𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.
- Paring: Kira Timurov x Female Reader (use of y/n)
ˢᵘᵐᵐᵃʳʸ ⭑Your attitude had been annoying the past few days—or at least, that’s what Kira Timurov kept telling herself every time you came back from talking to the new girl, Yumeko Kawamoto. What were you even talking to her so much about? She’s the fucking enemy. Whenever the president called you out on it in the student council room, you would just reply, "I'm just being nice."
Nice.
After Suki's "funeral," Kira was in an even worse mood about your shitty attitude. Instead of staying with your group, and with her, you went over to Yumeko and Ryan's stupid duo.
Why?
Ryan had always been your weakness because you'd known him since you were kids, but Yumeko? What made her so damn special to you?
ᵗᵃᵍˢ ⭑ Tension ⭑ Light Dom/Sub ⭑ Power Dynamics ⭑ Possessive Behavior ⭑ MDNI.
You knew something was wrong with her.
She always kept her eyes fixed on things she deemed more important than you—numbers, status, the damn control of the student council—but now... now her eyes searched for yours with an urgency that made your skin crawl.
It was weird. Extremely weird coming from the President.
Sitting at the student council table, right above Dori but always under the imposing shadow of the Timurov sisters, had taught you how to read the silence in the room. And lately, Kira’s silence was dangerous. It had all started the day Yumeko Kawamoto stood in front of you all and accepted Mary’s challenge. There was something about the new girl's energy, a wild and reckless vibe that instantly drew you in. You couldn't help it. While the rest of the council looked down on her with contempt, you chose normalcy. You chose to be kind.
"Hey... Yumeko," you’d say every time you passed each other in the hallways, giving her a beautiful smile—the kind Kira reserved the right to wipe off your face.
A spontaneous hug every time Yumeko won an impossible match. A knowing chuckle, soft but perfectly audible, every time the Asian girl dropped a sharp or funny comment in the middle of a tense war of words with Kira.
God, Kira hated when you laughed at her nonsense. You could feel the rigidity in her posture from the other end of the main table. To her, your laughter was fuel; it fed Yumeko’s ego and egged her on to keep defying the council's authority. But above all, it pissed Kira off that your attention wasn't exclusively on her anymore.
And after Suki’s "funeral," the rope stretched almost to its breaking point. Instead of aligning yourself with the council’s cold mourning, your soft spot for Ryan—whom you’d known since you were kids—and your growing fascination with Yumeko dragged you to their side. You left Kira alone on her pedestal.
Now, the council meeting has just ended. The echo of Riri and the others' footsteps fades down the hallway, but you've stayed behind to organize some reports. The sound of the door shutting with a sharp click makes you freeze.
You look up from the desk. Kira is still there. She hasn't moved. And the way she locks her eyes onto yours tells you that your damn "kindness" has finally pushed her over the edge.
The silence in the council room grows thick, almost suffocating—the kind that presses against your eardrums. You know Kira is there, but she chooses to play with the space, using her position to psychologically torture you. She avoids direct contact. You hear her walking with a maddeningly slow pace, stopping in front of her fish tank. The subtle bubbling of the water is the only thing filling the void as she watches them for a second, her back turned to you, pretending that nothing in the world matters less to her than you do.
Then, she begins to circle the massive round council table. The sound of her polished nails dragging and softly scratching against the varnished wood surface sends a shiver straight down your spine. It is a display of pure power; she is cornering you without even looking at you.
Neither of you knows how to communicate without shields, and the air already feels heavy with a hostility that claws at you.
But while she avoids you, she speaks. Her voice is ice-cold, corporate—a ridiculous defense mechanism to hide the fact that she is dying inside.
—Any news on the Blake incident?
Of course. To keep you busy, with your head down and away from what you actually cared about, she had given you the task of finding out why the hell Blake blew up in the car with her stepfather. She wanted to drown you in their shit just to keep you under her thumb.
—Nothing yet —you reply. Your tone is flat, defiant—the worst answer you can give to someone who demands immediate results.
Kira finally stops. The dragging of her nails ceases. Her eyes—light blue, sharp, and heavy with a storm she has been holding back for days—find yours and pin you to the spot. Now, the distance between you is dangerously short.
—It’s been a week, (y/n).
—I know, but I’ve been busy —you cross your arms, holding her gaze, refusing to shrink before the imposing president—. I have other things going on in my life besides dealing with the murder of an idiot who didn't even know how to play a damn instrument. You didn't even care about Blake.
—The only thing I care about is you doing what I ordered —Kira says. She takes another step toward you, her posture rigid, her jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in her neck—. Do I need to be clearer, or is your bratty attitude still standing?
—Bratty attitude? —you let out a bitter laugh, a low blow aimed straight at her ego—. Just because I don't want to get involved in that mafia bullshit doesn't mean I’m being bratty. You're used to everyone kneeling, Kira. It doesn't work with me.
—Oh, so now you don't want to? Didn't you say you were too busy with your "things"? Are you lying straight to my face? —she steps even closer, the venom in her voice almost palpable—. Or do your "things" have an Asian first and last name?
You scoff, rolling your eyes in genuine annoyance. It is impossible to talk to her; she translates everything into threats, suspicion, and paranoia.
—At least use your new friend to get information —she snaps, and the way she spits the word friend makes it crystal clear that this was never about Blake—. She looked entirely too happy after that car exploded with her inside.
You drop your arms to your sides and take a step forward, invading her personal space too. The fury in the room is escalating at a blind, deafening pace.
—What? You didn't know?...
—Okay... Kira, you need to stop dragging Yumeko into all the weird shit surrounding St. Dominics —your voice rises a notch, your patience slipping through your fingers—. Your fucking obsession is driving you insane.
The direct mention of the Asian girl's name, defending her right to her face, is the spark in the powder keg. The façade of the perfect, analytical president shatters into a million pieces. The real Kira—possessive, territorial, and desperate—surfaces with a verbal violence that takes your breath away.
—Why the fuck are you defending her? —she takes a violent step forward, eliminating almost all the air between you. You can feel the furious heat radiating from her body—. Don't you get that she is my enemy? She wants to ruin me and you're... you're clinging to her like she’s a damn puppy! You'll let anyone pat you on the head!
—Trust me, she doesn't want to ruin you. You're hallucinating because of your own demons.
—There it is again —she hisses, her face strangely close, her pupils dilated with a mix of hatred and something much darker—. You claim things you don't even believe just to... to make me angry. To push my buttons. What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want my position? No... you want to hand my fucking position over to her... You want to give her everything.
—You're sick, Kira. You're seeing ghosts where there are none.
—Then stop acting like that with her! I know she’s up to something... and you're playing right into her little game! You laugh at her fucking stupidity right in my face!
The lack of communication reaches its breaking point. It’s a concrete wall. She screams out of jealousy disguised as politics, and you respond with contempt because you're sick of her distrust. Neither of you is going to back down.
—Kira. If you don't trust me, if you really think I’m a traitor, just kick me out of the student council —you interrupt her, driving the words into her like daggers.
Silence falls again, but this time it isn't cold—it’s pure gunpowder. Kira stares at you, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as she processes the ultimatum you just threw at her. You expect her to use her pride, to kick you out. But her silence tells you that the mere thought of pushing you away is tearing her apart inside.
—Fine. I’m not putting up with any more of your nonsense. I resign.
You speak with a cutting coldness as your fingers quickly and furiously unbutton your black blazer. You are taking off the uniform, the symbol that ties you to her world, to her control. You are freeing yourself from her.
The gesture destroys the last shred of sanity Kira had left. Seeing that you’d rather leave her than give in is too much.
You don't even manage to slide the sleeves of the blazer off your shoulders.
In a blinding flash, driven by pure animal desperation, Kira lunges at you. Her hands clamp around your wrists with brutal force, a grip so tight it cuts off your circulation. She shoves you backward with the full weight of her body; the edge of the round table cuts off your path, hitting your lower hip.
You hear the sharp thud of your hands being slammed and pinned against the varnished wood, trapped with no escape under the implacable pressure of her fingers. The black blazer is caught halfway down your arms, restricting your movements even further, leaving you completely defenseless, exposed.
You are left breathless, your chest colliding flat against hers with every rapid breath. Your bodies are pressed so tightly together that you can feel the rigidity of her thighs against yours, trapping you against the table. Her face is millimeters from yours, her eyes bloodshot with a fury that is no longer about politics, no longer about the council. It is hunger, it is panic, it is possession.
—What do you think you're doing? —she murmurs, and her voice holds no trace of the president anymore; it is a raspy, vibrating whisper, heavy with a thick, dangerous breath that hits your lips—. That bitch took Mary from me, and then Suki... Is she going to steal you from me too?
The brush of her lips so close to yours burns you. Her breath, erratic and hot, hits your mouth with the same violence with which your wrists remain trapped against the varnished wood. You can feel Kira’s racing heartbeat pounding directly against your chest; the cold, calculating president is dead, and the only thing left is a girl scared to death and suffocating under her own jealousy.
The black blazer, stuck halfway down your biceps, prevents you from pushing her away, prevents you from defending yourself. You are completely at her mercy, with the edge of the round table digging into your lower hip, forcing your body to arch toward her, pressing your pelvises together with unbearable pressure.
You hold her gaze, refusing to blink, even though your own pupils are dilated from the adrenaline. Your voice comes out low, a slow drawl dripping with the same venom, but carrying a dangerous note of smugness:
—Is that really what this is, Kira? Do you really think Yumeko is stealing me away? Or does it just piss you off that there's finally someone who isn't afraid of you?
Her grip on your wrists tightens a bit more, almost to the point of pain, and a muffled gasp escapes your throat. Hearing that sound only feeds Kira’s fire. Her eyes drop to your lips for a split second before locking back onto yours with an animal intensity.
—Shut up —she hisses, her voice cracking at the edges—. Don't talk about her. Don't say her name when you're with me.
—I’m not with you anymore. I just resigned, remember? —you taunt, arching an eyebrow, defying the grip of her hands—. Let me go, Kira. Let me go hang out with Ryan and Yumeko. At least they...
You don't get to finish the sentence. The mere mention of those two names together is the ultimate trigger.
Kira releases one of your wrists, but not to set you free. In a swift, possessive movement, her free hand shoots straight up to your neck, gripping it—not to cut off your air, but to pin you in place, forcing your head to tilt back. Her cold fingers contrast sharply with the burning skin of your throat.
—I said shut up —she murmurs against your lips, and this time, the distance vanishes.
Kira slams her mouth against yours in a kiss that has nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with a claim. It’s a rough, desperate collision, a punishment that tastes like weeks of pent-up rage. Her lips bite your lower one with a force that makes you taste the iron of blood, forcing your mouth open with a gasp that she immediately uses to invade you completely. Her tongue enters wild, dominant, sweeping through your mouth as if she wants to brand every single corner, as if she wants to erase any trace, any laugh you had ever gifted to Yumeko.
The grip on your other wrist remains firm against the table, keeping you stretched out, while her body presses even harder against yours. You feel the rigidity of her legs wedging themselves between yours, forcing space open, seeking direct contact through the fabric of your uniforms.
You kiss her back. You can't help it. The hostility you had both been harboring explodes in an electric current that clouds your judgment. Your tongue tangles with hers with the same fury, biting her back, transforming the council room into a purely carnal battlefield.
Kira lets out a low growl in the middle of the kiss, a guttural sound that vibrates right into your mouth as she feels your submission and your fire responding to her. Her hand on your neck slides down slowly, clawing at the fabric of your white shirt, fumbling for the buttons with a clumsy, desperate urgency, tugging at the cloth until you hear the sharp snap of a thread breaking.
She pulls away just a few millimeters, panting, her lips red, swollen, and glistening from the shared saliva. Her light blue eyes are completely darkened, fixed on the skin she just exposed on your chest.
She doesn’t even give you time to recover. Before you can even process the air entering your lungs, she forces you to turn. Her hands shift their grip with a rough agility, forcing you to spin around against the smooth wood.
Your chest impacts the round table. Your palms press against the varnished surface, and as you look down, you find your own reflection. The polished wood throws back a distorted, chaotic image of yourself: you are completely flushed, your breath fogging the reflection, your lips swollen and stained with Kira’s signature light-blue lipstick, mixed with the thin trail of blood welling from a minor scrape, torn open by the violence of her teeth.
You are the living portrait of her possession. A broken trophy on the council table.
Kira presses against you immediately, eliminating any space. You feel the firm clash of her chest against your arched back, her heat enveloping you like a shadow. Before you can move, her long, cold fingers slide up your jaw, digging into the flesh of your cheeks with an implacable pressure that forces your head to stay still, compelling you to look at your own humiliation—and your own desire—in the reflection.
At the same time, you feel one of her feet wedge forcefully between yours, prying them apart, forcing you to open up, destabilizing you so that you depend entirely on her support.
Her voice echoes again, but now it comes from behind, a raspy whisper hitting your ear directly and making your skin crawl.
—Don't you see? —she murmurs, and her fingers press a bit harder against your face, forcing your jaw to lock—. You belong here.
You let out a gasp that fogs the varnish. You are trapped. With the black blazer restricting your arms at your sides and her body crushing you against the table, there is no escape.
—You are nothing like her... —Kira hisses, and there is a mix of contempt for Yumeko and a sick fascination with you in her tone—. Why do you waste your time trying to be someone else by her side?
You can't answer. Not because you don't want to, but because the intensity of her closeness is robbing you of the ability to articulate a single word. And Kira isn't looking for answers; she is looking for submission.
To prove it to you, her other hand descends slowly down your shoulder and slips underneath your half-torn shirt. The contrast of her cold fingers against the burning skin of your stomach makes you flinch, forcing you to arch your back a bit more, pressing your hips right against her pelvis.
Kira’s hand moves up your abdomen in a slow, possessive manner, her nails lightly scratching your bare skin, reminding you with every millimeter she advances who truly has control over your body.
—Look at yourself —she commands you in a whisper, while her hand on your stomach moves dangerously up toward your chest—. You're trembling. No one in this damn place can have you like this... except me.
The pressure of her fingers on your stomach and the firmness of her body against yours are burning you, but your mind manages to find a crack in her armor. You know exactly which wire to cross to regain control of the situation.
You take a shaky breath, feeling the sharp edge of her nails against your skin, and fix your eyes on her distorted reflection on the table.
—I’m going to use my closeness with Yumeko... —you whisper, forcing your voice to sound defeated, almost submissive, even though your eyes gleam with pure cunning—. I’ll get all the information you want out of her, Kira.
The effect is immediate. You feel the rigidity in Kira’s muscles give in just a millimeter. Your promise of loyalty acts as the ultimate soothing balm for her paranoia.
Kira lets out a slow sigh that brushes against the back of your neck, and the pressure on your face lessens. Her fingers slide softly down your cheek—a final, possessive touch before she steps away.
The weight of her body vanishes, and finally, you have your personal space back. The cold air of the council room hits your exposed skin through your semi-torn shirt, snapping you right back to reality.
You turn around slowly, adjusting your black council blazer over your shoulders with fingers that are still shaking a little from the adrenaline. You button the garment in a hurry, hiding the disaster of the torn threads underneath.
Kira just stands there by the round table, reclaiming her posture as the untouchable president, watching you with a self-satisfaction that turns your stomach. She thinks she won. She thinks she broke you.
But you aren't leaving with your head held low.
You walk with firm steps toward the exit, and as you pass right by her side, you purposely veer off track, slamming your shoulder into hers hard enough to knock her slightly off balance. It’s a sharp, defiant shove.
—You’re buying me a new shirt, goddammit —you whisper in her ear as you pass, your tone dropping low.
You don't stick around to see her reaction. You walk straight toward the heavy wooden door of the room, raising one of your hands to cover your mouth, hiding the signature disaster left behind: your swollen lips, the open scratch, and that characteristic light-blue lipstick of Kira's that would instantly give you away to anyone in the hallways of St. Dominics.
I'm sosososoo excited for season two of this show, I need it now! If I get support, I might write the second part with Yumeko this time;)
