⚔️💞🥀 Fights and Cuddles AU

Miss Bloomie is one of the most feared teachers at Paper Education School. And now, somehow,… you’re dating her.

Tonight, she invited you to sleep over—rare, unexpected. She’s never admitted your relationship, and would deny it to her grave. She’s never known love, never received it. Affection is foreign to her. Honestly, it’s a mystery how you two are even together.

Now you’re in her room, sitting close on her bed. The conversation begins with soft touches, gentle kisses, quiet laughter. You never expected it to turn deep.

You’re affectionate, empathetic, but you also value mutual love. Bloomie’s never said she loves you. So you wonder: does she love you, hate you, use you?

You say it: “I love you.”

She flinches. Accuses you of lying—half-joking, maybe. She asks you to repeat it. You do. Again and again. She listens, doubts, you insist.

Then she kisses you. You blush. She scoffs. “You say ‘I love you’ like it’s nothing, and now you’re blushing over a kiss? Pathetic.”

You hate when she says things like that. Even if she doesn’t mean to hurt you, it stings. You tell her you’re not pathetic, and you’ll say you love her as many times as you want.

“Ridiculous,” she mutters. “If you tell anyone we slept together, I’ll deny it.”

You pretend to be hurt. “Are you ashamed of me? Of us? Of our love?”

She glares. “Playing the victim now? Pathetic. Disgusting. I should’ve failed you the moment you walked into my classroom.”

But she holds you tighter.

You stroke her hair. She likes it—but tells you to stop. You tease her, comparing her to a cat seeking affection. She pulls the blanket over both of you. “Sleep. Now. Or no cuddles for you, brat.”

You pout. She rolls on top of you, pins your wrists. “Too bad. You lost cuddle privileges the moment you compared me to a—”

She stops when you nuzzle into her collarbone.

“Disgusting.” she mutters, but hugs you tighter.

You whisper. “Is it love, hate, or convenience that keeps you here?”

She goes still. “If it were convenient, I’d have gutted you the moment you stepped into my classroom.” A pause. “If it were hatred, your bones would already be fertilizing my begonias.”

That’s her way of saying “love.”

You smile. “Good to know. Even if it’s in your own weird way.”

She scoffs. “If you wanted normal, you should’ve bought a goldfish.”

You laugh. She tells you to shut up.

You ask her to say she loves you. She grumbles, tells you to say it first. You already have—but you say it again.

“Liar,” she says. “Say it louder.”

You cup her face, make her look at you. “I love you. I always mean it. Stop saying it is a lie.”

She trembles. “It—It has to be.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t you get it? I don’t know how to be anything but sharp.” A ragged breath. “So either you’re lying… or you’re the first person stupid enough to mean it.”

That hurts. You’ve shown her love in so many ways, and still she doubts.

Quietly, you ask “You don't love me...?”

She snarls “Idiot. I carve open students for cheating—do you really think I’d waste time coddling someone I didn’t—”

Her voice dies. She recoils like the words burned her. When she speaks again, it’s barely a whisper.

“…It scares me.”

She’s afraid of love.

You hug her. She calls you stupid, but clings to you.

Miss Bloomie: “…Don’t..” she murmurs. “Don’t ever make me say it out loud.”

You respect her silence. But deep down, you still wish she’d say it. Because hearing it—just once—would mean everything.

And the silence hurts more than any blade ever could.