#self-flattery | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheers-to-you-th · 1 month ago

Text

Winner Takes it All

Pairing: Mingyu x Reader Genre: Friends to lovers, angst, humor, fluff Warnings: very suggestive (MDNI), seft-doubt, idiocy, self indulgent nerdiness Word count: 17k

Part two

Summary: It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore. The question is, why won't he fuck you?!

Your journey of attempting to seduce your friend, Kim Mingyu

ty my pookies @supi-wupi and @gyubakeries for betaing ilysm y'all are literally the best

It's no secret that Kim Mingyu is a whore.

Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh, but if there's one thing everyone on campus knows, it's that he’s a good fuck. It's not like he has no standards, he just isn’t shy about his life, and with his looks, you wouldn’t be either. He wears the title like a badge of honor, girls practically tripping over themselves to sleep with him at every chance. So yeah, it's no secret that Kim Mingyu appreciates and indulges in one night stands, random hookups, and having an all around good time. The question is, why on earth won’t he sleep with you?

You first brought it up one night during a study session at his apartment that had turned into beer and complaining about life. He was your friend, you consider yourself to be pretty close. You figured, he’s so open about his sex life, why can’t you be? (and you were maybe a few cans too deep) He was talking about how one of the girls he’d hooked up with recently wouldn’t leave him alone even though he’d clearly told her it was a one time thing.

“God, I haven’t been fucked good in so long” You groan dramatically as he chokes on his beer. “Like, seriously, I feel like a fucking celibate. No shame on celibates, just not my thing.”

At that he snorts, “I’m sure I know plenty of people who wouldn’t mind taking you home.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your legs across his lap like you always do when you're a little tipsy and annoyed. “Yeah, but I’m not trying to settle for just anyone. I want to be fucked well, not just… you know, awkward thrusts and two minutes of missionary while some dude tries to make me come with, like, hope and vibes.”

Mingyu laughs—big and loud, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel tight for no reason you’ll admit out loud. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” you say, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve got this reputation, right? Campus Casanova, professional heartbreaker, dick of the year—”

“Thank you,” he says with a flourish.

“—so why haven’t I benefited from that? I have a declaration.” You raise your hand dramatically and point at him, “You are the chosen one. This is my most desperate hour. Fuck me, Kim Mingyu, you’re my only hope.”

Mingyu snorts so hard he actually wheezes, pressing a hand to his chest like your words physically knocked the wind out of him. “Did you just—did you Star Wars me into asking for sex?”

You grin, a little smug, a little unhinged, and blame the alcohol and the way he’s looking at you now—eyes wide but amused, lips parted around the beginning of a smile that doesn’t reach his usual cocky level. He’s… surprised. And not laughing at you. Just surprised.

“I’m being resourceful,” you say, lifting your beer in a mock toast. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to fuck their hot friend?”

“So you think I’m hot?” he teases, and you blame the alcohol for how you think you see something deeper in his eyes.

You snort. “Mingyu, that’s the least controversial opinion I’ve ever had.”

Mingyu throws his head back, groaning like you’ve just inflicted pain instead of flattery. “God, don’t say stuff like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

“No, it’s not that,” he says, brushing your leg off his lap playfully and standing to grab another beer. “It’s that I like being friends with you, and hearing you say shit like that makes it dangerous.”

You blink. “Dangerous how?”

He shrugs, cracking open the can and avoiding your gaze in a way that’s suspiciously casual. “You’re cute when you’re drunk, but your drunk brain has terrible ideas. I like us the way we are.”

You narrow your eyes. “So you won’t sleep with me?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’.

“Even if I say please?” You say, looking up at him innocently.

“You look like a tarsier.” He deadpans.

You scoff. “Wow. I’m offended. Rejected and mocked?”

He leans against the kitchen counter and grins, annoyingly charming and smug. “Consider it a compliment. You're one of the few people I don't want to ruin with my ‘dick of the year’.”

You toss a pillow at him. “I’ll have you know I only asked because I was trying to solve a very real personal crisis.”

“Well, this crisis,” he says, catching the pillow and throwing it back, “will not be solved with me. I’m flattered. Really. But nah.”

You sit there for a beat, squinting at him like you’re trying to find the crack in his logic. “Is this, like, a challenge? Are you saying I’m not good enough for your stupid dick?”

He snorts. “I’m saying you’re too good. Too funny. Too smart. And my friend whom I greatly value.”

“Oh my god, stop trying to reject me nicely” you groan, flopping dramatically back onto the couch.

“I’m not trying,” he says with a wink. “It’s just my natural charm.”

You pout, staring at the ceiling, a wicked little idea already forming. “Fine. Reject me. I see how it is.” You sigh dramatically then look at him. “But don’t think this is over.”

“Oh really?” he says, amused.

You glance at him sideways, eyes sharp. “You’ll break eventually. Everyone does.”

He barks out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Just patient,” you sing, reaching for your beer.

He shakes his head, chuckling as he walks back over. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

If he thinks you’re going to drop it, he clearly doesn’t know you as well as he thought.

Because the war has begun.

Let the games begin.

You’ve never put this much thought into what hoodie to wear.

It’s not like you’re trying to look good, exactly. That would be obvious. But you’re also not trying to look bad. There’s a difference between “I woke up like this” and “I look like I’ve been dragged backward through laundry day.” It’s a delicate balance. Especially when you’re hiding very expensive, very pretty lingerie under said hoodie.

Tonight is movie night—your usual Friday plan. Mingyu had texted you earlier:

«giant (dick [allegedly])» u better not bring any weird artsy film again

«giant (dick [allegedly])» we’re watching something where things explode

«giant (dick [allegedly])» also i have snacks this time. good ones. not like your off-brand cheetos

You’d sent back a very dignified “rude” and a middle finger emoji. Now you’re standing in front of your mirror, trying to figure out if this hoodie makes you look effortlessly hot or just… like you’re trying too hard to be effortless.

“Jesus,” you mutter, adjusting the zipper just low enough to maybe give him a hint. A taste. Not enough to look desperate, but enough to make him wonder.

For the record, this isn’t about sleeping with him anymore (although it’s not off the table). It’s about principle. About honor. You’re great. You’re hot. You’re smart and funny and flexible—both emotionally and physically. You’ve done yoga three times this week just in case. He should be begging.

You show up with popcorn, a smug smile, and your hoodie unzipped just enough to showcase a tasteful amount of lace.

He opens the door with a soda in hand, already grinning. “Took you long enough—are you seriously wearing that?”

You glance down. “This is a perfectly acceptable outfit for movie night.”

Mingyu narrows his eyes at you, suspicious. “You hate that hoodie. You said it made you look like a sad librarian.”

“I’ve had a change of heart,” you say breezily, pushing past him into the apartment. He follows, still watching you like you just switched exam answers last minute. “Okay, but like… are you trying to seduce me with snack food? Because if so, it’s working.”

You toss the popcorn onto the coffee table. “Mingyu, please. If I wanted to seduce you, you’d already be in my bed.”

He chokes on his soda. “What—excuse me—how’d that work out for you last time?”

You plop onto the couch, flipping him off. He’s still staring at you as he joins you, only this time there’s a tiny crease in his brow. Like he’s thinking about it.

Excellent.

The movie starts. Some kind of loud, poorly lit action flick that you pretend to watch. Mostly, you’re watching him. He’s in his usual hoodie and sweatpants, one hand in the popcorn, the other resting on the back of the couch like he owns the place (which, I mean, he does, since it is his apartment). When he leans back and stretches out his legs, you mirror him, thigh brushing his intentionally. Five minutes later, you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Comfy?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Mmm,” you hum. “Your shoulder’s surprisingly sturdy for someone with the maturity of a middle school boy.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who once cried during Shrek 2.”

“That scene with the giant gingerbread man is emotional, okay?”

He snorts, and you feel the vibration in your cheek against his hoodie. His arm shifts a little. Not around you. But closer.

Now is the time.

You lift your head, just slightly, just enough to meet his eyes and just enough that your hoodie slides down a tiny bit, giving him the wonderful view of the pretty lace set. Not enough that you’re exposed, but not too little that he doesn’t know what it is. Perfect.

He glances down.

Pauses.

Then promptly throws a piece of popcorn at your face.

“Nice try,” he says, grinning wide.

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says smugly. “And I’m flattered, really. But I’m not falling for the push-up bra and smolder look.”

You cross your arms. “How do you know it’s a push-up bra?”

“Because you told me last month that lace makes you itchy and underwire is the devil. You’ve only ever suffered for fashion when you’re trying to make a point.”

“…damn it.”

Mingyu laughs again, genuinely delighted, and tosses another popcorn piece at your hoodie. “Good effort, though. Strong opening move.”

You sigh, dramatically. “Fuck you. This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Oh, much harder,” he says, winking.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Not that way, don’t even—” “I didn’t say anything!” You defend yourself. “You were thinking it!” You flop back against the couch. “This is war.” He just grins, stretching his arm casually across the couch again—so close, almost around you, but not quite. “Bring it on.”

You do not, in fact, bring it on. Not immediately.

Because for the next forty-five minutes, you're watching a bunch of buff guys with buzzcuts yell at each other over a glowing briefcase. It's not your genre. It's barely anyone’s genre, but Mingyu’s watching with the concentration of someone trying to defuse a bomb.

You glance at him.

Then at your hoodie.

Then back at him.

Okay, maybe not war. Not yet. Maybe… espionage. Quiet. Tactical. Strategic use of cleavage. You shift in your seat slightly, just enough that your leg presses into his a little more. Not obnoxiously. Just… available. You exhale slowly and lean back, stretching your arms overhead in a motion that’s meant to look natural and only slightly like a lingerie commercial.

Mingyu doesn’t react.

You risk a glance. He’s got popcorn in his mouth and a blank, blissed-out expression like he’s communing with the gods of artificial cheese dust. He doesn’t even notice your stretch. You could probably flash him outright and he’d still be thinking about Bruce Willis. You glare at him. He senses it, somehow, because without looking away from the screen, he mutters, “If you’re still trying to seduce me, your timing’s shit. This is the best part.” “This is the part where they blow up another building.” “Exactly.” You’re going to kill him.

Fine. So he’s immune to passive cleavage and casual stretching. You can work with that. You’ve got depth. Range. A highly specific collection of lingerie, and at least three more strategies.

Phase two begins approximately five minutes after his third “this is the best part” comment, when one of the action guys says something stupid enough that even he winces. You seize the moment.

“You know,” you say, “I could write better dialogue in my sleep.”

Mingyu hums. “Mmhm.”

“I’m serious. Give me a gun and a reason to be angry and I’m unstoppable.”

“You literally cried when you hit your knee on my coffee table last week.”

“I thought it broke my patella!”

“It’s not even sharp!”

“It bruised like a bitch!”

He glances at your legs. “So fragile. So elegant.” You ignore the fact that your legs are currently draped half across his lap.

“That’s my point,” you say. “I’m deceptively dangerous. Like a swan.”

He looks at you skeptically. “Pardon?”

“Swan,” you repeat. “All grace and feathers up top, but with murderous feet underneath. You ever see a swan fight? Terrifying.”

“I have literally never thought about swans that way.”

“Well, now you will. I’m a swan. I could absolutely take out a bad guy.”

“You couldn’t even take out the spider in my bathroom.” He says with a raised brow.

“That spider leapt! I wasn’t expecting aerial combat!”

Mingyu breaks, laughing so hard he nearly spills the popcorn. His head drops back on the couch and he grins at the ceiling like he’s never been more amused. You let yourself look at him for a second too long—his dimples, the way his throat moves when he swallows his laugh, the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes that only shows up when he’s actually, genuinely happy.

You look at him, laughing like that, and you briefly forget your entire mission. Because really, how is anyone supposed to function with that kind of face beaming at them? It should be illegal. At least mildly regulated. But then he shifts, still grinning, and pops a handful of popcorn into his mouth like he didn’t just survive a verbal swan-based assassination attempt—and you remember. This is war. And the enemy is smug.

“If you want me, you’re gonna have to compete with explosives and daddy issues.” He says with an annoying smirk.

You make a strangled noise of disbelief. “Are you seriously picking emotionally stunted action men over me?”

“Right now?” he says, finally turning to you with the kind of grin that makes you want to punch him and kiss him simultaneously. “Yeah. They’ve got car chases. You’ve got passive-aggressive lingerie.”

You clutch a couch pillow to your chest and groan into it. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” he says smugly, “you keep coming back.”

“Because I’m determined,” you mumble into the cushion. “Because this is important. Because—”

“You want me to fuck you,” he supplies, chipper.

You scowl, crossing your arms. “God, you make it sound so crass. I was gonna say ‘make sweet, passionate love.’”

He snorts. “No, you weren’t.”

“I might’ve,” you mutter. “If you’d given me a chance.”

He finally glances at you, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly amused way of his. “And what part of this movie made you horny? The car explosion or the guy bleeding out in a warehouse?”

“Neither,” you say, leaning in, “You. You’re the problem.”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shift. Just stares you down with that maddening calm. “You know it’s not happening.”

You grin, wicked. “Yet.”

“Ever.”

You click your tongue. “You say that like I’m not currently wearing lingerie under this hoodie.”

He raises his eyebrow, no reaction again—just calm, smug, frustratingly unbothered Mingyu.

You narrow your eyes. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet here you are, trying to seduce me with popcorn and cleavage.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t escalate.”

He leans back, stretches his arm along the back of the couch—close, but not touching you. “You can escalate all you want, babe. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna break.”

You inhale. Slow. Calculating.

Then, deadpan: “Would it help if I said I’ve been told my head game is life-changing?”

Mingyu barks out a laugh. “Jesus.”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him with faux-innocence. “I’m just saying. Could be a cultural experience.”

“I’m not a tourist,” he says, tone lazy. “And you’re not a destination.”

“Ooh, poetic,” you say. “I’ll quote that in my memoir. Right after the chapter titled How I Sucked Off My Hot Friend.”

He shakes his head, laughing now, that deep, quiet kind that makes your stomach twist. “You’re so dramatic.”

You groan, flopping sideways against the couch like a wilted plant. “How are you immune to this? Are you secretly a monk?”

“I just have restraint,” he says with a smug little smile. “Unlike some people.”

“You didn’t seem very restrained when Jiwon from your stats class was crawling into your lap at that party last week.”

He shrugs, finally glancing at you, eyes gleaming. “She’s not my friend.”

The implication hits you like a pillow to the face. “Oh my god, is this like a ‘you can’t touch this’ thing?”

Mingyu’s grin stretches wider. “Exactly. I don’t mix friendship and… that.”

You roll your eyes, but inwardly, something twists—a little sting, a little hope. “Fine. So I’m your friend. The one you don’t want to ruin.”

“Yup.”

“Is that your nice way of saying I’m off-limits?”

“Maybe,” he says, voice softening just a bit.

You stare at him, the TV noise fading into the background as your mind races. The war you thought you started suddenly feels a lot less like a game.

“You know,” you say slowly, “this friend zone is starting to look more like a fortress.”

Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… good luck storming the castle.”

You lean back, eyes locked on his, the challenge clear. “Watch me.”

“One day,” he says, hands behind his head now, “you’re gonna look back and realize all these attempts just made me stronger.”

“Oh, is that what you think this is?” you say, poking his shin. “A training montage?”

He grins. “Every hero has one.”

“Hero?” You scoff again. “I’m the hero. You’re the idiot refusing to sleep with me.”

“I’m the wise guardian mentor figure,” he says seriously. “Keeping you from making a mistake you’d regret.”

“Okay Obi-Wan,” you mutter.

He snorts. You’re not sure if you want to strangle him or crawl into his lap and see if the ‘not falling for it’ act cracks when you’re straddling him. Probably both.

Instead, you smirk. “Fine,” you say, brushing popcorn crumbs off your lap and standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I guess I’ll just have to find someone else to help me with my desperate need for intimacy.”

Mingyu doesn’t move, but his eyes follow you as you walk toward the kitchen.

“Make sure he knows how to deal with aerial spiders,” he calls lazily.

“I’ll add it to the checklist,” you shoot back.

You open the fridge. Your reflection in the glass looks like someone who could get laid tonight if only the object of their desire wasn't annoyingly principled and hot about it.

Mingyu’s voice cuts through your thoughts, still from the couch.

“Don’t think I’m letting you win.”

You smile to yourself.

“Who said I was playing fair?”

Third time’s the charm. Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself as you lean over Kim Mingyu’s kitchen counter with your chin propped on your palm, legs crossed just so, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how the hem of your skirt is riding up. It’s Thursday, and he’s cooking. Cooking. Like the audacity of this man, to be hot, funny, emotionally intelligent and able to make dinner from scratch with forearms flexing every time he stirs something. It’s a casual thing. He’d invited you over because you “looked like you hadn’t eaten a real meal in days” after you mentioned surviving on instant noodles and Red Bull. Apparently, that meant he’d take it upon himself to feed you. Like some kind of boyfriend.

Which he is not.

Because he still won’t fuck you (amongst other things).

So tonight, you’ve decided to bring out the big guns: flirting in domesticity. The sacred land of couples and casual touches. If movie night was a game of checkers, this is chess. Strategic. Psychological. Wearing an innocent skirt and a soft sweater because you could be the kind of girl he brings home for the night—or for life. Who’s to say?

He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there, wooden spoon in hand, hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back absently with his wrist, and you have to resist the urge to sigh like a romcom extra watching her crush.

“You know,” you say, lightly kicking your heel against the cabinet beneath you. “You’re dangerously close to wife material right now.”

Mingyu doesn’t look up, just chuckles as he stirs the sauce. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“Depends. You planning on making dessert too?”

He does look up then—eyes gleaming with amusement, the curve of his mouth smug. “What, you trying to lock me down with a ring already?”

You hum, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “I’m just saying, most guys don’t cook for their friends. At least not the ones who claim they’re ‘dangerous’ to sleep with.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “Are we back on this again?”

“We never left,” you say sweetly, hopping off the counter and sauntering over to where he’s plating pasta like some Food Network god. You lean against the island, arms folded, watching him with interest. “So what’s the deal? You’re clearly into me.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t play dumb. You keep inviting me over. You call me cute. You literally offered to drive me across town last week just so I wouldn’t have to take the bus.”

“I’m a good friend,” he says, placing the plates on the counter with an infuriating smile. “Ever think of that?”

“Nope. I don’t buy it.” You take a step closer, close enough to brush his arm with yours. “You’re too good a friend. Suspiciously good. Like you’re overcompensating for wanting to see me naked.”

He huffs a laugh, but you see the way his ears go pink. Just a little. Just enough.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice like you’re telling a secret. “You ever think maybe we’d be better unclothed friends?”

“Bold of you to say while I’m feeding you,” he mutters, half amused, half exasperated.

You grin. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me. Just… expand our friendship. Horizontally.”

He snorts, nearly drops a fork. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There’s a beat. You both go still. He turns to face you fully now, arms crossed, leaning back against the counter. He studies you for a moment—really studies you. It’s the kind of look that might’ve made you flinch a month ago, but now? Now it just makes your blood buzz.

Then he says, very calmly, “I’m not sleeping with you.”

You blink. “Still?”

“Still.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like you.”

“That’s why people usually fuck.”

“Correction: that’s why other people fuck. I like us. I like this. I don’t want this to change.”

You tilt your head, stepping even closer so your bodies nearly touch. “Come on, just one time!”

He breathes out a soft laugh, and god, he looks tired. Like fighting this off is actual work.

Then he raises a hand and gently flicks your forehead.

You reel back. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Bad,” he says, like you’re a misbehaving cat. “No seducing me while I’m cooking.”

You gape at him, one hand still protectively covering your forehead. “You flicked me?”

“It was a gentle rebuke.”

“You flicked me!”

He walks past you, grabbing utensils and dramatically setting the table like you haven’t just offered him your entire body on a very emotional platter.

“You’re lucky this food is good,” you grumble, slinking over to your chair.

“You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from my kitchen.”

“Oh, you’d miss me too much.”

He smiles and doesn’t argue.

And when you sit down across from him, he places a full glass of wine in front of you with a wink.

“Eat up,” he says. “Gotta keep you strong for all that plotting.”

You take a sip, narrowing your eyes. “You’re going down, Kim Mingyu.”

He toasts his own glass. “Bring it.”

Fourth time’s not just the charm—it’s the full fucking spellbook. You're done playing fair. Sweet? Gone. Subtle? Never heard of her. Strategic? Please. It’s time for full-on seduction sorcery (as if you’d been any of those things before). Tonight, you're bringing the heat.

And you know exactly how to do it: co-op gaming night.

The plan is simple. Mingyu invited you over to try some co-op zombie survival game he swears by, the kind that involves “teamwork and trust,” which you immediately translated as “an excuse to flirt while fake-dying in his lap.” He doesn’t know it yet, but this is your boss level. The moment you either break him… or break yourself trying.

You show up with takeout, lip gloss, and your tiniest pair of shorts, the kind that should be illegal by public decency standards. You pair it with a t-shirt that says “Save a Horse, Ride a Homie” and pretend like you totally forgot how it looked when you got dressed.

He stares at you. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then snorts, voice a little rough, “That shirt is… something.”

You grin, pushing past him. “It’s educational.”

Mingyu groans behind you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“That’s the goal, sweetheart.”

You settle in on the couch, already syncing up controllers. He hands you yours with a suspicious glance.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he says, eyes narrowing. “That means you’re up to something.”

“Wrong,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’m just here to kill zombies and look cute.”

“You’re doing great at one of those.”

You smirk. “Wait ‘til you see my aim.”

The game starts. It’s fast-paced, messy, full of chaotic yelling and pixelated blood. You scream when a zombie jumps out, grabbing his arm without thinking—and then don’t let go. He’s warm. Solid. Way too close to not be touched.

“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing down at where you’re gripping his bicep. “You okay there?”

“I need moral support,” you say, innocently. “This game is stressful. I’m fragile.”

“You’re the least fragile person I’ve ever met.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

You squeeze his arm a little harder and he doesn't shake you off. In fact, he seems very… still. Eyes on the screen. Jaw tight. Perfect.

You lean your head against his shoulder. “You smell really nice,” you murmur.

Mingyu coughs. “I—what?”

“You smell like laundry and testosterone. It’s comforting.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer, but his shoulder shifts beneath your cheek—tense, like you’re a particularly tricky level of self-control he’s struggling to beat. The match ends. You survive. Barely. You celebrate by dramatically flopping across his lap, legs hanging off the couch, head tilted back against his thigh.

“I need a reward,” you say, eyes fluttering closed.

“For what? Dying twice and screaming every time something moved?”

“For being adorable under pressure.”

“You’re insufferable.”

You crack one eye open. “And yet you haven’t moved me.”

“I don’t want to throw out my back.”

You roll over just enough to look up at him from his lap, your cheek pressed against his thigh, hair fanned out over his legs. “Do I make you nervous, Mingyu?”

He meets your gaze. Doesn’t flinch. Just raises a single, challenging brow.

“No,” he says. “You make me tired.”

You laugh, breathless and fond. “Liar.”

He sighs, not quite annoyed. More like… resigned. His hand hovers, then lands lightly on your head—just a little pat, soft and careful. You close your eyes, heart thudding a little too loud.

“Still not fucking you,” he says after a beat, fingers curling once in your hair before pulling away.

You groan, rolling dramatically off his lap. “You’re really gonna make me work for this, huh?”

He shrugs, smug as hell. “I’m just helping build your character.”

You sit up, shoving a controller into his hands. “Boring. But if I win the next round, you owe me a kiss.”

Mingyu barks a laugh. “A kiss? What happened to subtlety?”

“It died,” you say cheerfully, “like my character did last round.”

He stares at you. And then—God help you—he nods.

“Fine,” he says. “One kiss. If you win.”

You freeze. “Wait, really?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re letting me think I have a chance.”

“No,” he says, already choosing his loadout, “I’m just confident you’ll choke.”

Your heart stumbles. Your fingers tighten on the controller. “Jokes on you, I have very good control over my gag reflex.” You say with a smirk, prompting an eye roll.

He doesn’t get it yet.

He’s already lost.

Because even if you lose the game—you’re still getting that kiss.

One way or another.

Let the real final boss fight begin.

You lose.

Of course you do.

You die seven times, run directly into a trap once, and at one point, accidentally shoot Mingyu in the back with your pixelated shotgun.

“I told you to watch your six,” he says, tossing his controller onto the table with a grin that is far too pleased with itself.

“I don’t even know what that means!” you cry, slumping sideways on the couch in defeat. “Do I have a six?”

Mingyu stretches, flexing his arms like a smug asshole who just conquered a small country. “It means behind you, rookie.”

“I hate military slang. And you. Mostly you.”

“You love me,” he says, nudging your knee with his own. “Even if I’m a sore winner.”

You scowl. “You're the smuggest winner. Obnoxious. The worst.”

“You’re stalling,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “You lost. You know what that means.”

“Yeah, yeah, no kiss for me.” You say with a pout, throwing a pillow at him.

“Better luck next time,” he says with a wink, catching the pillow and chucking it right back.

It hits you in the stomach, and you collapse in defeat again. “I don’t know how someone so hot can also be so emotionally bankrupt.”

He laughs—loud and free and unfairly handsome. “Don’t act like I haven’t given you things.”

You give him a look. “Name one.”

“Entertainment. Dinner. Valuable zombie combat skills. My lap.”

“That last one was mine.”

“You invaded, actually. Like a feral cat.”

You stick your tongue out at him as he stretches out across the couch, laughing.

You let him win this time because you know in the end, you’ll end up on top (or under, really).

Seungcheol, like always, is hosting a party in honor of who-knows-what doing something or another. You don’t care, all you care about is that this means proximity. Opportunity. A chance to look like you belong in someone else’s fantasy. Preferably Mingyu’s. You stand in the middle of your room, surrounded by the wreckage of indecision: clothing draped over every surface, shoes like fallen soldiers at your feet. Your bed is a graveyard of rejects—too casual, too clingy, too try-hard. You’ve already put on three different outfits and hated them all in the time it took to blink, making your room smell faintly of perfume and self-doubt.

You finally find a dress, hot but not desperate, showing just enough skin to tease but not too much. You twist, checking every angle. It works. It works so well you almost feel sorry for him. You sit at your vanity to do your makeup, something soft around the eyes, shimmer at the inner corners, lip gloss just on the verge of sticky. You want to look glowy. So touchable yet untouchable. Expensive.

Your earrings are simple but deliberate, the kind that draws just enough attention when you tuck your hair behind your ear. And you will. At least twice. Especially if he’s looking. Your perfume is the last step. It’s warm—vanilla and skin and something that lingers. You spritz your wrists, the back of your knees. You’ve read that trick somewhere and it’s never failed you.

You glance at your phone. You’re late.

Of course, that’s part of the plan.

You take one last look in the mirror. You look like someone who doesn’t get ignored. You look like someone who knows exactly what kind of power she’s playing with. You smooth your dress, grab your bag, and smile.

“Let’s see how long he lasts.”

The party is already loud when you get there. Not in the chaotic, packed-club way. It’s a loft space that smells like prosecco and floor polish, all open brick and fairy lights strung across beams. The music is low enough to talk over, the people pretty enough to pretend they don’t notice how much they’re being watched.

You arrive just late enough to make an entrance. It’s deliberate, the way you step in. The way you give yourself a second to adjust your dress, smooth your hair, tilt your chin like you’ve just been complimented. Someone—probably Soonyoung, the agent of all poor decisions—suggests drinking games which have already snowballed into over ten people crammed into a too-small living room playing a game that’s half charades, half yelling, and all drinking.

You’re winning. Not the game—just in general.

Because you’ve got Mingyu sandwiched between you and the arm of the couch, his thigh warm against yours, a drink in your hand, and an entire audience to witness the masterpiece that is your ongoing campaign to ruin him.

You lean over, breath brushing his ear. “If you make me guess ‘Shrek’ one more time, I swear I’ll crawl into your lap.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just sips his beer. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It is,” you whisper. “I’ve been told I run hot.”

“I’ve been told you run your mouth.”

You grin. “Still not a no.”

“Still not a yes.”

From across the room, Seungkwan yells, “Your team is losing. Stop trying to molest Mingyu.”

You wave him off. “I’m multitasking.”

Mingyu takes another sip, casual. “You’re losing both tasks.”

You gasp. “Oh, wow. Now you’re trash-talking?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You wound me.” You clutch your chest dramatically, sliding a little closer until your legs are nearly tangled with his. “I’m just a girl. Sitting next to a boy. Asking him to blow my back out.”

He tilts his head lazily, looking entirely unbothered. “And I’m just a boy. Sitting next to a walking HR violation.”

You burst out laughing. “That’s rich coming from a man whose thighs are currently weaponized.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shifts slightly away, like he’s drawing some imaginary line you’ll absolutely ignore. A new round starts. Someone yells, someone else starts gesturing wildly. You lean into Mingyu again, voice low and mischievous.

“Hey,” you say. “If I guessed your safe word, would you tell me?”

“No,” he says immediately.

“Is it something embarrassing?” you tease. “Like… ‘Bubbles?’ ‘Chick-fil-A?’”

He looks at you. “It’s ‘Stop flirting with me in front of our friends.’”

You place a hand on his knee, entirely unrepentant. “That’s a terrible safe word. No one would ever say that in a sexy context, and it's way too long.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“And I’m ignoring it,” you say brightly.

“You always do.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like the attention.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, slow and deliberate, and sips his beer like it’s a middle finger. You wink. He rolls his eyes. Somewhere across the room, someone starts fake-gagging at the tension.

And maybe you’re not winning the game. And maybe you’re not getting laid. But you are exactly where you want to be. Still in the game. Still in the chase. Still driving Mingyu absolutely insane—one flirt at a time.

You're halfway through another drink when you notice her.

She’s pretty. Not intimidatingly so, just that easy kind of pretty that laughs with her whole face and touches Mingyu’s arm a little too often. And he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lean away. You keep sipping, smile still in place.

It’s not like you’re jealous. You don’t do jealous. That would imply something serious. That would imply you’re losing something you ever had. It’s common knowledge that Mingyu takes a new girl home every time there's a get-together. You know that.

You lean over to Jeonghan, who’s beside you on the floor. “Hey,” you whisper. “Think I should start licking Mingyu’s neck or would that be overkill?”

He blinks at you. “Overkill for what?”

“Winning.”

He glances at Mingyu, then at the girl with the hand on Mingyu’s knee. Then at you again. “You’re losing.”

“Temporarily.”

Jeonghan snorts. “I don’t think you understand how the game works.”

You shoot him a glare and turn back just in time to catch Mingyu laughing at something she said. His hand brushes hers. Casual. Effortless. The kind of thing you’ve been trying to get out of him for weeks just handed to some girl in a backless top.

God, you hate it here.

Your stomach does something stupid. You pretend it’s indigestion and down the rest of your drink like it’s armor.

Somewhere around 1 a.m., the group starts thinning. Jackets come on, Ubers get called. Mingyu stands, casual, easy, and holds out a hand to the girl. You’re on the couch, legs curled up, an empty solo cup in hand like a sad little trophy. He meets your eyes for half a second.

Door clicks shut.

The room feels a little quieter. You sit there, watching the screen even though no one’s playing anymore. Popcorn underfoot. Bottles on the table. Someone else’s jacket on your lap. You’re not upset. Not really. The screensaver flickers across the TV—someone’s dog, maybe. Or a stock image of a beach. Either way, it’s mocking you.

You sink further into the couch, solo cup still dangling from your fingers like it's got something to say about your life choices. You ignore it. You ignore the silence too.

This is fine.

You’re fine.

You weren’t trying to win anything. Not really. Not in any real, capital-letter way. This was a game, remember? All jokes and eye contact and the occasional threat to climb into his lap. It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Someone turns off the lights in the kitchen. You flinch a little at the sudden dark, even though you’re still glowing, apparently—your phone lighting up on the table with some meme from Seungkwan and a text from Jeonghan that just says:

«Devil on my shoulder»: you good?

You stare at it for a second too long. Then type back:

«Me»: always

Then you set your phone face-down and pretend that means something.

You don’t know why it stings. It’s not like he owes you anything. You’re not dating. You’re not even flirting, technically, if you ask him. Just… joking. Just friends. Friends who touch too much, maybe. Friends who play chicken with boundaries and never break. Friends who—

Yeah, okay.

You stand up. A little too fast. The room tilts like it wants to challenge you. You wave goodbye to whoever’s still left, say something flippant and breezy, and duck out before anyone can notice that your voice sounds a little too bright.

Outside, the air is cool and sharp and real. You take a breath like it’ll fix you. It doesn’t.

You go home and go to sleep. Alone, like always. No texts. No calls. Just the creak of your door, the whisper of your sheets, and the dull ache of your pride bruising in real time. You tell yourself it’s whatever. You’re not sad. You’re just… tired. Emotionally. Dramatically. Cosmetically.

You ditch class.

Not for any noble reason like catching up on sleep or mental health or whatever excuse you normally feed yourself. You just… don’t feel like seeing people. Don’t feel like making small talk or pretending you’re not reeling over something that shouldn't even count as a loss. Because it’s not a loss. You were never in the running.

Still, you wake up to a blank phone screen and an even blanker apartment. It’s too quiet. You check Instagram. Mingyu's not posted anything, obviously. He never does. But one of the other girls from last night has—there’s a blurry video of a round of drinks, a flash of Mingyu’s grin in the background, a corner of her thigh in the foreground. Nothing explicit. Nothing confirmable. But it doesn’t have to be.

You toss your phone aside and groan into your pillow. Dramatic? Maybe. Deserved? You pretend it is.

By noon, you’ve migrated to the couch in the same hoodie you went to bed in, a tub of ice cream in your lap and a terrible reality show playing in the background. You consider texting Jeonghan something petty, maybe even making a joke about neck-licking again, but you know exactly what he’d say.

“You lost.”

You hate that he’d be right.

It’s not about the sex (Well, not just the sex). It’s the principle. The chase. The fact that you’ve been climbing this flirty little hill like it’s Everest, only to watch Mingyu pitch a damn tent with someone else on a whim. Sure, Mingyu’s your friend, but that should have made it easier, if anything! You know him, you know things none of those other girls do. The doubts start creeping in your mind before you can stop them.

You lean your head back, eyes closing.

“I’m an idiot,” you mutter to the ceiling.

The ceiling does not respond. Rude.

You wake up again around noon, your head a little foggy, your phone face-down on the nightstand like it betrayed you.

Which, in a way, it did.

You scroll through a few texts — mostly memes, some blurry pictures from last night, and Jeonghan’s very helpful “Mingyu’s girl looked like a yoga instructor. Your move.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you drag yourself out of bed, slap some concealer under your eyes, and show up at the group’s usual late brunch spot like you’re not currently losing the dumbest, pettiest war in history.

He’s already there, of course. Hair still damp from a shower, sunglasses perched on his head, acting like he didn’t absolutely obliterate your ego less than 12 hours ago. You slide into the seat across from him, toss your bag down, and reach for the mimosa pitcher.

“Rough night?” he asks, because of course he does.

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh, did something happen? I wouldn’t know. I was too busy not getting laid.”

He snorts. “Tragic.”

“I know,” you sigh, pouring dramatically. “I almost had a sure thing. Tall guy, stupidly good-looking, terrible taste in women.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“Total menace,” you agree. “Wears hoodies like a slut.”

Mingyu smirks, leaning back in his seat. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It was meant to be foreplay,” you joke into your drink like always, hiding the way your stomach sinks at the sight of him.

The waitress interrupts before he can fire back, and the conversation shifts to food, hangovers, and Seungkwan’s latest dating horror story. You slide back into the group like nothing’s wrong, even though there’s a weird little space inside you that feels vaguely bruised.

But you’re fine. Really.

Brunch drags on in that lazy, post-night-out kind of way — plates half-empty, drinks refilled without question, everyone talking over each other about things no one will remember tomorrow. You fake-laugh at Hoshi’s story about getting kicked out of a club for “enthusiastic dancing” and sip your third mimosa like it’s a coping mechanism. It kind of is.

Mingyu’s across from you still, legs sprawled like he owns the whole sidewalk café. He’s mostly quiet, nodding along, occasionally chiming in, occasionally looking at you. Just enough to make you insane. Not enough to call him out for it.

You lean toward Jeonghan when the conversation shifts again. “Hey,” you whisper, low and conspiratorial. “Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how good do you think my odds are if I fake faint in Mingyu’s lap?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Like, in general? Or while he’s still got yoga girl’s perfume on his hoodie?”

You pause. Grimace. “Okay, one: rude. Two: you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I really am,” he says, sipping his iced coffee like it’s tea. “You’re fun when you’re losing.”

“I’m not losing,” you hiss.

“You’re not winning.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Mingyu’s voice cuts across the table.

“You two whispering about me again?”

“Always,” you say brightly, switching gears without missing a beat. “We’re discussing how you peaked in 2019.”

He smiles around the rim of his glass. “That the year you first tried to get in my pants?”

“No,” you say with a shrug. “That was more recent. I didn’t know what I was missing back then.”

“Still don’t,” he replies, maddeningly calm.

You narrow your eyes. “Yet.”

“Ever.”

You flash a grin, syrup-sweet. “Careful, Kim. I’m like a raccoon in the walls. You ignore me long enough and I start chewing through the wiring.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. A little. Just at the corner of his mouth.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then look away like it meant nothing. Like you’re not keeping score. Like you didn’t notice the bruise-colored shadow under his eyes or how his voice was a little hoarse when he first said hi.

He’s not gloating.

That should make it easier. But it doesn’t. Because somehow, that makes it worse.

Somehow, him being normal, relaxed, unbothered — like taking another girl home wasn’t a big deal — hurts more than if he’d rubbed it in your face. Because you know it shouldn’t be a big deal.

You take another sip, push a smile onto your lips, and lean over to Jeonghan again.

“New plan,” you whisper. “I sleep with someone hotter.”

He glances at Mingyu. Then at you. “You’re gonna need a bracket system.”

“I’ll make a spreadsheet.”

“God help us all.”

You clink your glass against his in solemn agreement and stab at your pancake like it personally offended you. Jeonghan’s scrolling on his phone like he’s not in the presence of your emotional collapse, which is rude, frankly.

“So,” you say casually, “wanna fuck?”

Jeonghan doesn’t even blink. “No.”

You pout. “Why not?”

He glances up. “Because I enjoy my life? And my sanity?”

“Rude.”

“I’ve seen what you’ve done to Mingyu.”

You scoff. “Mingyu did that to himself.”

“You are the one trying to seduce him like it’s your full-time job.”

“I’m freelance,” you say brightly. “Flexible hours, great benefits. Or they would be, if someone would just let me ride—”

“God,” Jeonghan mutters, holding up a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence in daylight.”

You lean your chin on your hand, smiling at him. “You sure? We could make Mingyu jealous. Really commit to the bit. Tongue in my mouth, hand on my ass, your name in my—”

“Please.” He waves his fork like a white flag. “There are families within a one-mile radius.”

You laugh, but there’s a tiny part of you—just under the humor, under the tequila still fizzing in your veins from the drink—that means it. Just a little.

You just want to feel wanted. Desired. Chosen.

Even if it’s fake.

Even if it’s stupid.

Even if it’s Jeonghan.

But Jeonghan sees it, of course. He always sees too much. His voice softens. “You don’t actually want me.”

You sigh, deflating. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want someone to look at me like I’m not a joke.”

“You’re not a joke.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You literally said I ruined Mingyu.”

“I said you ruined his brain, which—honestly, fair. But you’re not a joke.”

You don’t answer. You just go back to stabbing your pancake, chewing on silence and syrup and the feeling of almost being enough.

Almost.

You clear your throat, sit up a little straighter, and flash Jeonghan a grin like nothing’s wrong at all.

“Well,” you say lightly, “if you’re not going to help me fulfill my slutty revenge arc, I guess I’ll have to outsource.”

Jeonghan eyes you. “You’re deflecting.”

You widen your smile. “I’m recruiting.”

He snorts. “Don’t recruit me. I’m unionized.”

You laugh, tossing a piece of fruit at his face. He dodges it easily, still watching you with that quiet scrutiny that always makes you want to squirm. You don’t. You stay collected. Cool. Unbothered.

Because it’s not a big deal. Not really. So what if Mingyu left with some girl last night? That’s just who he is. It’s been who he is since before you started this ridiculous game. You were the one who walked in knowing the rules. You just… hoped you’d break them.

Stupid.

“Anyway,” you say, breezy, like you're not holding your smile together with metaphorical duct tape, “I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m improvising.”

“You’re losing.”

You sigh, dragging your gaze back to Mingyu—still relaxed, still maddening, still wearing that same damn hoodie. “God, he’s so annoying.”

“Sure,” Jeonghan says, “but you’re in love with the attention.”

You snort into your drink. “I am not in love.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not!” you insist. “I’m in… open conflict. With my dignity.”

Jeonghan chuckles, tipping his sunglasses down to look you in the eye. “Then maybe start treating it like a war. Regroup. Change tactics.”

You glance at Mingyu again. He’s listening to something Seungkwan is saying, a lazy smile on his face, like the last twenty-four hours were nothing. Like none of it meant anything. You hate how much you still want to reach out, to rewind to the couch, to the teasing, to the slow thrill of being almost something. Of feeling like you mattered more than the rest.

“Fine,” you murmur, straightening up. “New strategy.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

You smile, all teeth and intent. “Play the long game.”

He snorts. “Is that code for ‘text a situationship to make Mingyu jealous?’”

“No,” you say, pulling your phone out anyway. “It’s code for ‘remind myself I’m the main character.’”

Jeonghan lifts his mimosa in salute. “Amen.”

You all head out, someone, Seungkwan probably, suggesting thrifting, and who are you to deny yourself from some retail therapy. Not that you need it. Not that it hurts when you’re rejected over and over. Not that anyone was thinking that at all. Haha.

“If I find an outfit sexy enough will you change your mind?” You say, clinging to Mingyu’s arm and batting your eyelashes, prompting an eye roll from the man.

“I rejected you in lingerie, no.” He laughs, making Jeonghan choke.

“PARDON?!”

You shrug, “It was a strategic move at the time.” You lie, not letting it bother you.

You all walk into the thrift store and you immediately take off, dragging Jeonghan with you to be the reason for your poor spending decisions. You browse the racks, grabbing different things to try on. It goes by quickly, you (not-so) subtly avoid Mingyu, using the clothes as an excuse. You need to focus on budgeting. Obviously.

You’re browsing through the dresses when you feel him behind you. You don’t look, don’t need to. You know that presence, tall and annoyingly warm. You pretend to be invested in a vaguely sparkly green slip dress, holding it up to the light like you're testing it for authenticity. As if that matters.

“Whatcha looking at?” Mingyu asks, voice low and closer than you’d like.

You hum noncommittally, turning just enough to side-eye him. “Does this say ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck off?” You wonder out loud.

His mouth quirks, amused, “Neither, it says you’re trying to get to me again. I’m not sleeping with you, dress or not.”

You roll your eyes, “Cool, not what I asked.”

He snorts, the way always does when you're trying to act unbothered. “You literally asked, like, ten minutes ago.”

“That was a bit, Kim,” you say, flipping through a few more hangers. “An act. I’m a performer, get with the program.”

He laughs again, and it makes your chest feel tight. You want to be mad, want to have the right to feel mad. Instead you hold up a red mesh dress and make a show of holding it against yourself.

“This one says heartbreaker, doesn’t it?”

Mingyu lifts an eyebrow. “It says cover charge required.”

Jeonghan snorts from somewhere behind a rack. “He’s not wrong.”

You sigh dramatically, turning to Jeonghan with a pout. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Jeonghan says, already holding three things you didn’t ask him to, “but I also support truth in fashion.”

You roll your eyes and stomp toward the dressing rooms, tossing the dress over your arm. Inside the dressing room, it’s just you and the mirror — which is never as forgiving as it should be. You pull the red mesh dress over your head and immediately regret it. It clings, not in a flattering way, not in a sexy, dangerous way — no, it clings like a bad idea. A transparent, slightly itchy bad idea.

You stare at yourself for a beat too long, imagining what Mingyu would say if he saw you like this. Probably something smug. Probably something that would make you want to claw the smirk right off his face.

But the worst part? He wouldn’t say nothing.

You sigh, tugging the dress back off with a grumble and trying on the next thing — a black velvet number with off-the-shoulder sleeves. Better. Safer. Something you might actually wear if your life wasn’t a constant performance. If it weren’t for all the stupid looks you steal, the dumb comments you toss like confetti just to see if he’ll catch one and throw it back. You shake the thoughts away, it's just shopping, why are you thinking so hard?

Outside, you can hear the others chatting, footsteps, laughter. You can feel Mingyu still somewhere nearby. Of course he didn’t leave.

You try on one last outfit, something ridiculous and shiny and absolutely not within budget, and you know Jeonghan’s going to encourage it anyway. You exit the stall dramatically, hand on your hip.

“Well?” you say, spinning once. “Do I look heartbreakingly unattainable or tragically desperate?”

“Why choose?” Seungkwan offers, sipping an iced americano he absolutely didn’t have five minutes ago.

“Iconic,” Jeonghan nods approvingly. “That outfit is the personality now. You’re welcome.”

Mingyu glances up from his phone. His gaze lingers a second too long — you catch it, of course you do — and then he says, “You’re gonna make someone very confused in that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Not you, though?”

“Nope,” he says easily, looking back at his screen. “I’ve already accepted my fate.”

“What fate is that?” you ask, stepping closer, tone teasing.

He doesn’t look up. “Doomed to be hit on in public by someone who refuses to take a hint.”

Jeonghan whistles. “Harsh.”

You just smile, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. Still following me around thrift stores like a sad golden retriever.”

Mingyu finally meets your eyes, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, but it’s softer than it should be.

You wish it stung more. Maybe then you could stop hoping he’d change his mind.

You step back into the dressing room, looking at the last dress for you to try on. Not something you’d normally wear: a cute sundress, flowy, innocent, something you’d have dreamed of wearing when you were a child. You slip it on, looking in the mirror with a soft smile. It's moments like these that you let yourself breath a second, let that little kid be happy. Back when things had been simpler, at least in your little world. You don’t step out yet, letting yourself enjoy the moment before changing back into your regular clothes.

You finally walk back out, dress under the others on your arm as you hang them back up. You hesitate as you hang the sundress and decide, fuck it.

“Alright, let's check out.” You say brightly.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow as he watches you march toward the front. “Wait, you’re buying something cute? Are you okay? Blink twice if Mingyu broke you emotionally.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “He wishes he had that kind of power, shut the fuck up.”

Seungkwan hums thoughtfully, trailing behind you with the solemnity of a fashion consultant in a Paris showroom. “No, no, this is giving… character development. Like a girlboss in her soft era. A post-Mingyu arc.”

“I’m not in a Mingyu arc,” you mutter as you reach the checkout counter.

“Sure you aren’t,” Seungkwan and Jeonghan say at the same time, which feels both rude and accurate.

You ignore them, placing the sundress gently on the counter like it’s fragile. The cashier gives you a polite smile, ringing it up with a soft beep. You hand over your card, pretending not to notice how Mingyu is suddenly next to you again, close enough that you can smell the damn detergent he uses. Clean. Familiar.

“You’re buying that?” he asks, not mocking, just wondering.

You shrug without looking at him. “Yup.”

He glances at the dress, then at you. “It’s… different.”

“I guess,” you say, too quickly. “It's pretty though, thought I might branch out from slutty college student to country whore.”

Mingyu’s chuckles. You don’t look, don’t dare to. Just sign your name on the little screen and slide your card back into your wallet like this is any other day and not a minor shift in your emotional tectonic plates.

“You’ll look good in it,” he says honestly, the same compliments he always gives.

But something about it feels different, deeper, almost. You turn then, just enough to meet his gaze. There’s something in his eyes you can’t place. It’s not the usual teasing glint, not that sharp-edged challenge he usually throws at you like a dare, nor the friendly compliments and support he gives just as often.

It’s something softer. Careful, almost.

You swallow. “Thanks.”

He nods once, then looks away like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like it slipped. You want to say something else — anything, really — but Seungkwan saves you both the trouble by clapping his hands like a preschool teacher at snack time.

“Alright, emotional tension break’s over, everyone back in the car before I dissolve into my own feelings.”

“I’m not riding with her,” Mingyu says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s dangerous when she’s self-actualizing.”

You grin at him and tease. “Scared you might give in?”

He just shakes his head, smiling to himself as he walks out, “You wish.”

Jeonghan loops an arm through yours as you step outside, his sunglasses back on like he’s shielding himself from your emotional UV rays. “You gonna explain the new style?” he says, voice amused but not unkind. You shake your head and his voice softens slightly. “You gonna be okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him a little. “Eventually.”

“Soon?”

You grin. “Long game, remember?”

He sighs, dragging you toward the car. “God, I miss when you were just drunk and emotionally irresponsible. This whole personal growth thing is exhausting.”

You laugh, letting him pull you along. Mingyu’s already in the passenger seat, legs sprawled like always, phone in hand. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.

You still feel the pull anyway. But you’ve got your new dress in a bag, your chin a little higher than before and a half-smile tucked into your cheek like a secret. Maybe he’ll notice eventually. Maybe he won’t. But this time, you’re not dressing up for him. You’re dressing up for the version of yourself that knew she deserved the world. Even if she still kind of wants him anyway.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe, just for a little, it’s not about whether Mingyu looks at you and finally, finally sees what he’s been too comfortable to name. Maybe it’s about choosing to see yourself instead—clearly, kindly, without a punchline waiting in the wings.

The ride back is half-loud, half-sleepy, Seungkwan yelling about bad aux and Jeonghan threatening to start a podcast just to cancel him publicly. You laugh when you’re supposed to, play your part like you always do. But this time, it feels less like acting and more like remembering. Like brushing off old habits and trying something different. Like letting your heart catch its breath for a moment.

You catch Mingyu watching you once in the rearview mirror—just a flicker, a second too long before he looks away. You don’t react. You don’t rise to it. And when he cracks a joke meant to bait you, you smile, slow and warm, and say nothing at all.

Let him wonder.

Because for just a moment you’re pausing the chase and enjoying the moment with friends. Because you’ve got something better now—something quieter, steadier.

A little hope. A little growth.

A little dress in a bag that says: You’re allowed to change.

And maybe, just maybe, this time it’s not about ruining him.

Maybe it’s about saving yourself.

Just for a moment.

And then you snap out of it, going back to smart remarks and flirty comments, because change is hard, habits difficult to break. But you know that it’s possible. And for now, that’s enough.

Four days later, you arrive at Mingyu’s door wearing sweatpants and no bra.

Not in a sexy way. In an “I’ve had enough of your righteous self-control and I’m playing the long game now” way. Strategic vulnerability. The sexiest mind game of all. More than that, you need to rant to your best friend.

You knock with your elbow, a bag of takeout in one hand and a pint of ice cream balanced on top.

He opens the door and freezes.

“Wow,” he says, blinking. “You okay?”

“No,” you say, breezing past him. “I’m emotionally fragile and I need dumplings.”

Mingyu closes the door behind you. “You look emotionally fragile. Did someone die? Do I need to bury a body?”

You flop dramatically onto the couch, stretching like a cat who’s absolutely not here for seduction purposes. “Only my faith in modern romance.”

He snorts. “Was it the TikTok guy who said he wouldn’t date a girl who owns more than one pillow?”

You glare at him. “No. But honestly? Same energy.”

He joins you on the couch, reaching for the takeout bag. “Tell me everything.”

And you do. In great detail. About the guy in your seminar who asked if your “whole personality is just being a woman,” about your professor who made a joke about menopause while grading your essay, and about your period arriving early like an emotionally manipulative ex.

Through it all, Mingyu listens. Really listens. His thigh brushes yours occasionally, and you absolutely don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your collarbone, which is scandalously bare thanks to your hoodie’s slouchy neckline.

He feeds you dumplings, presses the ice cream into your hands when you need it, and tells you he once cried at a car commercial, just to make you laugh.

And somewhere in the middle of watching reruns of Criminal Minds and trading increasingly unhinged opinions about Spencer Reid’s emotional maturity, you realize just how fucked you may be. Because Mingyu is your best friend. He’s your kind, funny, smart, unfairly sexy best friend. How are you supposed to stop yourself from falling for him?

Jeonghan was right, you realize. You're way deeper than you thought, so deep that you don’t think you can ever swim back to the surface of friendship. Shit. You continue watching, ignoring the feelings, knowing damn well they won’t go away. You fight the realization, convincing yourself to wait until you’re alone to break.

You aren’t even sure when you fell asleep, just that you woke up wrapped in a blanket, sprawled out on Mingyu’s couch.

He’s at the kitchen counter now, back to you, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower. You stay still for a second longer, watching the curve of his shoulders shift as he pours himself a glass of water. You have the absurd thought that you could walk over and press your face between his shoulder blades and he might let you.

“You let me hog your couch,” you murmur, voice still scratchy.

“You drooled on it too,” he replies without turning, deadpan.

You smile faintly and sit up, the blanket slipping down. “Guess I owe you something.”

That gets him to glance over his shoulder. “You’re not cleaning it.”

You stand and stretch slowly, deliberately, feigning casualness. “Nah, I was thinking something more fun.” You walk over, letting your hand brush against the side of his as you reach for the same glass. “Maybe you should consider accepting one of my offers for once?”

“You’re really gonna try that before brushing your teeth?” he jokes lightly, but there's a quiet firmness beneath the joke.

You laugh—too loud, too fast. “Wow. Harsh.” You lean back, arms crossing over your chest to hide the sting. “I’m beginning to think you’re scared of me, Gyu.”

“I’m not scared of you,” he says. He turns to look at you then, really look, and the joke falls flat between you.

There's a pause.

“Then what is it?” you ask, keeping your voice even, your smile like armor. “Am I just not your type? I didn’t think you had one from the… variety of girls I’ve seen you take home.”

Mingyu looks away, running a hand through his hair. “You’re tired. Go back to sleep.”

You don’t move. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got for you.”

You let the silence settle in like dust. Then you nod, once, and turn away before he can see the disappointment tightening your face.

“Fine,” you say, the humor gone now even though you try to keep your voice light. “I’ll brush my teeth first next time.” You attempt, dropping back onto the couch and pulling the blanket over your shoulders like it might shield you from how hollow it suddenly feels.

Once you get home you let yourself fully realize. You sink into your bed, all of the moments that made you fall for him crashing into you like a tidal wave you hadn’t realized was coming until it was drowning you. His smile, his laugh, how he helps people when they need it, even when they don’t. How you use stupid jokes and flirting to pretend you don’t feel the way you do. How every time he’d take a new girl home a small part of you would twinge. How you’ve been so incredibly stupid. You wipe your tears, taking a shaky breath.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

The next wave crashes when you remember just how much he doesn’t want you. How much he turns you down, how much you try. You’d never had to try so hard with anyone else, you’d been able to bat your eyelashes and end up in someone's bed if you so wanted. But not the one person who matters.

But even that—even that—you try to twist into something survivable.

Maybe he’s just being careful. Maybe you’re too important to risk. Maybe he’s a coward.

Maybe you are.

You tell yourself he was tired too. That he didn’t mean it like that. That timing is everything and yours has always sucked.

Still, the thought circles like a vulture:

He doesn’t want you. Not like that.

And it doesn’t matter how many times you run the memories back through your head, searching for proof that he did. Because no matter how hard you look, you don’t find anything except friendly banter and a hint of genuine annoyance. Your flirting annoys him, you realize. You think back to the set of his jaw, then slight tension in his shoulders. The boundaries you’d been constantly pushing.

You don’t text him for two days.

He doesn’t text either.

On the third day, Jeonghan shows up at your door with his usual lack of warning and a bag of pastries that you’re too sad to pretend you don’t immediately want.

“I bring carbs and judgment,” he says cheerfully, pushing inside. “How’s the unrequited love pit treating you?”

You groan and faceplant into your pillow.

“Oh good,” Jeonghan says, “you’ve upgraded from denial to despair. Next stop, emotional rock bottom. We’ll get you a punch card.”

You muffle into the pillow, “I thought you were going to pretend to be supportive.”

“I am being supportive,” he says, tugging the blanket off you just enough to shove a croissant into your hand. “You’re not crying alone. You’re crying with me. And a chocolate pastry.”

You take a bite. Then another. Jeonghan waits.

After a minute, you speak. “He looked me in the eyes and told me to go back to sleep. Like I was just tired. Like that explained everything.”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, just watches you with that knowing look that makes you want to throw the croissant at him.

“I was half-joking,” you continue, bitterly. “The flirting. The offers. The lingerie. All of it — it was funny. It was supposed to be funny.”

“It was never just funny,” Jeonghan says gently.

You sit up, brushing crumbs off your hoodie. “Well, it wasn’t serious, either. Not at first. It was a bit, Han. A way to keep things easy. A way to be close to him without, you know—actually saying it.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “But then it stopped being a bit.”

You press your palms into your eyes, letting the heel of your hand dig into your sockets. “Yeah. And the worst part? He probably still thinks it is. He probably thinks I’m just messing with him for fun. That I never meant any of it.”

Jeonghan leans back in your desk chair, spinning slightly as he crosses one leg over the other. “Well, to be fair… you’ve kind of trained everyone around you to think you’re never serious.”

You shoot him a look.

“I’m not judging!” he says, holding up a hand. “Just saying. You’re always ‘fine.’ Always laughing first. You’ve got more walls than a medieval castle, and all of them are covered in sarcasm and slutty little jokes.”

You give a half-hearted snort. “You say that like it’s a bad strategy.”

“It’s a safe strategy,” he corrects. “Until you actually start feeling something and suddenly no one knows when you’re telling the truth — including him.”

You go quiet. Because he’s right. You’ve been dancing that line for so long, even you stopped knowing when it was real and when it was for the bit. Until now. Until the silence stretched too long and the jokes stopped landing and all you wanted was for him to want you back — not as a punchline, not as part of the game, but really, actually, you.

And he didn’t.

Or maybe he did — but if he did, he’s never going to say it. Never going to risk what you have. You’re always the one pushing. Always the one cracking a joke that skirts too close to the truth. You made it a game so you wouldn’t have to face how much it would hurt to lose.

Now it hurts anyway.

“I feel stupid,” you say softly.

“You’re not,” Jeonghan replies. “You just fell for someone who’s too scared to catch you. That’s not on you.”

You look down at the pastry in your hands, crumbling around the edges. “Then why do I feel like the punchline?”

“Because you’ve been delivering the setup for months,” he says, gently. “And now the joke’s on you.”

You laugh, dry and humorless. “Great. Love that for me.”

Jeonghan reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Hey. You’re not done. You’re just heartbruised.”

“Heartbruised?” you echo.

He shrugs. “It’s like heartbroken, but softer. More recoverable. You’ll bounce back. You always do.” You nod slowly, letting the silence settle for a second.

And then you say, “I’m done flirting with him.”

Jeonghan lifts a brow. “Sure you are.”

“No, seriously. No more jokes. No more lingerie. No more pretending I don’t mean it.”

“Does that mean you're going to tell him you mean it?”

You stare at him. “Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

Jeonghan grins, wide and wicked. “So brave. So emotionally evolved.”

You throw a pillow at him.

But in the quiet that follows, you know it’s true — you’ve been chasing him with jokes and soft threats and wide eyes for months, always giving him the out. Always letting it be just a game. But it was never really one. Not for you.

And maybe now the game’s over. Maybe now you stop playing.

Let him wonder.

Let him miss you.

You’ll be okay. You have to be.

Because at the end of the day, if he never wanted you — not really — then he never deserved the version of you that did.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You ignore it for a second, pretending it’s some promotional email or a text from Jeonghan even though he’s sitting right next to you, elbow-deep in your snack drawer like he lives here. But it buzzes again.

Jeonghan glances over. “That him?”

You don’t answer, just reach for it with a knot already forming in your chest.

«Mingyu»: what’s going on with you?

You stare at the screen. Another buzz.

«Mingyu»: you’ve been weird lately

«Mingyu»: did i do something?

Jeonghan watches you read it. “You gonna respond?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, locking the screen.

“Interesting,” he says, drawing out the word. “Old you would’ve replied with something like ‘what, you miss me?’ or ‘guess you’ll have to come over and find out.’”

You shoot him a look. “Well, old me was an idiot.”

“She was funny, though,” he grins. “And so brave.”

“Shut up.”

You unlock your phone again, read the messages once more. Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You could say nothing. You could leave it on read, let him stew in it. Let him wonder why the energy shifted and whether or not you’re finally over it. Over him.

Or you could say something real for once.

Something careful. Controlled.

So you type:

«You»: nothing’s going on «You»: just tired

You hit send, then immediately regret it. It’s too vague. Too obvious. Another message pops up almost instantly.

«Mingyu»: you sure?

And then, a beat later:

«Mingyu»: did i fuck something up?

You sigh and set the phone down face-down. Jeonghan’s still watching you, chewing on some expired gummy bears like this is a drama he’s bingeing with snacks.

“You can’t avoid him forever,” he offers, gently.

You roll your eyes. “And say what? ‘Hey, remember all those times I begged you to sleep with me as a joke? Surprise! I wasn’t kidding!’”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Jeonghan says, amused. “Although that would be on-brand.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

A week passes with you avoiding Mingyu like the plague. He still texts, still worries. At one point you’d almost gone up to him, but then you saw him walking into his dorm with another one-night and realized you couldn’t do this any more. Because seeing him hurt, and you know he’ll never like you back. Not the way you do. So the next time he texts, you don’t ignore him.

«Mingyu»: seriously, you’re worrying me

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering, but you don’t answer. Not yet. Not when everything feels like it’s balancing on the edge of a knife. Not when his name flashing on your screen makes your heart twist. Another text follows.

«Mingyu»: did i do something? «Mingyu»: just tell me, please

You bite the inside of your cheek. The truth is tangled up in too many months of jokes that weren’t really jokes, of sidelong glances and lingering touches passed off as nothing. And now you don’t know how to say it without setting the whole thing on fire. It’s stupid. You were the one who started it. The teasing. The innuendos. The half-drunken dares to “just do it already.” You made it a game. One he never played seriously. And now you’re the one losing. The one hurting. And you look at that cute little sundress hanging in your closet, seeing that little girl you used to be and know you can’t do this any more. For her. For you. You finally respond with a clipped:

«you»: can we talk?

Mingyu opens the door the second you knock, like he was waiting behind it.

His brows are furrowed. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird for days.”

You step inside without answering, your arms folded across your chest like a shield, as if it’ll protect you from what you know is to come.

He closes the door behind you slowly. “Okay… seriously. Talk to me.”

You stare at the floor, the speech you’d planned slipping from your mind the second you open your mouth. “I don’t think we should be friends anymore.”

The words leave your lips quietly, but they echo, soft and brutal.

He freezes. “What?”

You lift your gaze, force yourself to hold his. “I think we should stop being friends.”

Your voice is firmer this time, although there’s a slight waver you can’t shake. But you know you have to do this. For yourself.

His brow furrows deeper. “Where the hell is this coming from?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“Yes, it does,” he snaps. “You don’t just say something like that and act like it’s nothing.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You think this isn’t?” he practically scoffs, voice rising.

You wince. “I just—this isn’t good for me anymore, okay? I can’t keep doing this.”

“What does this even mean? What are we doing that’s so bad?”

You hesitate. You know exactly what you mean. But you can’t say it—not the real thing. So instead you deflect. You say something stupid. Something you don’t really mean, not in the way you know it sounds.

“I guess I just got tired of being the only girl you won’t sleep with.”

He stares at you like he’s been slapped.

“…What?” His voice is quiet, stunned.

You look away. “Forget it.”

“No. No, you don’t get to say that and then back out.” He steps forward. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I told you to forget it,” you mutter, panic clawing up your throat.

“So that’s what this is about?” he says, disbelief giving way to anger. “That I haven’t fucked you?”

You don’t answer.

His voice grows louder. “You’re throwing away years of friendship because I didn’t want to have sex with you?”

“Don’t twist it like that—”

“I’m not twisting anything. Those were your words.” He gestures at you, furious. “Is that all I am to you? Just someone to chase until you can check me off your list?”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

He scoffs. “No, what’s not fair is acting like I did something wrong by treating you with respect. Like me not jumping into bed with you is some personal insult.”

You snap. “You don’t get it!”

“Then explain it! Because right now, all I see is my best friend suddenly treating me like I’m the villain for not screwing her!”

“I never said you were a villain!”

“You didn’t have to! You’re acting like I’ve been stringing you along, like I owe you something I never fucking promised.”

“I didn’t want a promise!” Your voice is shaking. “I just wanted— I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t invisible!”

That stops him. His face falls, just for a second. But it’s too late now. The dam is cracking.

He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. “So what? Sleeping together would’ve fixed that?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, turning away.

You see the hurt on his face even as he hides it.

“You’re ruining our friendship because I won’t fuck you? Is that all I am? Just someone to get close to and sleep with just so you can say you did?” His voice is tight now—not just angry, but betrayed.

You flinch. “Of course you aren’t, I…” You trail off.

He stares. “Say it.” His tone is venomous.

Your mouth won’t move. You look at him, and all the things you never wanted him to see are staring back at you through your silence.

His lips press into a line. “That’s what I thought.”

He turns away again—and that’s when the words leap out of you, desperate and raw:

“I’m in love with you!”

The world freezes, silence extending. His shoulders tense as he slowly turns back, eyes full of so many emotions you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His breath is labored and the dam inside you finally breaks.

“I didn’t know,” you say, voice cracking, barely holding together. “Not at first. It was just flirting, right? Dumb jokes about hooking up, just to see you roll your eyes or laugh. That was all it was. Just teasing.”

You laugh, but it’s hollow and bitter and it hurts.

“Then you hooked up with that girl from the party, and I told myself it was fine. What right did I have to be jealous when you were never even mine? But I went home that night and I couldn’t breathe, even though I knew I shouldn’t be upset, laid in bed and just kept asking myself. Why not me? What’s wrong with me?”

You suck in a breath, but it doesn’t help, “That’s when it started. That voice. It wouldn’t shut up. It told me I must be disgusting. Unappealing. Something you’d never even consider. Not even drunk. Not even if there’s no one else. I got so desperate to feel wanted I even asked Jeonghan to sleep with me, and you know what he said? He said he wasn’t what I wanted. Because he knew. Before I did, he knew.”

Your hands shake.

You press them against your sides like you’re holding yourself together. “And I kept making the jokes, brushing off what he’d said. Kept acting like I didn’t care. Because if I stopped laughing, you’d see the truth—and I was so scared of what you’d do with it. Would you pity me? Would you leave?”

Your voice breaks entirely. “I didn’t realize I loved you until I was already drowning in it. And by then, I couldn’t look at myself without hearing all the things I’m not. Not pretty enough. Not desirable. Not lovable. Just the friend you joked with, because that’s all I’d ever be. A joke.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a sob. “Because you said no. Every time. And I know you weren’t trying to hurt me—god, I know you’d never. You were being nice. Gentle. That’s what made it worse. You cared. Just not like that. So I twisted it around in my head. Tried to tell myself you were being noble. Or cautious. Or waiting. But deep down, I started to believe the truth. That I could never be enough for you.” Your eyes sting, but you don’t wipe them. “And now… now I finally admitted all that to myself, and it’s breaking me every time I see you. ”

You finally meet his eyes, and it feels like standing naked in the cold. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just so tired of feeling so… worthless. I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. I just… I couldn’t carry it anymore. Pretending I was okay. Pretending I didn’t only ever feel whole when I’m near you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

His eyes search yours, and for a moment you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to close the space between you. Say something, anything, that will make it hurt less.

But instead, his jaw clenches. His voice comes out low. Controlled. Too controlled.

“You should’ve told me.”

You look away, feeling the guilt crawl up your throat. “I’m telling you now.”

“No.” He shakes his head, bitter. “Not now. Not after all this. Not after you turned it into a fight.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.” He takes a step back like he needs distance. “You came in here ready to cut me out. Not because I hurt you. Not because I did anything wrong. But because I didn’t love you back fast enough.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Isn’t it?” His voice cracks around the edges. “You could’ve said something. Anything. But instead, you turned it into some fucked-up test and waited for me to fail.”

You freeze. “It wasn’t a test.”

“No?” He laughs bitterly. “You knew how I was. You know what I’m like with girls. You joked about it every chance you got. But the second I didn’t want to be that with you—suddenly I’m the asshole?”

“You’re not an asshole,” you whisper.

“But I’m still the guy you can’t even be friends with. That’s what you said.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Yes, you did.” His voice sharpens. “You meant it exactly like that. You wanted me to hurt the way you were hurting. You wanted me to feel guilty.”

Tears prick at your eyes again. “No, I just… I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could’ve trusted me.” His hands drop to his sides. “You could’ve just… been honest.”

“I was scared,” you admit, and your voice shakes with the weight of it, “I am scared.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Of me?”

“No.” You swallow. “Of me. Of not being enough. Of finding out that even if I tried… even if I gave you everything, you still wouldn’t want me.”

Silence stretches between you, sharp and heavy.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to decide what I would’ve wanted,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You never gave me the chance.”

He looks like he wants to say more—needs to say more—but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at you like he doesn’t even recognize you anymore. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair again, but this time it trembles slightly, like the adrenaline's wearing off and all that's left is the raw aftermath.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” he murmurs.

You nod slowly, tears welling up again. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t come here expecting—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice thick. “Don’t act like this was some noble confession. You didn’t come here to just tell me. You came here to end it.”

You flinch because you know he’s not wrong.

He steps back again, arms folding like he's trying to hold himself together now. “You said you wanted to stop being friends. That was the decision you made before I even knew what was happening.”

“I thought it’d be easier,” you say, and you hate how broken it sounds.

“Easier for who?” he snaps. “You think it’s easy for me to watch you walk away? To hear you say all this and know there’s nothing I can do to make it better?”

Your lip trembles. “I just couldn’t take it any more and I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

He looks at you, incredulous. “I’m your best friend. I thought I was, anyway. Of course it’s my problem.”

You say nothing, because what is there to say?

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter now, “you were never invisible to me. Not once.”

You finally look up. “Then why…”

“Because you matter too much!” he says, his voice splintering. “Because I didn’t want to mess it up. I’ve messed up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I didn’t want to ruin you too. You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about enough to not touch.”

Your breath catches as you look at him, heart clawing up your throat.

“And maybe I was stupid for thinking I could keep you close without eventually losing you.” His voice is bitter now, but more toward himself than you. “Maybe I should’ve known it’d end like this.”

You take a hesitant step forward. “Mingyu…”

But he steps back. “Don’t.”

The word is soft, but final.

“I don’t hate you,” he says after a long beat, eyes red-rimmed. “I don’t think I could. But I’m angry. And I’m hurt. And I don’t know what the hell to do with any of this right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never meant for it to happen like this.”

He gives you a broken, sad smile. “Yeah. Me neither.”

There’s another silence. One that feels different than all the others. Colder. Empty.

Finally, he walks past you, opens the door.

You don’t move.

“I think you should go,” he says, not looking at you.

And even though your heart is screaming, you nod. Because you knew this was coming. Hell, this is what you came here to do. But not like this. Nothing like this.

You walk out the door, and he doesn’t stop you.

You don’t remember how you got home.

One minute, you were in Mingyu’s apartment, heart in pieces at your feet. The next, you were on the street—walking, stumbling, maybe running. You’re not sure. The rain had started somewhere in between, soaking through your clothes, making it easier to hide your tears. Not that you tried.

You don’t remember texting Jeonghan, either.

But you must’ve, because he’s standing in your doorway by the time you get there, already holding your spare key. His brows are drawn tight with worry. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You look like hell.”

You try to speak, but your voice breaks. He doesn’t ask anything else. Just pulls you inside with a hand on your back and shuts the door gently behind you.

Ten minutes later, you’re in dry clothes—his hoodie, your sweats—and he’s sitting beside you on the couch, watching you like you might shatter if he blinks too hard.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “tell me what happened.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I told him.”

His voice softens. “Mingyu?”

You nod. “Everything. I told him I loved him.”

There’s a pause. Jeonghan leans back, breath whistling between his teeth. “And?”

You look at him, eyes red and raw. “He got mad.”

Jeonghan blinks. “Mad?”

You nod again, harder this time, like it’ll make it make more sense. “I told him I didn’t think we should be friends anymore. And he kept asking why, and I… I panicked. I said something awful. I told him I was tired of being the only girl he wouldn’t sleep with.”

Jeonghan winces. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, repeating what he’d told you after. You bite your lip hard, the echo of those words still fresh, like they’re etched on your skin.

Jeonghan runs a hand down his face, listening worried but obviously frustrated.

“I told him that wasn’t what I meant, but it was too late. He was so hurt. He was furious. And I just… I couldn’t stop. The words just kept coming. Then I told him I was in love with him.”

Jeonghan’s face softens, but not with pity—more like heartbreak on your behalf.

“And then he told me to leave,” you continue. “That I never gave him a chance and that he needed time. That he didn’t know what to do. So I left and now we’re here.”

Jeonghan is quiet for a long moment.

“Okay, yeah. That’s a fucking mess.”

You laugh bitterly. “Thanks.”

“I mean it kindly.” He shifts, turning to face you. “You didn’t hold back, huh?”

You shake your head. “Couldn’t.”

He sighs. “Look. I get it. Emotions are hard. But imagine from his perspective. You said something that sounded like a slap, and then you dropped a love confession on top of it. What did you think he was gonna do?”

“I didn’t think.” You stare down at your hands. “I was so scared he’d say he didn’t feel the same that I tried to end it before he could reject me. And when he got mad, I told myself it was what I deserved.”

Jeonghan swears under his breath. “Jesus.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He gives you a sharp look. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you nuked a bridge because you were too scared to walk across it.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But neither was what you did to him.”

You bury your face in your knees.

After a moment, Jeonghan’s voice softens. “You really love him, huh?”

You nod without looking up. “So much it makes me hate myself.”

He’s quiet. Then, almost too gently, “Then you’re gonna have to clean this up.”

“How?” you whisper.

“Hell if I know, but start by being honest. Stop trying to protect your pride. You already burned it down. Go back and tell him everything again. But this time, don’t lead with guilt or anger. Just tell the truth.”

You look up at him, voice small. “What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

Jeonghan meets your eyes. “Then at least you’ll know. But don’t let the last thing he remembers be that fight. Don’t let that be the last thing you remember.”

Your heart aches. You nod slowly.

He pulls you into a hug, and you let yourself fall into it. His hand rubs slow circles on your back.

“And next time,” he murmurs, “maybe don’t start the conversation by implying your best friend’s dick was the missing puzzle piece in your emotional breakdown.”

You groan into his chest. “I know.”

He chuckles into your hair. “God, you’re a disaster.”

You fall asleep on the couch, your face puffy and tight from crying, but your chest just a little looser—like the grief finally has somewhere to go.

When you wake, the sky is gray through the window, soft and overcast. Jeonghan’s draped a blanket over you, left a glass of water and some aspirin on the table beside you, and disappeared into the kitchen, humming faintly to himself.

You sit up slowly, the events of the night before crashing back into your head like a wave you barely brace for.

“I should text him,” you say aloud.

Jeonghan appears in the doorway with a mug in his hand, one brow lifted. “And say what? ‘Hey, sorry I imploded all over you, wanna circle back?’”

You throw a pillow at him, a habit you realize you do way too much. He dodges, smug.

You sigh. “I don’t even know what to say, but I can’t just leave it here.”

Jeonghan walks over and hands you the mug—it’s tea, still warm. “Then don’t text yet. Think about what you actually want. Do you want to apologize? Explain? Ask for something?”

“I want him to know the truth.”

“He already does.”

“Then I want him to understand it.”

Jeonghan settles into the chair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. “Then don’t text. Talk to him. In person.”

You shrink. “I don’t think I can face him yet.”

“I’m not saying today.” He pauses. “But eventually, you’ll have to. Because if you don’t, all this?” He gestures vaguely. “It just becomes the story you never got to finish.”

You stare into your tea. “What if he never wants to talk to me again?”

“Then that’s on him,” Jeonghan says gently. “You can’t control that. But you can make sure the version he remembers isn’t the worst one.”

You nod slowly, his words settling like stones in your gut.

Jeonghan gently rests a hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t ruin everything. Not yet.”

You clutch the mug tighter. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe me.” He leans forward. “You said something shitty. He got hurt. But that’s not the end. It only stays broken if you leave it there.”

You bite your lip. “Do you think he’ll ever look at me the same again?”

Jeonghan tilts his head. “No.”

Your heart twists.

But then he adds, “He’ll either look at you and see the one who broke his heart… or the one who was brave enough to hand hers to him.”

You sit on the couch long after the tea goes cold, phone in your lap, your thumbs hovering above the screen. Every version of the message you think of sounds wrong. Too heavy. Too light. Too desperate. Too detached.

But eventually, you settle on the truth.

You type slowly, carefully. No overthinking this time. No jokes to soften the blow. Just your heart, finally laid bare.

«you»: I know you said you need time, and I’ll respect that. I won’t push, but when you’re ready, if you’re ready, I’ll be here.

You read it over once, then again. It still makes your stomach twist, but this time, not from fear. From finality. You press send.

The message delivers.

You stare at the screen for a long minute, hoping it’ll light up with a reply. It doesn’t. You didn’t expect it to.

Jeonghan comes back in with a slice of toast in his mouth and a second plate in his hand. “You do it?”

You nod, eyes still on your phone. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He sits beside you, offering you half of his toast. “Now you wait. And we eat carbs.”

You take the toast. You don’t feel better. But you don’t feel worse, either.

It’s been weeks.

You’ve replayed every second of that fight in your mind more times than you can count. Sometimes you wonder if he’s forgotten you completely. Sometimes you wish you could forget him.

But tonight, curled up in bed with a movie playing quietly in the background, your phone lights up.

«Mingyu»: Café del Sol

«Mingyu»: Tomorrow 3pm

You panic. Your heart is loud in your ears as you try to form a response, eventually settling on a thumbs up reaction, not knowing what else to put.

The next day arrives like a held breath.

You barely sleep the night before. Your stomach is in knots, your hands shaking every time you think about what might happen. What he’ll say. If he’ll even show up.

But when you push open the door to Café del Sol at 2:58 p.m., he’s already there.

He’s sitting at a table by the window, two drinks in front of him—one of them your usual. His fingers drum anxiously on the cup, and he looks up the second the door opens, like he’s been watching for you.

Your heart stutters.

You walk over slowly, like one wrong step might send the whole moment crashing down. He stands as you approach, uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he should hug you or just nod.

You don’t hug. You don’t do anything. Just sit.

There’s a long pause, thick with all the things still unspoken.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says eventually.

“I didn’t think you’d ask,” you answer.

He nods slowly. “I wasn’t going to. At first.”

You look down, then up again. “Thank you. For asking.”

“I didn’t do it to be nice,” he says. “I did it because I don’t want this hanging between us forever.”

You nod. “Neither do I.”

He watches you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s still figuring out how he feels. Then he breaks the silence, voice small.

“You really meant it?”

You blink. “Which part?”

“That you’re in love with me.”

Your breath catches. “Oh. That. Yeah. I meant it.”

He nods, eyes flicking down to his hands. “And everything else?”

You hesitate. “I wish I’d said it better. But yeah, that too.”

He leans back in his chair. Runs a hand through his hair. You notice the faint dark circles under his eyes—like you’re not the only one who’s been losing sleep.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel,” he says finally. “Because everything happened so fast. One second you’re my best friend, and the next… it felt like I didn’t even know you.”

“I know.”

“I liked you before you even figured it out,” he says suddenly. His eyes are steady, serious. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You look up, startled. “What do you mean?”

He exhales. “I told myself I didn’t want to ruin what we had. That I didn’t want to cross any lines. But the truth? I didn’t want to let myself want you because the second I did, I knew I’d fall.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Mingyu—”

He keeps going, like he needs to get it out. “You make everything brighter. Easier. And I told myself that was enough. Just being near you. But then it got harder. Because I’d catch myself staring too long. Laughing too much. Wondering what your lips would feel like against mine. Wondering what would happen if I gave in. If I give in now.”

Your breath hitches as silence falls again. But this one feels warmer. Like the tide has shifted.

You whisper, “Are you saying you—”

“I’m saying I don’t want to lose you.” He swallows. “And I think… I know I love you too. I just didn’t want to admit it until you were walking out my door.”

You blink hard. “Mingyu…”

He gives a small, broken laugh. “God, we’re such idiots.”

You smile, watery. “We really are.”

A long moment passes, and then—carefully, slowly—he reaches across the table and takes your hand. His thumb brushes your knuckles, and it feels like the first real breath you’ve taken in days.

“I’m still mad,” he says gently. “Still hurt.”

“I know.”

“But I’m willing to try,” he says, “if you are.”

You nod, tears in your eyes again—but this time they feel different. “I want to.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then we start there.”

The two of you sit there, hands clasped between coffee cups and apologies, hearts still bruised but beating in sync again. And for the first time in weeks, the silence feels like peace.

#mingyu x reader #svthub #kim mingyu #mingyu fanfic #mingyu #kim mingyu angst #mingyu angst #mingyu fluff #mingyu x you #seventeen #svt #svt x reader #svt imagines

1K notes · View notes

commodore-jeep-eep-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Flattery Gets You Nowhere With Me

At this point, my immediate response as a transfem to flattery is 'distrust and immediate wariness.'

I know we're starved of it, but that's also something bad actors have learned very well.

#flattery #trans feminine #depressing shit #self preservation #beware anyone buttering you up

0 notes

all-purpose-dish-soap · 1 year ago

Text

35 / 2.1k / shark merman Price and remora mermaid reader for mermay :)

...

Price isn’t stupid. He knows you’ve been following him since the early morning as he makes the rounds through his favorite reef. You’re stealthing poorly—just poorly enough that he knows you’re there, but you’re still small enough to dart into the reef every time he tries to get a good look at you.

He's been ignoring you and hoping you’ll take the hint to buzz off before he makes you buzz off.

You think you’re getting the hang of sneaking up on him when you turn a corner and lose him. And then he’s sneaking up on you.

You peek around the bright lumps of coral, wondering where he’s gone, when something blots out the sunlight above. You look up to see him—the long expanse of muscle and bulk on top and the smooth shark’s tail below—as he peers down at you.

You stiffen, pressing yourself to the sandy sea floor.

He scans you with his dark eyes to determine just what kind of creature has been following him. Not a threat, decides. Even as a mer. You’re too small. Too soft. You have no teeth to speak of. How laughable. And a tiny little thing, at that.

You straighten up, watching him circle you. You’d been looking for an opportunity just like this. That’s why you were tailing him. But now that his shrewd gaze is finally on you, you feel exposed.

He takes his time inspecting you. Then he swims a wide arc around you once more and lowers his clawed as if to touch you. You force yourself to stay still, your tail curled under you on the sand.

“You’ve been following me,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

Price hooks one of his claws under your chin and pulls your head lightly upwards. You slowly rise as he tilts your chin up until you're suspended in the water in front of him.

"You should be scared of me,” he says.

You settle your own hands on his wrist in contentment. You look less like a meal being evaluated and more like a kitten being scratched under the chin. "Would you like me to be scared?"

He chuckles at your enthusiasm. He knows exactly what this is. You're a remora mer, which means you instinctively seek out and bond with bigger creatures. Even if that creature is an unfriendly shark mer. Surely you must know how dangerous it is to be within his reach?

"You're very big. You must be king of this reef,” you say.

He pauses as the praise washes over him. He knows how intimidating he is, and you should realize you're nothing but small, soft and fragile. But obviously your instincts for fawning and flattery are finely honed.

He can see the way your little self seems to be drawn to him. A remora mer, indeed. He's seen others like you, but they've always avoided him. He could just as easily kill you as he could accept your company.

There is something pitifully adorable about you. The way you tilt your head and expose your throat unwittingly is endearing. He knows it’s because your instincts are leading you to bond with him for the safety he provides. You're too willing.

"Do you lack the common sense to fear an apex predator?" he asks, voice low and amused.

"Yes," you respond obediently.

He can see the way your little body is pressing up to his hand, desperate to get closer. He moves his arm, gently guiding you closer to him. "Good," he rumbles softly before using two claws to stroke down the curve of your neck. "Very good. You're too small to survive my teeth, you know."

"Of course. Much too small. Your teeth are so big and sharp."

"And you're soft and weak. Soft as a piece of kelp, I bet." He gives the tip of your tail a flick, and his eyes glitter as you bob and shake out your tail fin at the touch. Fussy little creature. "You're not very good at what you're supposed to do, little mer."

You open up your eyes. "I'm not?"

"Following me for hours without even trying to ingratiate yourself to me," he growls. "You're supposed to busy yourself with my needs. Not..." He trails off as you tilt up into his touch, almost nuzzling his hand. He gives your forehead a light flick with his claw to make you pay attention. "Acting like some kind of pet."

You quickly smooth yourself down. "Of course. I know that." You dart closer, putting your small hands on his inner arm, his shoulder, his chest, inspecting him. Your fingers glide over him, brushing and scratching and plucking away bits of sea debris and dry skin. Grooming him. "I just thought you might want me to be scared of you first."

Oh. He’s enjoying this far more than he thought he would. For something so soft, you’re quite bold.

He presses on your hip to turn you slightly as you work, idly inspecting you in return. "Maybe later. Let’s see if you’re worth the effort first." He rests his chin on his other hand to watch you fuss over him. It's been a long time since he had any kind of attention on him. You dart around behind him and busy yourself with his hair next.

He leans into your touch when you start to untangle his hair. "You seem to enjoy this.”

“I do.”

“Good for you,” he drawls. "Are you good for anything else?"

"I'm good for lots of things." You move from his hair down to his tail, trying not to stare.

"Oh?" He reaches up and idly drags the back of his knuckles down your spine and over the fin there. He smirks as your fin flattens with the touch. "Like what?"

"Anything you can think of."

"Anything?" He gives a low rumble in his throat at your words. "Don't go promising favors you can't fulfill, little remora."

"Okay," you chime.

He grabs ahold of your tail fins. "And don't agree with every single thing I say, either. That makes you far too easy to manipulate."

"Yes, sir!"

He rolls his eyes. You really are a pushover. It's like you want him to be cruel to you. He lets go of your tail but twirls his fingers in the tip of your tailfins. "Is it your instincts that are making you so deferential? Or are you just a coward?"

You pretend to think about this for a moment. Then you respond, pleasantly, "Which do you prefer?"

"Mm, so you do have a brain."

"Me? No, surely that can't be. Not a thought in my head, sir. Promise."

He eyes you like a disobedient puppy. You're putting on this fairly convincing act, being a mindless, servile little thing, and it's confusing his instincts to know you're doing a fair bit of manipulation yourself to win his protection.

"Might prefer you a bit more brainless, actually," he says. He nudges the underside of your chin with his knuckle this time instead of his claw, noting how you drop what you were doing to follow the gesture as he guides you out in front of him again. "You're willing to do anything I ask, then? No questions?"

"Yes, sir.” You rest your much smaller body against his forearm again. “Anything.”

He looks down at how you submit willingly to his hand, taking in the sight of your small body pressed up against it. He feels something primal coil in his gut at the display. You let yourself fall under his control so easily. "What if I told you to open your mouth like a goldfish?" He brings his thumb up to your lip. "Would you?"

You open your mouth.

Interesting. He taps your lower lip with the tip of his thumb. "Wide," he murmurs. "Open up wide for me."

You open wider.

"Now bite."

You bite down around the tip of his thumb.

His lips twitch up into a smile at the feeling of you nibbling at him, the little scrape of your teeth. "Good. Harder."

You reposition your grip and chomp down in earnest this time. He grunts. Your teeth are smaller than his, but they're still sharp.

"There you go. Not bad for such a small mouth." He pulls it away, half-expecting you to start hollowing your cheeks on his thumb if he dawdles too long. "Have you ever had to deal with bigger fish?"

"Of course," you chirp. Like it's no big deal.

Price snorts. It's hard to imagine something like you doing anything but darting behind the nearest rock at the first sign of danger. “How many have you killed?"

"None."

"Right, I'm sure you ask them nicely to leave you alone," he says. "And do they listen?”

"Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't."

"And when they don't, what do you do? Do you fight back? Do you give up?"

"Well..." You wring your hands briefly. "You're going to handle it now, right? So what does it matter?"

"It matters to me." For some reason, the thought of you trying to fight back against a larger fish makes him restless. "You still need to know how to defend yourself."

You frown. "You're not going to do it for me?"

He scoffs, but you're starting to make him feel something close to concern for you. He doesn't know why the thought of you being defenseless irks him so. "Are you really that helpless? Are you really so soft that you just want me to fight all your battles for you?"

"I mean, you're a shark."

He huffs irritably at that, his annoyance with you outweighed by his annoyance with himself for feeling concerned over you. "Do you think I'm going to do everything for you just because I'm bigger and stronger?"

You smile at him, pleased.

Ah. He's the fool suddenly. He grabs you around the waist with just one of his big hands and brings you close, his voice lowering in warning. "Stop smiling, little fish."

"Okay," you chime.

"I told you to stop sounding so bloody agreeable. You make me want to bite you." He lifts you up in front of him to get a clearer look at your face. Your eyes are too wide, your smile is too sweet, your body is too flimsy. It's all infuriating to him. He’s been roaming the ocean a long time and he's grown comfortably hard and cold. You’re not changing that. "You have no self-preservation instincts at all, do you? You're just going to get yourself killed one day."

You settle into his hand comfortably. "Maybe so. Can I get you anything else, boss?"

You're hopeless, he decides. With how sweet and docile you are, he feels something clawing at the inside of his chest the longer he holds you.

Instead of answering you, he fits you against his chest, into the crook of his arm. There. Better. He can keep you closer this way without having to look at your silly doe eyes.

“Not now,” he says finally. “Maybe later.”

You lean into the position, tucking into the side of his chest like you're making yourself at home. "Okay, boss."

He can’t decide if he likes you calling him that or not. He can feel the way you nestle against him, settling in comfortably and making no effort to resist. You really are too easy to control. Just a little pull and you're molded against his side. He feels you start to smooth down some of his chest scales without even thinking. Grooming him. Nice and clean. Little busybody.

He's not used to being pampered, but feeling the tension start to bleed from his muscles under your touch… maybe it’s not so bad. He glances down at you, wondering how you're able to look so contented tucked up against him. His chest rumbles as you scratch near his throat. He lets his muscles relax under your hand.

You're an annoying little thing--too innocent, too naive, too sweet, and he conveniently forgets how capable you are of convincing him of that to win him over--but it's been too damn long since he's allowed himself to be comforted.

Maybe it would be alright to let you stay with him for a little while.

...

more Price / more mer au / masterlist tag

4K notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 5 months ago

Text

A Deal's a Deal.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, violence against minor characters, descriptions of anxiety, mentions of alcohol. Word count: 5k.

“... Sorry. This one’s no good either.”

Sighing dejectedly, you sink into your seat.

You can’t tell if your companion’s disappointed. He maintains a neutral countenance, betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Still, you study him, awaiting some visual indication before moving the conversation forward. He must sense your intentions, for he catches your gaze and smiles.

“Should we call it a day? You look tired.”

“The hell? Isn’t it considered taboo to tell a lady she looks tired?” You grumble. “And here I thought you were Casanova incarnate. You’ve got to work on your charisma stats.”

Chrollo shrugs halfheartedly. “What point is there if you’re immune to my many charms?”

“Let’s be real — ‘many’ is overdoing it, a little humility won’t hurt. I commend your budding self-awareness, though. At least we’ve made progress on that front.”

He hums, offering no rebuttal. You realize that you’ve perked back up, reinvigorated by his goading. He certainly knows how to get people going. Among his defining features, that’s one of the first you recognized; his uncanny way of orchestrating favorable outcomes.

Sipping your preferred warm beverage, you canvass your surroundings.

The café’s less crowded than when you came in. There are still a few students typing away on their laptops while consuming a concerning amount of caffeine. In the corner sits an elderly couple, whose order you overheard by virtue of the volume it was placed at — “Give me a regular coffee. Straight black, none of that ‘appaccino, grand venti’ nonsense. Decaf for my wife.”

(You prayed for the barista’s sanity when he tried explaining the different ways ‘straight black’ could come).

“... I am losing my touch, aren’t I?” Chrollo murmurs. You snap your head in his direction, having temporarily forgotten his existence. “You prefer older men?”

You almost choke mid-sip. “Pleh…! That’s it, I’m retiring, good luck sorting your issues out.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How I wish you were wrong,” you deadpan. Lifting his phone off the table, you scroll through its contents. There’s nothing new to look at. “An exorcist, huh? You’re positive that’s a real thing?”

“They exist. They’re just rare, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I blame the Protestant Reformation.”

The skin beneath his eyes wrinkles. “... Cute.”

His compliment makes you frown.

“Quit it with the flattery, already.”

“Flattery implies a degree of insincerity, no?” He challenges. “You of all people should know when I’m being genuine.”

“You make it sound like I’m a walking polygraph.”

His lips part and close as he considers his response. “That isn’t how I view you.”

This guy’s clever with his word choice, you think. Too clever.

Disliking where this conversation might go, you redirect.

“This ‘Hunter’ site you’ve been using… is there any way for me to access it?”

“Feeling a bit impatient, are we?”

There’s a patronizing lilt to this tone that has you inhaling sharply. Closing your eyes, you ball your hands into fists, willing your agitated mind to relax. Your goal feels so close. This future you never believed possible dangles above your head, only to recede as if you were Tantalus whenever you grasp for it. Needling Chrollo won’t get you any closer, but at least it gives you something to do, mimicking progress.

“The Hunter site has various measures in place to prevent account sharing. You don’t want to end up on their radar,” Chrollo retrieves his phone and tucks it into his coat’s pocket. “While your enthusiasm’s admirable, I suggest you leave this part to me.”

You swallow thickly. “... Right.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, I’m not,” you rest your hands on your lap. “Just, y’know. Reminded that we’re from two different worlds.”

Outside the café’s windows, individuals from all walks of life bustle about. Some are on their phones, others chatting with friends, or holding their partner’s hands. It’s a picturesque display of normalcy. They’re likely thinking about what to have for dinner, when to set their alarm for the following day, if they can squeeze out of plans they halfheartedly agreed to over the weekend; you know this because you aspire to live the same way.

“You’re closer to mine than you think.”

A fervent disagreement blazes then turns to ash on your tongue. There’s an unidentifiable quality to his stare — neither kind nor outright malicious — almost clinical in its effort to elicit a reaction. You stir in your seat. Despite your time together, he’s as much an enigma as he’d been upon your first meeting. Charming and courteous, yet lacking genuine warmth, like a faux candle.

“Do you get some kick out of riling me up?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “Your expressive nature is endearing. I can’t help myself.”

His words resonate with such clarity that you can’t help but wish he’d been a little dishonest.

“I’m not a toy for you to entertain yourself with.”

His smile makes you squirm.

“I know you aren’t.”

“Then what—” you cut yourself off, fearing what might occur if you continue your original line of questioning. “Man, you’re exhausting to deal with. Has anyone ever told you that you have an awful personality?”

“Few get to be around me enough to comment on its quality.”

“I’m counting down the days until I’m no longer a member of that inner circle.”

Before Chrollo can respond, his phone audibly vibrates. Newfound excitement overwhelms you at the sound. He glances at the notification and nods, confirming your speculation. He places it in your eager hands. While you prepare, he steeples his fingers and leans forward, intrigued as always with your work.

You relax your breathing. This entire process is based on intuition, chasing after faint sensations until your desired outcome manifests. A pliable force thrums through you — what Chrollo refers to as ‘aura’ — awakening from its dormant state. Mindful of your public surroundings, you keep your dominant hand beneath the table. Where there was once nothing, a three-dimensional object rests snugly against your palm. Buttons of varying utility jut outward along its perimeter. This small item, shaped like a cassette recorder, stirs antipathy in your heart.

Holding down rewind, the cassette whirrs to life. You prepare to record the latest audio note sent in for analysis.

Instant Replay (One More Time!).

These past few months have seen your ability frequently leveraged. It was your personal conviction to refuse its use, lest paranoia eat away at you. However, freedom from this bondage necessitates further entanglement. You’ve parted with your long-standing morals, primed to pick through the syllables of others for your own purposes.

Right and wrong no longer concern you.

All you care about is surrendering this loathsome ability to the man sitting across the table.

The night air is unforgiving in its chill. It infiltrates your layers of clothing with laughable ease, seeping into your marrow and demanding that you shiver as recompense. Gritting your teeth, you pick up your pace, cursing the parking garage’s elevator for being out of order. You knew parking at your friend’s apartment complex was sparse, but this is a new record.

The heels of your shoes click against the concrete staircase as you rapidly ascend. A pale, yellowish hue illuminates your path, the lights occasionally flickering. The moon must be feeling shy tonight, for it hides behind thick, stationary clouds, refusing the world its silvery guidance.

Upon arriving on the third floor, you hear an ominous crackle in the distance.

The consequences are immediate. Intuition tells you to pause, goosebumps erupting over your flesh from head to toe. Darkness swallows your surroundings whole in inky blots. Blinking rapidly, your eyes struggle to adjust. You feel around for your phone and turn the flashlight on. The sudden loss of power perplexes you, did the building’s breaker trip? From what you can see, the rest of the street is unaffected.

You’re about to resume your journey when you feel something cold press against your temple.

“Don’t move,” a deep voice demands. The roar of a car’s engine echoes nearby, as does the hurried screech of tires. “Not so much as a fucking inch.”

Anxiety sets your every nerve aflame. You go stiff as a corpse, and perhaps you may have been mistaken for one, if not for the thunderous pounding of your heart. The moisture in your mouth dries up. Tortuous seconds drag on, devoid of any further commands. You’re ready to offer up your purse, wallet, or anything else he insists on, but he’s eerily silent.

A pair of approaching headlights blind you.

Is this more than a robbery? You struggle to comprehend the nightmarish events. The man holding you hostage radiates agitation, shifting his weight from foot to foot. In doing so, the barrel drags along your sweat-slicked skin. His apparent sloppiness has you weak in the knees — it’s your life hanging in the balance, why is he acting like the situation is reversed?

Abruptly, the vehicle veers off course, crashing into a line of parked cars. A terrible cacophony follows. Glass shatters, metal debris shrieks whilst scattering, and car alarms angrily sound in disunity. What you’re witnessing doesn’t feel like real life. Your disbelief is mutual, for the man holding you captive spews curses.

You hear a click by your side; the gun’s safety being disengaged.

“Shit!” He maneuvers you in the direction of the crash like you’re a shield. “There’s no way we were followed, no way, we did everything perfect—”

The man never finishes his sentence.

There’s a wet gurgle, then a wheeze, as something warm splatters on you from behind. Bile rises up your throat as the wretched noises continue. He must’ve fallen to the ground, for you no longer sense his lumbering presence, or feel the cold kiss of metal on your skin. Regardless, you refuse to budge. You squeeze your eyes shut and tremble wildly.

“There, there. You’re safe now. ♥” A rich baritone speaks from behind.

His declaration comes out discordant, belying the reassuring contents. You bristle at the new threat that’s presented itself. If what came before was a house cat, then this is an apex predator, the king of the jungle. The air around him feels oppressive, almost noxious. Even without a firearm directed at you, your panic reaches its zenith, soaring to heights untraversed.

“Hm? Still scared? Ah, that’s right,” he muses to himself. “Chrollo said you’re sensitive to dishonesty. This could be troublesome.”

“You… you know Chrollo?”

“So you’re not in a catatonic state — how reassuring.”

Slowly, you turn around, sensing a distinct lack of ill intent. Flashlight in hand, you try to make sense of what you witness. The scene that greets you is gruesome beyond your wildest expectations. The man who you assume held you at gunpoint has collapsed onto the ground, his jugular slit clean. Blood gushes from the wound like a geyser, forming a crimson puddle around his head. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, nearly bulging from the sockets. Liquids ooze from every visible orifice and a foul odor rises alongside them. This pitiful creature could’ve been your end. Instead, he met his, departing this world in abject terror.

Unexpectedly, his muscles twitch. Out of reflex, you jump back and yelp.

“Rest assured, he’s dead as a doornail.”

“Why…” you wet your dry lips, “What… what just…?”

While you stumble over your words, the building’s power makes a triumphant return. The lights flash intermittently, then go steady, allowing you an unobscured vantage point. Before you stands a tall, bizarrely dressed individual, with bright red hair. His beady, yellow eyes have a predatory gleam to them that he doesn’t bother suppressing. He holds a playing card in his claw-like hands, the three of spades.

It’s coated in fresh blood.

Your eyes fall to the fatal wound on your assailant's throat, the gears in your head turning.

You take a step back.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” With a flick of his wrist, the offending card disappears, though its memory burns strong. “I’m Hisoka, Chrollo’s… colleague of sorts. Now, there’s no need to introduce yourself. I’m well acquainted with you. ♥”

Is that supposed to make you feel better?

You couldn’t hide your suspicion if you tried. At the very least, there’s no indication that was a lie. However, his familiarity with you is a double-edged sword. If he’s crafty, he can outmaneuver your ability. Dishonesty isn’t black and white, there are loopholes to avoiding your detection. For instance, one can remain purposefully oblivious, lie by omission, or speak in vague terms. These gray areas pass you by as if you lacked this ‘sixth sense’ to begin with.

He was lying when he said I’m safe now, you recall. But he doesn’t seem interested in harming me…? Something isn’t adding up.

After much deliberation, you ask, “So you just happened to run into me?”

“Nope. I’ve been following you,” he freely admits. Your aghast expression makes him laugh. “What’s the matter? You were baiting me for the truth, were you not? You’re welcome to have it. ♦”

In your heightened state of sensitivity, you sense multiple presences converging nearby. Security guards, if you had to guess. You weigh your options. If you stay here, you’ll undoubtedly be harassed for a story that explains the chaos. Telling the truth would land you in a straight jacket whereas deception guarantees cuffs. Leaving in your car is off the table too, you’d be dubbed an important witness. There’s no way you can claim you drove by the carnage without noticing anything.

“I can help get you out of this debacle,” he offers. “We’re both seeking the same end — the return of Chrollo’s Hatsu. The latest recording I’ve obtained is most promising. So, I’d rather we don’t continue this conversation in prison. ♣”

Hisoka takes a step forward and extends his hand.

The security guards are getting closer, you think. There’s no time left.

And so you make your choice.

You didn’t think places like these existed outside of the movies, or maybe you just don’t get around enough.

You’ve found yourself in what you can only describe as a biker’s bar. The decor is old-fashioned, slightly worn yet authentic. There are pool tables, too many televisions to count, and a functioning jukebox nestled in the corner. Rough-looking men wearing leather jackets make up the main clientele. Fortunately, it’s Hisoka who draws the most attention, his gaudy getup acting as a magnet for the eyes. No one pays you any mind.

For the second time this week, a weirdo treats you to drinks. The main difference is that this is a depressant and not a stimulant.

You take hearty sips to calm your nerves. All that happened feels so surreal, like a collection of grotesque images that would be blurred out in a documentary. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You want to be normal, untethered by the oddity that is Nen, the ‘world’ Chrollo inhabits. You decided long ago that nothing good can come from it. Maybe if you were more adventurous, prone to taking high risks for high rewards.

But you’re not.

Endless money, power, and influence don’t sound appealing. Sure, there’s an allure initially, until you consider reality. Lots of money means either lots of taxes or lots of tax evasion. You barely know what a W-2 form is, much less the hoops you’d have to jump through if your income exploded. Power and influence aren’t all they’re cracked up to be either. All that scheming to stay at the top would take away from what makes life truly worth living — reading Wikipedia articles and watching eight-hour-long videos analyzing a video game from two decades ago.

“Holy shit,” you press pause on the cassette recorder. “This Abengane guy’s the real deal.”

“Oh?”

“He’s familiar with getting rid o’ Nen. During his… huh, what’s it called again… oh. Yeah. Audition. Durin’ his audition for Greedy Island—”

“ —Greed Island.”

You wave his correction off.

“—Yeah, yeah, whatever. But, basically, he’s legit. How’d ya even come across this?”

“Magic. ♥”

You make a face. “Is everyone who uses Nen annoying?”

“Some more than others.”

Speak of the devil. Craning your neck, you’re met with piercing gray eyes. Unlike Hisoka, Chrollo isn’t dressed like he’s auditioning for the circus. Instead, he comes across as a guy who’s going to pitch the worst idea for a startup you’ve ever heard. He’s wearing a dark blazer with a gray turtleneck beneath it, along with white pants and black loafers. You’re about to make your joke known when something about Chrollo’s demeanor changes your mind. Intensity pours off him in waves, giving you pause.

“Good news, boss. We found your exorcist.”

The title Hisoka uses to refer to him has you tilting your head. He did refer to himself as Chrollo’s ‘colleague,’ but the word boss implies hierarchy.

“I heard,” Chrollo smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m surprised you’re not rushing back to Greed Island to track him down.”

He slides into the booth beside you while never looking away from Hisoka. The tension brewing in the air perplexes you. Shouldn’t this news be a cause for celebration? You’ve helped Chrollo search for a Nen exorcist for months now. Chrollo’s been searching for a Nen exorcist for months now. You’re uncertain what reaction you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“All in due time. I’d hate to cut my time with your little assistant short.”

Hisoka makes a point of looking you up and down.

Somehow, Hisoka has made Chrollo seem normal by comparison. Disliking the attention, you reach for your drink, only to notice how light it is. Have you already drunk that much? While inspecting the near-empty glass, you realize the room’s starting to feel warm. The stress of what you endured must’ve impaired your judgment.

What time is it, anyway? Do I have work tomorrow?

Your watch reads 2:05 a.m.

Shit.

“I need— need to get going…”

“Why the rush?” Hisoka questions. “Things were just starting to get interesting. ♥”

You ignore him and stare Chrollo down, waiting for him to move aside so you can leave. Instead of getting up, he leans closer, pursing his lips. This is the closest you’ve ever been to him. Heat creeps over your face, from your cheeks to your ears. There’s no denying that the bastard’s handsome. Your friends love teasing you about him for that very reason. They never believe your insistence on having a ‘strictly platonic’ relationship, some even have bets for when you’ll end up together.

Maybe you would’ve considered it if you didn’t know about his Nen proficiency.

There aren’t any readily available statistics for Nen, but if you had to guess, you’d say most of the population is ignorant of its existence. People who do know about the Hunter’s Association consider it a private enterprise that specializes in exploration and taking on contract jobs. According to Chrollo, this is by design. You can barely go about your day pretending there aren’t superhumans roaming the planet, doing all sorts of crazy nonsense.

Society would plunge into chaos if the knowledge reached them.

You hear what sounds like your name coming from underwater.

Blinking sluggishly, you discover Chrollo’s hand on your shoulder. “Hm? What?”

“I’ve been calling your name,” he speaks languidly, likely for your benefit. “Are you alright?”

“Well…” you trail off, pondering the question. “... Mm, yeah, probably not. I gotta get home, and— god, my car— it’s still back there. I don’t want… I can’t…”

The anxiety you thought you buried resuscitates itself. It’s dull compared to earlier, yet your breathing grows shallow and your hands feel clammy. Your intenses churn like a parasite had been embedded inside. Everything feels far away, as if you’re in a dream, physically present yet mentally adrift.

You could’ve died.

You almost died.

You’d fought desperately to scrub your mind of this knowledge, but the bottle can only do so much.

“Say, Chrollo,” with a nearly imperceptible motion, Hisoka summons a playing card between his middle and pointer fingers. “If I were to slice her pretty neck, what would you do?”

The old-fashioned glass Hisoka had been sipping from cracks.

Pressure invades the air like a thick, heady fog, so tangible in its potency, that the chatter elsewhere dies down. The sudden silence allows for the clinging of billiard balls to reverberate throughout. Patrons glance around, vaguely aware that something is wrong, yet ultimately unable to identify the source. This primal sense of foreboding evaporates as swiftly as it arrives. The lively atmosphere reemerges, until all present seem to have forgotten anything unusual ever occurred.

Hisoka absentmindedly cleans up the glass shards, piling them into the corner while Chrollo drums his fingers along the table. Chrollo’s jaw is set and the skin between his eyes is pinched in contemplation.

Hisoka lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is turning into a bore. I was confident you’d lose your cool, even if just a bit…”

“Pathetic.”

The unexpected vitriol has them both turning their heads in your direction. Chrollo blinks, while Hisoka tilts his head, staring at you owlishly.

He points to himself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you! You’re like— one of those birds, those showoff birds… dancing with your colorful feathers… ‘nd stuff…” your speech isn’t the most coherent, unaided by the irritation that’s boiling your blood. You leer at him, fed up with everything, especially whatever schemes he’s roped you into. A rough picture is presenting itself, one stroke at a time. To Hisoka, you’re nothing more than glorified bait. You don’t know if he played a role in engineering the evening’s events, but it wouldn’t be a surprise.

At the very least, he admitted to following you. Even if he was a third party, he could’ve disposed of the impending threat. Instead, he waited, exposing you to bloodshed for his own ends. You wish you could come up with a more scathing insult. Unfortunately, your temple is throbbing and clear enunciation grows harder as your body digests the liquor you inhaled.

Hisoka looks at Chrollo. “I’m a bird?”

“She’s calling your bluff,” Chrollo clarifies. “Had you intended to follow up on your threat, she’d know.”

You’re glad Chrollo realized what you were going for. The diatribe sounded better in your head. Nonetheless, he’s communicated the essence of things, lacking as it is in panache. Hisoka hums, eyeing you like you’d make for a fine appetizer before the main course.

“You must have kept that detail from me on purpose. What an intriguing ability. ♥”

Chrollo brushes aside his comment and refocuses his attention on you. “I’ll drive you home.”

“But my car—”

“I’ll handle it,” Chrollo reassures.

He slides out from the booth and stares at you expectantly. You get the sense that trying his patience isn’t a good idea; his encounter with Hisoka must have soured his mood. He helps steady you as you stand, securing his arm behind your back. Neither of you acknowledges Hisoka while making for the door, though you can feel his eyes tracking your every movement.

Upon emerging from the bar, the cool air you deplored earlier feels like a godsend. You hear cars rushing up and down the street, indicating the presence of a highway. Other than that, you don’t recognize the area. It’s a small, decrepit outlet, featuring shops plastered with neon signs and bars over the windows.

Chrollo ushers you in the direction of a black, unmarked McLaren.

“If you’re gonna do all that, at least get a less basic color… like pink…”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Once you’re in the passenger seat, he fixes the strap of your purse and then buckles you in. It isn’t long until you’re on the road. He stays in the slow lane, mindful to avoid abrupt motions. You recline back and rest your head, hugging your arms close to your body. At the next red light, he sheds his coat, draping it over your person. The cashmere fabric is soft on your skin, embedded with his cologne and warmth. This, paired with the low hum of the engine has your eyelids growing heavy. You try resisting the temptation.

“Thank you.”

“Hm? For what?”

“... Are you serious?” you murmur. “For comin’ to get me.”

“Of course.”

Relief rushes over you as the surrounding area becomes recognizable. Traffic is nonexistent this time of night, it shouldn’t be but a few more minutes until you’re home. Then you can crash out on your bed and deal with the existential weight of reality in the morning. Work can fire you for all you care, you just want to sleep. If you were on your deathbed, you’re ninety percent positive they’d ask you to find shift coverage before you croaked.

Chrollo pulls into your apartment complex, parking as close to the entrance as he can.

You fiddle with your seatbelt, intending to make the rest of the trip by yourself.

He places his large, calloused hand over yours, preventing further progress.

“... Chrollo?”

He doesn’t respond. His thumb rubs slow, steady circles against your skin. You swallow a growing lump in your throat. He hasn’t been himself all night. Or, to be more precise, he’s showing you a side of himself he’s hitherto kept hidden. You always knew there was more to him than he let on. You never wanted to open that Pandora's box, lest your plans be jeopardized. Playing with fire has its risks, yet cauterizing your personal wounds took priority. You don’t know if you have the right to pray the rest of your being doesn’t go up in flames.

“I assume you’re aware of my fondness for you?”

“I— well…” you stumble over your words, then meekly ask, “Is now really a good time for this?”

Chrollo lowers his head and smiles. “No, I suppose not.”

An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air.

“One more question, then I’ll let you go,” he looks up at you through thick lashes, an enigmatic gleam passing over his eyes. “Do I frighten you?”

Your body tenses. He addresses you so softly, so sweetly, had you not witnessed his mouth moving, you would’ve mistaken his voice for belonging to another. Your facilities aren’t functional enough to properly process his query. Perhaps that’s the point — him cornering you at this vulnerable junction. You don’t get why. You don’t think you could even if you were sober.

Chrollo, for his part, seems to acknowledge he won’t get far in your current state.

Or maybe he gleaned his answer.

He lifts your hand to his lips, where he presses a lingering kiss. You can’t bring yourself to be the first to pull away. He lingers a while longer, as if stuck in a trance. When he does part, the skin tingles in his absence.

“I’ll be in touch.”

For the past week, you’ve carried on as if nothing ever happened.

It’s easier this way. There are instances where your performance is threatened, like when you ran across a news article detailing the ‘grisly murder of two men at a parking garage on 9th St,’ yet these lapses can be smoothed over. Ignore, distract, forget. This cycle lends you a credence of normalcy and eases you back into everyday life.

You haven’t seen Chrollo since that night. You suppose he’s preoccupied with his arrangements to meet the Nen exorcist. While you don’t know the specifics, you imagine he’ll have to meet this Abengane in person. In the recording, he addressed two men — named Battera and Tsezguerra — where he proved himself qualified to enter ‘Greed Island.’ Aside from a few anonymous forums, information on this mythical game is sparse. All you know is that the price is exorbitant and that Battera obsessively tracks down every copy available.

Wherever there’s Nen, things inevitably get weird, you think.

You begin tidying up your apartment. First is drying off the dishes, which saw their first use all week for a much-needed home-cooked meal. While doing so, your phone vibrates. You throw the damp rag down in a hurry and check the screen. All you find is a notification about your upcoming menstrual cycle. Sighing, you put your phone down on the counter.

Chrollo had been truthful when he promised to take your Hatsu for assisting in the return of his. A part of you is relieved by his absence; the other is frustrated. You want to get this over with. It’s like when you have an appointment later in the day and spend the time leading up to it in a limbo, not wanting to get involved in anything until the commitment is over. Is it possible he already took it? Curious, you hold your dominant hand out. You haven’t used Instant Replay since the night at the biker’s bar.

Aura surges through you, concentrating at the palm of your hand. Much to your disappointment, the light pink cassette tape appears. Maybe it no longer works? As a test, you rewind the recording of the audio Chrollo provided at the café. Once primed, you press play, listening attentively for certain cues.

“It is my great honor to profess that I, Lilith, can purge you of any ailment, even scourges derived from Nen — for a small donation of…”

The self-proclaimed Mistress of Panaceas sounds increasingly garbled as her lies surface. Clicking your tongue, you deactivate your ability. Everything remains operational. You don’t know what you expected, you’ve overheard the telltale sounds of lying the past few days. It just hasn’t been directed at you, which weakens the effect.

Will you really have to endure this the rest of your life?

Shortly into resuming your task, there’s a knock at your door.

You ignore it, not in the mood to deal with a neighbor asking for something. After thirty or so seconds, there’s another round of knocking. You suppress a groan. Why can’t the world sense that you’re moody and let you brood in peace? Trudging over, you try to put on a pleasant face, unwilling to lash out on others even if you’re in a terrible mood. Erring on the side of caution, you glance out the peephole.

Upon doing so, you almost lose your balance.

…

He must’ve decided he kept you waiting long enough.

#chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #chrollo brainrot #my stuff

1K notes · View notes

lnightmrs · 2 months ago

Text

Professor's Pet (Yandere Gojo Satoru x Professor Reader)

Being a professor in an university for rich kids meant that dealing with spoiled students who tried to bribe their way into good grades was nothing new to you. Your latest troublesome student, however, was starting to become more than you could handle.

Warnings: Blackmail, bribery, reader is older and married, gojo is like 22-23, sexual coercion, oral (m. receiving) dubious consent, implied noncon, ooc gojo,

Every year, you stand up at the lectern in front of your latest batch of final year undergrad physics students and tell them the same thing.

The only way to pass this course is to actually fucking study.

This may be one of those elite colleges that the 1% send their snotty kids off to more so for the status than the actual education, but you would sooner run across 5 miles of glass barefooted before you became one of the many professors who’d take a bribe to change a failing grade.

And every year without fail, at least five students will ignore your warning and make you come out to your office hours to try and bribe, blackmail or beg for those additional points to prove that they could be an exception. And in your seven years of running the thermodynamics course, you’ve never given in.

So when Satoru Gojo requested the 3pm slot shortly after the quarterly assignment grades came out, you already knew what was coming.

You were already somewhat familiar with the behaviour and quirks of Mr. Gojo despite this being the first course of yours that he enrolled in. He was a bright kid, according to what his previous professors told you, a possible nobel-prize level physicist in the making. The problem was that he knew it. He didn’t even have to say anything to showcase his arrogance. Just by the way he sat on the small couch in your office, snowy-locked head resting on its back, lean arms splayed across it, and his long, jean-clad legs propped up on your very delicate coffee table, you knew that this was a man who had never been humbled in his entire life.

Hopefully, that was going to change.

“Lovely office you got here, prof. More spacious than I expected.” He leaned his head in your direction, where you were resting against your desk a few feet away, arms folded.

“And might I also add that you look way more beautiful in natural light? Those harsh overheads in the lecture hall have been draining all the colour from your –“

“Let’s skip the attempts at flattery, Mr. Gojo.” You cut him off, rolling your eyes. “You said in your request email that you wanted to talk about the last assignment?”

“Oh yeah!” he sat up a little. “Well, you gave me a 42 on that quiz.”

“Yes. That’s how many points you scored.”

“You see, I needed at least a 50 to pass.”

“I’m aware of how the grading scheme works. So?”

“Sooo,” he was fully upright now, reaching for something in his satchel. “If you’re as kind as you are gorgeous, you’d bump my grade up by 8 measly points.” He pulled out an envelope and waved it in the air with a smug grin. “And you’ll get something extra special if you raise it to a 70.”

You had to admit, this level of condescension and audacity was certainly unique compared to the usual demeanour of your bribers, but it certainly wasn’t going to shake you.

“I don’t change grades or take bribes, Mr. Gojo. I said this at the very first class.” You sighed.

“C’mon Teach, I wouldn’t say this is a bribe,” he set the envelope down on the coffee table. “I’m just giving you the chance to buy yourself something nice.”

“Son, everything I own in my closet is designer. My purse is Coach. I don’t need to rely on the pocket money of spoiled rich kids to buy nice things.” You replied flatly.

There was a brief pause. You swore that you saw his smug little grin falter for a moment, but it returned as soon as he started to speak again.

“Oh I get it now!” he rose from his seat and sauntered towards you. “A self-made woman like you needs more than just plain money to grease your palms, don’t you?”

Before you could shift, he was looming right in front of you, large hands placed on both sides of where you sat on the desk, his face dangerously close to yours.

“You need something a bit sweeter, don’t you?” he breathed, his voice silky. He leaned closer, sunglasses tilting just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his bright blue eyes. “When was the last time you let someone fresh-faced take you for a ride, hmm? I bet it’s been-“

“G-R-O-S-S.” you deadpanned, pushing him away. “I wouldn’t risk my job for money, but you think I would risk it and my marriage for some mediocre play? You’re lucky I won’t report you for misconduct.”

Usually, when it came down to the situation where the briber tried to seduce you, your method of rejecting them with disgust would generate enough embarrassment for them to regain their self-awareness and leave. Gojo, however, simply huffed, looking more annoyed than ashamed.

“You’re being real difficult you know, prof.”

“A woman is nothing is without her principles, Mr. Gojo.” You replied. “And frankly, I’m quite tired of you and the other spoiled students who think they can ignore my sole boundary and buy their way out of their mistakes.” You scooped up his satchel and tossed it towards him. He took the hint and headed towards the door, a defeated scowl fully replacing the smirk from earlier. You recalled the praises the rest of the department sung about him, and how, at least when it came to academics, he didn’t match your usual suspects.

“For a failing grade it’s not even that bad.” You confided. “If you get high scores on the mid-term and 2nd assignment, you’d be in a good position for the final. But that’s only if you understand the material, which I know you’re capable of doing. You’re too brilliant of a student to be playing these kinda games.” He paused a bit at your words before continuing into the hallway. You watched his back from the doorway.

“If you need my actual assistance, you know my office hours!” you shouted after him.

He simply waved in response.

>>>>>>>>

“Do you think I should transfer to another university?” you looked across the dinner table at your husband, Makoto, who was preoccupied with his meal until he registered your question.

“Why?” he asked, mouth still partially full. “Don’t tell me that Gojo guy is your final straw.”

“I mean, it’s gotten to the point where even the potential nobel prize students don’t wanna work earnestly! Most of the professors also don’t care and take the bribes and some of them even tease me about it! I don’t know, it feels like I’m the only hard-headed bitch in the entire faculty who wants to maintain some kind of integrity and-"

You feel a warm hand cup your cheek, Makoto’s signature method of calming you. Your frustrated eyes met with his gentle gaze, and he maintained this gentleness as he spoke.

“Sweetheart, I’ll support anything you want to do, but you need to make sure you’re not stressing yourself out over something that’s not within your control. It’s not your responsibility to fix the school’s culture. Just do your best. Which is usually phenomenal.” He smiled. You couldn’t help but return it. Your eyes followed him as he picked up the plates to load up the dishwasher.

“And who knows? Maybe your words got through to Mr. Future Nobel Prize and the next time he wants to see you is to discuss the work.” He paused. “Although, I will admit, the thought of a supposedly handsome young man who tried to seduce my wife spending time alone with her makes me uneasy. How tall did you say he was again?”

You chuckled. “Relax, hotshot. There’s only one handsome man in the entire world I’d let near my privates, and I’m married to him. Besides, I’m sure a healthy pretty boy like him isn’t actually interested in old hags like me.”

He walked over and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s still possible, you’re the most beautiful hag I’ve ever seen.”

>>>>>>>>

Three days later, Gojo was sitting haphazardly on your office couch again.

He had requested the 4pm timeslot this time, which took place an hour after the lecture. It was rare for students to return after you reject their offers, and usually when they did, it was to test their luck again, so when you heard the words that fell out of his mouth, you did a double take.

“You said... you said want to… discuss the topic from today??” you stammered.

“Ugh,” he groaned, looking away from your clearly astonished expression. “Stop looking at me like I grew another pair of eyes.”

“This isn’t some sort of prank, right? There aren’t any hidden cameras anywhere?” you started scanning the room.

“Jeez lady, what kind of students have you had to deal with?” he said, bemused. “Look, I just put some thought into what you said the other day.” He scratched the back of his head. “I am better than grovelling for a grade. I just... I never failed an exam before this course, so I felt kind of…embarrassed. I wanted to hide it.”

You leaned forward, meeting his crystalline eyes. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about kid. Even Einstein failed shit at some point or another. What’s a real sign of intelligence is that you came to me.” You plopped down on the couch next to him.

“So, let’s get started! What are you having trouble with?”

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Before you knew it, Satoru (he insisted you call him that now) had become a part of your work routine. He would come to your office hours after every lecture to review the topics. He’d email you with any burning questions on his mind. You even gave him your work cell number so he could call you for guidance during the midterm project. His attitude did a 180 too. He started showing up early to lectures instead of rolling in a half hour late. He answered questions when asked. If he caught you in the hallways on the way to your next teaching, he’d offer to carry your books for you. Sometimes, you’d let him.

With the frequency of his visits, it was only natural that eventually the topics would occasionally steer away from just academics. Of course, you made sure to keep the small talk within a professional line, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy just shooting the breeze with him. When he’s not humble bragging about his status or smarts, Satoru was actually a pretty funny guy, if a little strange in his humour. You found his conspiracy theory that Professor Mei is actually some kind of loan shark to be very entertaining, even if you had to shut it down.

But the greatest part of this development for you was that it felt like after so many years of dealing with students that held no passion for the field, you had finally made a breakthrough. Sure, the possibility that he was only doing all of this to butter you up for a huge favour still hung over your head, but for now, he was applying himself, he was interested in the material, and at the end of the day, you were accomplishing what you set out to do as an educator.

You were sharing these sentiments with Makoto at the dinner table on the night after finals. You told him how Satoru was among the students who flocked to you after the exam to express their confidence in their knowledge. He smiled half-heartedly, absent-mindedly picking at his food. You paused your chatter and took note of the worsening dark circles under his eyes and his dry lips. You knew he hadn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks, he said it was something about work stressing him out and to not worry about it, but there’s been too many nights where you woke up to find him still at his desk around 3 am, and despite your attempts to soothe him by taking on some of his chores and the stress seemed to be affecting his eating habits too.

Realizing that the air was now filled with silence, Makoto looked up from his plate to meet your examining eyes.

“I’m sorry, I was a little lost in thought. What were you saying?” he chuckled nervously.

“I stopped talking to look at your tired face. I said it before, but you need to take a break!” You reached out to squeeze his arm. He remained quiet. “I know! The semester is closing soon, we’ll take our time off for a week and go somewhere!” you excitedly suggested. “I heard Samoa is nice this time of year! Fiji is pretty good too but to get tickets at this point might be hard. I don’t’ want to stress you out any further maybe-”

You felt soft lips pressing against yours, Makoto’s warm hands cupping your cheeks. Your initial surprise melted away from his ever-gentle touch, reaching up to feel his hair. But when you tried to deepen the kiss, he pulled away, his eyes glassy.

“What’s this about?” you hummed, playing with his shirt collar. “Trying to tell me to be quiet?”

“I… I just love you a lot.” He smiled, pulling you into an embrace. “I love that I have someone who fusses over me like you do. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You kissed the crook of his neck. “You must be really worn out, honey. Let’s take a bath and go to bed.”

He hummed in response.

>>>>>>>

Makoto was gone.

You woke up on a cold Saturday morning to find his side of the closet empty, a suitcase missing. His car was no longer in his spot in the garage. You called his phone, no answer. You texted; the messages refused to change to delivered. You called his parents, his friends, his job. Nobody knew where he was. You drove all over town to his favourite spots, still clad in your pyjamas, hoping someone would’ve seen him. It was only when you solemnly dragged yourself back to your house late in the evening that you found the note he left next to your laptop.

“Sorry. It’s for the best.”

The aftermath was rough. Food stopped being edible. You couldn’t sleep in your shared bedroom anymore. It was a good day if you had enough energy to brush your teeth. At least one of your friends made sure to check in on you daily, their comfort coming in the form of helping you with daily tasks and expressing their disdain for Makoto for doing this to you. Lines like “He’s a vile idiot!”, “He doesn’t know what he’s throwing away!” and “he’s been horrible to you!” were on repeat whenever they came around, and at first, you wanted to believe it. But when the anger stage of grief finally dissipated, you couldn’t help but feel like this was more than a man throwing away his marriage just because. You tried to express this to your comforters, but you were met with talks about seeking counselling or how to deal with denial. But they weren’t there. They weren’t there that night when he gently expressed his love for you. They weren’t there whenever he bought you something simply because it reminded him of you. They weren’t there when he’d rub soothing circles into your back when you were stressed. It was you who was receiving his seemingly endless love for the past 10 years. That’s why it was you who lay awake at night, mind endlessly searching for a plausible explanation. And it was cruel, but sometimes on those sleepless nights you found yourself wishing that he disappeared because he was kidnapped or lost at sea and not because he had willingly left you behind. Maybe then you wouldn’t be haunted by the notion that this was somehow all your fault.

You returned to the faculty after two weeks. It was a temporary arrangement; you were to finish grading the last batch of finals and upload them to the system before you took another two weeks of your vacation leave. You did your best to appear put together, but no amount of makeup and nice clothes could hide the hollowness in your eyes. None of your coworkers tried to offer any condolences, but you figured this was less due to kindness than it was due to the fact that it’s harder to say, “sorry about your husband abandoning you with no explanation!” without feeling awkward. Thankfully, no one else really got the chance to speak with you further since you locked yourself in your office all day.

You were getting sick of seeing the same questions over and over again when you heard a knock on your door. Satoru’s snowy head peeked through the door.

“Prof?” he closed the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“I should be asking you that, Satoru.” You responded. “Classes don’t resume until next month. Why are you on campus?”

“Club stuff. Just finished.” He strolled towards your desk and pulled one of the chairs to sit. “I saw the lights in your office on my way back and since you haven’t been answering my texts and Mei said you weren’t well I just wanted to check on you.” You sighed.

“That’s sweet of you but you’re too young to be worried about your professor. You should be partying or something.” You half-smiled. He stared at your face, taking in your miserable appearance.

“What happened to you?” he asked, ignoring your comment. “You look like shit.”

You don’t even feel defensive because you knew it was true, but there was no way you were going to discuss your relationship problems with your decade- younger student, no matter how much you liked them.

“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about.” You said, your tone dismissive. “You should leave, I’m grading papers and you can’t-”

“He left you didn’t he? Your husband.” You shot him a nasty glare. How did the hell did he know, and why did he think that this was an appropriate topic to discuss?

“I lied. Mei told me what was really going on. I’m sorry I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

You scoffed. “Well if you can tell me what would compel a man to ditch his wife right after telling her he loved her more than anything, that’d be a great fucking help.”

“Welll,” he started, his tone light. “Maybe he was actually an alien studying human companionship that finally collected enough data for his report! Or it could be that he was a government spy, and he got another assignment.” You rolled your eyes. His imaginative yet terrible reasons were actually working to provide some kind of relief.

“Or,” he scooted closer to you. “Maybe a rich student from the Gojo family paid him $500,000 to leave you so he could have you all to himself.”

You whipped your head around to face him. He was smiling, gazing at you as if he was waiting for you to laugh. You feel a shiver run down your spine.

“That’s not funny, Satoru.”

“I’m not joking.” He sang. “Here, take a look for yourself.” He held up his phone to your face. A screenshot of bank transactions was on it. Makoto’s name and account was on the top of the list.

You stood up, bringing your hands to your face, your mind battling with the evidence before you.

“No… no… I don’t understand… my husband wouldn’t… he wouldn’t fucking sell me like some piece of furniture!” you looked over at Satoru, who had gotten up to lean on your desk, a pleased grin displayed on his face.

“I can’t lie to you; you sure know how to pick ‘em.” He shrugged. “He’s just as stubborn as you when it comes to accepting offers. I had to tell him I would kill you if he refused for him to finally accept the deal.” He laughed airily. “Not that I would ever do that, of course.”

It was like a punch to the gut. You collapse to your knees, clutching your chest. Against your will, your brain started putting the clues together. This was why Makoto was having trouble sleeping at night. This was why he held you so tightly the night before he left. Why his last message to you was an apology. Because of a demon you mistook for a troubled student. You could see the demon’s shoes near your knees.

“Why… why did you do this? Revenge? I helped you… you passed the course.” You spat out.

He bent down to your level, a hand resting on your shoulder. “Honestly, the original plan was to get back at you. I was gonna convince the entire university that we were fucking, so I started hanging around you as much as I could to fuel the rumors. I was even gonna film myself fucking you senseless and spread it to the faculty to get you fired!” His hand creeped up from your shoulder to the base of your neck. “But then I ended up falling for you. For real. Who wouldn’t? You’re perfect. So I settled for getting rid of your hubby instead! I’m not a guy who can be satisfied with just being the other man, you know~.”

You were frozen in place on the floor, tears spilling from your shocked face. You looked up at him, and he was still smiling, aquamarine eyes looking down at you as if he just gave you a cute confession, instead of the horrific admission that he was utterly deranged.

It took the feeling of his lips brushing against yours for you to regain enough sense to push him away, the force of it causing you to fall back on your ass. You crawled backwards and away from him.

“Don’t touch me!” you snarled.

He stayed crouched on the floor, looking at you like a lion would look at a wounded gazelle. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to be over the moon about this, but to see you like this... Hmmm…” he trailed off, as if in thought. You needed to get the fuck out of this office. This university. You needed to find your husband. As you slowly rose, he clapped his hands together, making you flinch.

“I got it!” he exclaimed. “You want to see him again, don’t you?” he rose and stalked towards you. A hand was on your hip, another on your chin, tilting your face to meet his manic eyes.

“Let’s have some fun together,” he whispered. “If you’re good, I’ll give you his new number. That’ll cheer you up, right?”

Another fucking bribe. You wanted to kick him as hard as you could. You wanted to gouge out those pretty eyes. You wanted to vomit. You wanted your husband. And this might be the only way to get him. You could get the police involved, but what could they possibly do? They probably wouldn’t even believe you. You had no other choice.

“What do you want me to do?”

You were on your knees near the desk, your clothes discarded, leaving you in your underwear. Satoru was standing in front of you, eyes blown wide in anticipation, mouth salivating. Your lips were swollen from the searing kiss he gave you when he was undressing you and you were sure that there were going to be bruises present on your neck from his affections. You felt his fingers tap your cheek, a signal to hurry up.

“Go ahead, pretty thing.” He groaned. “Take it out.”

With shaky hands, you undid his belt buckle and unzipped his pants. His cock sprung free from its confines. You swallowed thickly. It was big, bigger than Makoto’s. You felt a hand pet your head. With a deep breath, you open your mouth you try to fit as much as you can without gagging.

You slowly bobbed your head along his length with your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to imagine it was someone else you were doing this to, someone who didn’t ruin your life, but Satoru’s babbling above you made it impossible to deny that it was him.

“Do you know how many times- fuck- I dreamed about this?” he hissed, hands running through your hair. “Thought about those pretty lips wrapped around my cock so much- hah- “ he suddenly gripped the sides of your head and started thrusting himself further down your throat, causing you to cry out in panic. It was too much, his pace too fast, choking you. You started smacking his thighs with your fists, tears clouding your vision.

“So sorry baby” he slurred, his voice thick and heavy. “it just feels so good I can’t- hah- stop! You’re so good f’me! Sosososogoood-"

He let out a shameless groan, and something salty and tangy and awful filled your throat. He released you and you immediately pulled back, gasping and spitting almost simultaneously. You sat on the back of your thighs as you tried to regain your breath. Satoru fell back onto your desk chair, body relaxed, face blissed out. You decided to cut his high short.

“I gave you want you wanted Satoru.” You spoke, breath still shaky. “Now give me what I want.”

He rose from the chair. “Actually, about that. I gave it some thought while I was kissing you.” He stalked closer and closer. “If I let you call him, your sweet voice might compel him to try and come back here. Can’t let that happen, then I’ll lose you.” He kneeled in front of you, gazing at your horrified face. He pushed you onto your back, one hand pinning your arms above your head, the other toying with the hem of your panties.

You felt something in your chest snap.

“You lying son of a bitch!” you screeched, wriggling and thrashing in an attempt to get out of his grip. He simply chuckled in response.

“Come now professor, I already told you. I’m not a guy who can live with being the other man.” He smirked as he leaned forward to kiss your snarling lips.

“You said it yourself. A man is nothing without his principles, right?”

A/N: This is a repost from my previous blog @lnightmrs !

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere x reader #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #dark content #dark gojo satoru #tw: dubcon #tw: coercion #figured i would repost my best work first lmfao

517 notes · View notes