one of his - and that's a privilege no one at NRC has. No strings attached because everything you both have is shared. On a side note, you'll never be-rid of Ruggie once this comes to pass.

Shared Wardrobe (Developed): Again with the collective treasure hoard, but with a twist. Ruggie can essentially squeeze into most clothing or modify them to his needs. If it works, then it works. So he'll happily offer up any modified dregs he has for your usage, and in turn he will claim whatever clothes you aren't overly attached to. There is also the matter of scent, of course. Ruggie is the type of person to cut up one of your old pajama shirts and fashion arm-bands, making sure to have one knotted around his bicep at all times. You in turn are welcome to swipe his bandanna at your leisure in place of that tacky uniform tie.

“Hey…you seen my blaz - hah? Uh, nevermind. I’ll go grab somethin’ else. Where’d ya leave the heavier coat Gran sent over. Forget it, I’ll just go check myself” <- The first time you snag one of his oversized blazers or hoodies gets him. It gets him bad. Sharing with Leona was one thing but, c'mon. Warn a guy would ya? You're so lucky he's an opportunist on quick feet, so of course he’ll take the chance to steal something you wear often. Ruggie’s great at brushing off any taunts or quips. Being Leona’s right hand gets him stable back at Savanclaw, but that doesn’t take away years of being the underdog. Whether the other beastfolk stare at him openly brandishing your clothes means little, if anything, he enjoys it. Cause once again the underdog’s got a top prize.

Caffeine Addiction (Inherited): Ruggie spends more time and effort running around than most. His *hobby* is doing part-time work. Those overpriced sugar-loaded drinks never appealed to him because why waste money when powering through is just as effective? Or chugging some ice water? Yet you seemingly always have some sort of caffeine to make it through the hell NRC dishes out, and Ruggie being a mooch is always there to steal at least 1/3 of it. Now he’s trained and gets extremely sluggish around mid-day without a dose. It’s your fault if he falls off his broom during spelldrive practice.

"Wha'cha trying to say with that tone, huh? Think I'm not good enough? 's that it? There're way worse chumps to take after. Way I see it? They're learnin' how to make it in this world, sha ha ah! So thanks!...eh, why're you still here? Shoo already." == Considering rumors never have anything good to say about Ruggie's attitude, he's not dumb enough to take the little 'compliment' as genuine. More like as a backhanded sight towards your relationship. Rugs could care less about what those nobodies have to say. Not like they've got anything he's after, just some busybodies that scurry off with their tail between their legs when things get rough. Even if you catch word of it, Ruggie ain't going to get pissy because they're right. Everything they're saying is right, he is rubbing off on you. He is actively trying to. Life isn't a peach and it's not like he's strong enough to protect you from the hardships. It'll be a big laugh if you pull that righteous crap and try to defend his honor, though. Someone better get it on camera.

Habits You Steal:

Paternal Disappointment (Inherited): There was a time, a simpler time, a Jack-less time...when you were a fool. No. You are one to this day, but it is better tamed under Jack's strict aura of perpetual disappointment. Once on the side of being scolded with Ace and Deuce, you are now the one doing the scolding. You are not fun anymore. There is a stick shoved so far up your ass, and it's now part of your internal organ system. Ace dubs you a traitor, as does Grim. You've gone to the dark side in exchange for the morally sound wolfboy to offer cuddles and the occasional snack. I'm sorry to tell you this dear prefect but you've become....*gasp* the (mom/dad) friend.

“Boring? Who said you were boring?…don’t listen to those jerks. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders. They’re just upset that they can’t get away with murder anymore - Uh, not t-that I was jealous or anything! Don't get the wrong idea! . Hmph.” <- Jack doesn’t take offense when others call him names, but he doesn’t like when you’re brought into it. At all. Especially because he used to be jealous how you, Ace, Grim and Deuce were more tight-knit than with any of the other first years. Like a pack. That behavior is childish, and Jack hates that he used to think that way. As if your attention was something he had to fight over. It's not like he wanted the same bond you shared with those three either, that's friendship and he wanted more. By being with you, Jack knew that it was going to put him on a different tier than the others. That's just what happens. Part of him feels guilty that you might be losing face because of him. His reputation isn’t bad, but he does have a resting angry face. Reassure him in turn and Jack will be over the moon. Any happier and his wagging tail can become a makeshift duster for the dorm (Were he on earth, he’d definitely get the nickname ‘tails’. After the sonic character, just to clarify)

Meal Prep (Inherited): This is actually an amazing influence and is wonderful for someone on a tight-schedule. You're not going to be eating high-protein meals every night, neither wasting away in an attempt to chug down pre-workout shakes. That's on Jack and Jack alone. Helping him prep meals is a nice touch and a pleasant evening spent together once a week. You don't become strict with it, but Jack does convince you to at least prepare some of your favorite dishes as snacks/emergency meals. He also constantly shoves energy water and vitamins in your bag. No more cup-noodle or scrap sandwiches on those nights you don't reach the mess hall on time. Now you have balanced meals, and get to flaunt matching containers with your boyfriend. Very cute. Everyone hates both of you.

"Uh...are all those stickers really necessary? I know we agreed on matching boxes but this is a bit...No! I'm not embarrassed! Gah, just keep it to a minimum. Nothing that falls off or sparkles." <- He is flustered beyond compare after every track meet. At first he barely bat an eye, thinking nothing of the orange bento box with chibi-cactus stickers and his name written in bold bubble lettering on top. You decorated it just for him, and if it meant you would carry around a spare meal then that's even more incentive. Yet the smell of fresh food attracts jocks after a meet like nothing else, and the teasing was relentless. It isn't enough to stop him from enjoying his meal, though.

Lint Roller (Developed): Leona sheds, but Jack? He is like owning six full-grown huskies. He apologizes profusely for the shedding, especially since the NRC uniforms are black. You run through lint rollers like Deuce runs through eggs. It isn't Jack's fault, but man. Ramshackle collects both dust and fur bunnies these days.

Habits He Steals:

Piggy-Back(Developed):Jack carries you everywhere. He's normally very patient but when there's a place to be? Well, he wants to get there on time. Jack has a strict bedtime at 10:00pm sharp and so his free hours are scarce. Do you want enough time to enjoy the lakeside as planned? If so, hop on his back so no time is wasted. Jack also pressures you to join him for morning and evening jogs. He refuses to give up his diligence, but also is acutely aware that there is little spare time he can afford you during the week. Either you have to keep up with him, or you're getting used as a makeshift weight and being hauled across campus. Relationships need quality time to grow and this is the perfect excuse to hog your attention for two hours every day. Not that he'd admit it, but the swish of his tail while you chat is enough to tell Jack's enjoying his runs much more than before.

"Are you comfortable? Just let me know if I'm going too quick. I'll try not to jostle you around too much...if you're tired then take a nap. I'll wake you when we're back home." <- He'd prefer if you didn't sleep. It messes with your circadian rhythm, but the whole point of this is to help you relax. Just knowing you're with him is enough to make Jack happy. Rain or shine, no excuses. If it's cold he'll let you use his hair to block out the chill, although he'd never let you out in anything less than the proper gear. Even if he joins Deuce or Vil on occasion - you're his favorite running partner.

Safety (Developed): Jack asks you to text him twice a day. Once in-between class, even though you’ll be spending lunch together, and once before bed at 9:30pm. The morning isn’t needed since he’s your alarm clock. He understands that as a prefect, you don’t have a curfew like the majority of students. Yet he is communicative with concerns about you being outside of Ramshackle late after dark. Even when you were just friends, hearing the story of when A-Deuce hauled you to that abandoned mine in the middle of the night? The blot monster and how close it came to you guys not making it? Magic or not, that would worry anyone with common sense. It doesn’t help that Ramshackle has no security beyond its resident ghosts.

"- and you just went with them? Because the headmaster told you to? Are you insane!?...No. You're right. What's done is done. Just...call me if something like that ever happens again." <- Thank the seven Jack's hair is already white.

Jack never thought he’d care this much about anyone. When your partner is a walking heart-attack, in the best way possible mind you, one just wants some piece of mind.

Covering Ears (Inherited): It's a natural response to cover your ears when frightened. Like when watching a scary movie and you don't want to hear what comes next. Jack covers his ears because they're sensitive, and loud noises can cause a migraine quicker than anything else. Especially when they're sudden. His hearing is more sensitive than most, being a wolf beastman. It's almost on par with Leona's. Yet his first instinct when there is a loud noise is to cover your ears instead of his. Even though you're human, the instinct to protect them takes over. It's also his way of being within arm's reach in case of a threat. You must be scared being in a new place. Jack will never let himself forget that. Nor how brave you are for continuing on regardless.

"What a relief...huh? Nah, I didn't say anything. Isn't there a test coming up in Alchemy next week? Want to hit the books together?" == The type to divert the topic as quick as possible, on the chance that he lets too much slip. Needless to say that Jack is relieved to hear that you're mimicking him on an unconscious level. It means that you trust him. That you respect him and see him as an equal. It's the biggest compliment Jack can ever ask for. If people are automatically associating you together, then it means he's done his job. You're part of his pack - and outsiders can recognize it at first glance. He'll do a good job at hiding how happy it made him, but expect that tail to wag at torpedo speed the next time he sees you.