Pairing: K x Fuma
Vibe: Teasing turned tension, banter battle turned slow-burn crush, the flirty one gets serious
POV: Fuma's
Theme: When the one who never stops teasing you suddenly means everything he says

Requested by stantxtandizone

Fuma prided himself on composure.

He didn't crack under pressure, didn't rise to bait, didn't flinch when people tried to mess with him.

At least... not most people.

But K?

K was a walking disaster in expensive sneakers and a grin that screamed "watch this."

And he never left Fuma alone.

"Fumaaaa," K sang one morning, sliding into the seat next to him in the cafeteria. "Did it hurt?"

Fuma didn't look up from his phone. "What."

"When you fell from heaven. You know. Because you're—"

Fuma slowly turned his head. Dead stare. "Don't finish that sentence."

K just smirked. "Too late. Already said it in my mind."

That was K's entire game plan: flirt, fluster, retreat.
Flirt harder. Say something outrageous. Act like nothing happened.

And Fuma? Fuma hated how effective it was.

His ears would go red. His heart would skip.
And K? K would notice every time.

The worst part? K wasn't doing it for attention.

He was doing it for Fuma's attention.

And that made it harder to ignore.

One night, it snapped.

Fuma was trying to study in the dorm lounge. K dropped onto the couch beside him, legs dramatically stretched, holding a cup of instant ramen he wasn't eating.

"You always study this hard?" K asked.

"You always interrupt this much?"

"Only for you."

Fuma exhaled through his nose. "That line worked better the first six times."

K leaned in. Too close. That signature grin softened—just slightly.

"Then why haven't you walked away?"

Fuma blinked.

K was watching him now.

Not playing. Not joking.

Fuma's throat tightened.

"Because you're loud and persistent and apparently glued to this couch."

K chuckled. "Sure. Let's go with that."

Silence stretched. Fuma tried to focus. Failed.

K's thigh pressed against his. Not by accident. K didn't do accidental.

Fuma cleared his throat. "You're too close."

"You're not moving."

"I don't have to."

"But you could."

Fuma didn't answer.

K's voice dropped:

"Every time I get too close, you look at me like you're going to shove me away."

"And every time..." K paused. "You don't."

Fuma's heart stuttered.

"What do you want, K?"

K leaned in again, slower this time.

Eyes locked on his.

"You."

Fuma froze.

K wasn't teasing anymore.

No smirk. No punchline. Just that single word, honest and dangerous.

Fuma opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

But K reached out—gently—tilting his face back.

"For once," he whispered, "don't deflect. Don't shut me out."

Fuma exhaled shakily.

"You're... really not kidding, are you?"

K smiled.

Not wild. Not chaotic.

Soft.

"Not when it's you."

Fuma didn't flinch.

He leaned in.

Just enough.

Just once.

Then kissed K like he'd been waiting the whole time to lose.

Scene: He started the game—but Fuma's here to end it

K had one rule.

Never be the one who gets flustered.

He was the tease. The talker. The spark.

He'd flirted with Fuma for weeks. Relentlessly. Playfully. Shamelessly.

And the worst part?

Fuma never cracked.

Not until last night.

Not until Fuma had leaned in—cool, calm, terrifyingly gentle—and kissed him like it wasn't a game.

Like he meant it.

And now K was lying in bed, wide-eyed, very much awake at 2:04 a.m., replaying that moment on a loop.

The next morning, he thought he could recover.

He strutted into the kitchen like usual. Hoodie off one shoulder. Sleepy smirk on.

Fuma was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea, looking unfairly perfect.

"Morning," Fuma said, calm as ever.

K leaned in against the fridge. "Missed me?"

Fuma looked him up and down, sipped his tea, and said, "Yeah. A little."

K choked.

A little?!
What was he supposed to do with that?
Flirty? Teasing? Direct? That was his thing.

But Fuma just turned away and hummed like he hadn't just lit K's entire nervous system on fire.

Later that day, it got worse.

They were sitting next to each other on the dorm couch, and K "accidentally" brushed their hands together.

Fuma didn't flinch. Didn't pull away.

He laced their fingers together and whispered, "You always touch me like you're asking permission."

K stopped breathing.

Fuma leaned in, deadpan:

"You don't have to ask anymore."

Short circuit.

K actually had to excuse himself and go to the bathroom to breathe.

But the final blow?

That came during group movie night.

Everyone was loud, the lights were off, and Fuma leaned into K's ear—voice low, unreadable.

"I like it when you look at me like that."

K blinked.

"Like what?"

Fuma turned his head, still way too close.

"Like I'm the one messing with you now."

K was staring.

Mouth parted. Brain blank. Heart punching holes in his ribs.

And Fuma just smirked.

Smirked.

This man had the audacity to steal his entire playbook and use it better.

After the movie, K pulled Fuma aside.

"You're doing this on purpose."

Fuma blinked. "Doing what?"

"Being... like this. Teasing me. Saying things. Touching me. You're—"

Fuma stepped forward.

"I'm showing you I like you. Isn't that what you wanted?"

K opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Fuma tilted his head.

"You flirted with me for weeks, K. Did you really think I wouldn't return the favor?"

"Yeah but not like this," K muttered. "You're supposed to melt. Not—turn into a menace."

Fuma chuckled.

"You like it."

"That's not the point—"

Fuma leaned in, slow and smug.

"No? Then what is the point?"

K swallowed.

"The point is—I wasn't ready to lose control."

Fuma grinned, close enough that K could feel the warmth of his breath.

"Good. Now you know how it feels."

Then he kissed K.

Again.

And K?

K melted.

End.