𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉
Seungmin x reader / school AU / academic rivals to lovers / smut / one shot / student x student
**involves!!** dirty talk, public sex, bullying, teasing, public make-out, sex in school
enjoy xx (open for request)
★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★
You’ve never hated anyone the way you hate Seungmin.
Which is to say, you’ve never felt anything this sharp. Not the thrill of winning a quiz with full marks. Not the sting of coming second by half a point. Not the ache in your hands after rewriting notes to perfection. Nothing compares to the way your pulse spikes every time Seungmin walks into a room like he owns it — tie loose, hair a mess, and eyes scanning the room like he’s already calculated your every move.
“Top of the class again,” he says, passing your desk with that irritating smirk. “By 0.3%. Should I slow down next time?”
You slam your pen down. “Try speeding up instead. It’s getting boring beating you.”
He laughs under his breath. “Keep dreaming.”
This is your routine. Mockery in the mornings, sarcasm after tests, glances that last too long when one of you thinks the other isn’t looking. Your friends call it friendly competition. The teachers call it mutual motivation. You call it war.
And then there’s today.
School’s ended, the halls are quiet, and you’re still in the library, packing up your books with the kind of care that screams stalling. You know he’s here. You’ve known since he walked in twenty minutes ago and started pretending not to watch you from the next row of shelves.
When you round the corner, he’s already there, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you have.
“You left your folder in the chem lab,” he says, holding it out lazily. “Not like you to be careless.”
You take it from his hand but don’t back away. “Not like you to care.”
He shrugs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But there’s a flicker in his eyes. Something that lingers too long.
You should leave. Say thanks, walk out, pretend this isn’t spiraling into something you’ve both been skating around for months. But your mouth moves faster than your brain.
“Why do you do it?” you ask. “Why compete with me like your life depends on it?”
His jaw clenches. “Maybe because you make it feel like it does.”
The silence that follows is louder than any shouting match you’ve ever had. You take a step forward, heart pounding. “You always have to win.”
He steps closer too. “And you always have to be right.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Maybe I’m tired of pretending.”
The words are so quiet, you almost miss them. Almost.
“What do you mean?”
And that’s when it happens.
His hand grabs your wrist — not hard, but firm, grounding — and before you can react, you’re backed into the bookshelf, books trembling in their place, his face inches from yours.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asks, voice low, raw.
You blink. “What?”
He leans in, closer still. “Me chasing you. Fighting you. Wanting you.”
Your breath catches. “I—”
“You act like this is a game, but you look at me like you want to burn.”
And the worst part is: he’s right.
Because every second you’ve spent arguing with him, every time your hands brushed passing papers, every time he narrowed his eyes at you across the classroom like you were the only one worth beating — it wasn’t about winning. Not really.
You don’t know who moves first.
Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But then his lips are on yours, fierce and desperate, all the tension that’s been curling between you unraveling in a single, heated crash. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s a challenge and a confession all at once.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. He’s breathing hard. So are you.
“I hated you,” you whisper, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you.
His smile is crooked. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
And somehow, that feels more honest than anything else.
You should stop. You really should. But the second Seungmin’s mouth crashes back onto yours, harder this time, all common sense is gone.
The way he presses you into the bookshelf — like he’s been dying to do this for months — has your knees weak, and his hands are suddenly everywhere: under your blazer, sliding up your shirt, tugging at the waistband of your uniform skirt like it personally offended him.
“Still think this is a game?” he growls against your neck, voice wrecked.
“Not when you’re losing control like that,” you shoot back, breathless — smug for half a second, until he slides a hand between your legs and you gasp, biting back a moan.
“Say that again,” he dares, fingers pressing just hard enough to make you squirm.
You cling to his shoulders, nails digging in. “Fuck— Seungmin…”
He looks at you like he’s trying to burn the image into memory. “God, you sound so much better when you’re not being a smartass.”
He sinks to his knees like it’s instinct, shoving your skirt up, dragging your underwear down with one smooth pull. There’s no teasing — just his mouth on you, hot and devastating, like he’s been thinking about this too long to take his time now.
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out. The library is silent except for the obscene sound of his tongue and your ragged breathing.
“Thought I hated you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Turns out I just wanted to ruin you like this.”
You come undone embarrassingly fast — stars bursting behind your eyes as your legs nearly give out. He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives you that smug, absolutely infuriating smirk.
“I win.”
You barely have time to roll your eyes before he kisses you again, deep and hungry, grinding against you through his pants. You reach for his belt, and he stops you, just for a breath.
“You sure?” he asks, and even now, he’s giving you that out.
You nod. “Seungmin. Please.”
That’s all he needs.
He spins you around, bends you slightly over the shelf, and you hear his zipper, the crinkle of a condom — thank god, of course he has one — and then he’s pushing into you, slow, thick, stretching, and you bite your lip to stay quiet, because fuck, he feels too good.
He sets a brutal pace right from the start, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up to your mouth to muffle the broken moans he’s pulling out of you. Your back arches, hands clawing at the shelf, books thudding quietly to the floor.
“Thought you liked being in control,” he pants against your ear.
“Fuck you—”
He thrusts deeper, harder. “You are.”
You clench around him, and he groans, low and rough, lips brushing your neck.
“I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”
You turn your head, eyes glassy. “Then don’t.”
He buries himself deep one last time, shuddering, coming with a soft curse that sounds like your name. You’re right there with him, muffled against his palm, shaking in his arms.
Silence settles, sticky and breathless.
After a minute, he pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and helps fix your skirt with the weirdest mix of smugness and tenderness. You both look wrecked — hair messed up, lips swollen, shirts untucked — and neither of you says anything for a long beat.
Then, finally—
“You still lost,” you whisper.
He scoffs, stepping close, brushing your hair from your face.
“Fine,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “You first.”
