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erwinsvow · 19 days ago

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𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

summary: jack abbot thinks he's too broken to fix. you just want to take care of him the way he takes care of you.

author's note: here it is! the first longer night shift reader and jack fic ♡ i hope everyone enjoys!

word count: 3.7k

tags: night shift reader x attending jack, comfort and angst, people are making bets (guess who wins!), patient death/loss, age gap relationship (implied but no ages specified!), idk i went a little crazy for two hours

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him.

he knows that. there haven’t been that many people in his life who have been able to manage it. his wife was one, robby’s sort of another. jack has this thing—he has to at least try to take care of those around him before he can accept any of their help for himself. it’s almost a test of worth, to determine that it’s not a burden he’s placing unduly on anyone. it’s an exchange, he decides, a fair exchange. that way he’s not forcing anyone, because he knows how hard it is, how hard it can be. robby sees a side of it. his wife saw another.

and out of the black, heading into the blue, you are beginning to see it. he doesn’t know how it happened this way, just knows that the sweet resident who had come onto his night-shift because the day shift was beginning to be too much, was now the very reason he doesn’t head straight up to the roof after a very, very long night.

he knows it’s not easy, that every time he loses a patient, he glances at the clock. the moment someone’s life was over, and the very moment that is going to ruin the lives of all the people who loved them. before he’d start the countdown—how many hours left on this shift? how many until he can go to the roof and breathe, scream and yell and sit in silence and watch the city wake up beneath him.

it’s selfish. he momentarily checks out after time of death is called. robby does moments of reflections. maybe that’s how he’s able to manage it sometimes, break up the grief into little pieces throughout the day.

jack isn’t like that. he’s always been the kind to bury, nestle it somewhere deep inside and keep adding, adding, adding. add until it’s about to burst, and then go to the roof and let some of it out. maybe if he tried robby’s way, he wouldn’t have felt like this for so long.

where can so much grief go? there’s no outlet for it, not the way jack does it. some of the things he buries are lost inside him forever, no escape, no exit.

and then you come along.

jack’s prided himself in the fact that he’s good to the residents. they get more confident under his tutelage, make decisions more firmly, make them quickly and execute them correctly. that’s why robby had sent you over to him, hadn’t it? because you doubted yourself too much. because you felt like you weren’t making the right call.

from seven in the morning to seven at night, the place is crowded. it’s all hands on deck but there’s just a smidge too many hands, especially when there’s students. you were able to blend into the background for a couple months, but it’s just plainly wrong to let it hinder your education.

that’s why robby had sent you to him, right? for your education. to make you a better doctor, better than you already were, which was saying something.

because jack abbot thinks that you’re incredibly gifted. gifted in the things that he can’t teach someone, in ways that he can’t explain. you have a special touch. patient-care is your forte. if he had to pick the nicest resident, it would be you. but you don’t believe in yourself.

and he had sent himself to the task of fixing that. it’s what jack does, what he’s always done. patch it up and send it out.

(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)

it had been working perfectly fine so far. you build your routine, get yourself settled, start answering trauma calls with a run.

one time he has you and ellis start the incoming together. tells parker to ask you questions, justify all of your decisions to her, but let you call the shots. when the charge nurse tells you the details, you head straight outside. you pull a yellow gown for yourself and the gloves in your size—those ones are baby blue. and then you pull another gown and the black gloves—the ones in his size. he watches from the nurse’s station, watches ellis take them and watches you look around, like you’re waiting for him to show up. he doesn’t, not this time.

you handle the case perfectly. oddly enough, he can’t seem to remember any of the specifics about it, even though he’s the one who signed off on your detailed note.

jack watches from the door. you’ve got your back to him, and ellis looks up and sees him, but he shakes his head. he wants to see how you do without him, after so many with him. and you’re perfect—just like he knew you would be. the nurses move in tandem around you, listening closely to your orders. ellis asks questions and you answer, and you don’t sound like your answers are questions themselves—though you had at one point, not too long ago.

that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle.

you look out the other door, the opposite of where he’s standing. you stretch your neck like you’re trying to see what’s out there, and then you turn your attention back to your patient right away.

and once the patient is stable, that’s when he comes in. you’re doing it again, looking out the wrong door and as much as he wants to deny it, as wrong as it is, he knows you’re looking for him.

“good work, doctor,” he says, and you jump a little. you turn to look at him, but he’s looking at your senior resident for the assessment.

“dr. abbot, i-”

“she did great,” parker comments, and you stop to beam at her.

“thank you.” ellis peels off her gloves and gown, black gloves that had been meant for him going into the bin. she gives you further instructions and you nod, and when it’s just the two of you, he finally turns to meet your eyes.

and the way you smile at him blows him away. it’s all over your face—from your gleaming eyes to the cheeks that must hurt, the lips that he can’t stop thinking about. there’s something else there too. neither of you want to say it, though you try.

“thank you, dr. abbot. i-” the words falter and die on your tongue. but in your joy, how pleased you are with yourself for once, you find the confidence he’s been wanting you to have all along. “i was looking for you.”

and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—

“dr. abbot? you okay?”

and it’s normally him asking you that.

“i’m fine, kid. you did great.”

“so did you.”

when jack walks by dana at around seven-ten, her and the other nurses go remarkably silent.

“yes?” he asks, grabbing the black thermos from the counter where he’d been finishing his notes. it’s also from costco—chipped and bent all over the place, little flecks of silver making an appearance around the bottom. you’d made a joke about it once—even your cup is salt and pepper. and now he thinks about it every time he picks it up.

“what? i didn’t say anything,” dana replies, settling an ipad back in the charging port, moving around papers at the station. “but just so you know, the pool’s up to three hundred.”

jack sets his cup down a little harder than he means to, forearms resting on the sterile counter.

“what pool?” he demands, and dana shrugs. if he didn’t love her so much he would kill her.

“i’m just saying. if you’d like to help your favorite nurse contribute to her retirement fund, then you can—”

“oh? i can what?”

it’s just not this easy for him anymore. you are full of all the good things that he so clearly lacks, made of so much sunshine it’s pouring out of you. you have love in stores, ready to be doled out at any time, to anyone. patients, coworkers, even the medical students you just met a couple minutes ago. he hears you—offering the flashcards you made for boards and the interview tips that got you to match at your top choice.

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

“dr. abbot?”

your voice seems to always be enough to snap him out of it.

“goodbye, dana,” he says, walking up next to you, thermos in hand. your eyes briefly glance down at it, smiling. “what’s going on, kid?”

“remember what you had said? about breakfast?” and you smile at him like getting breakfast with jack abbot sounds like the great thing in the world right now. it’s almost seven-thirty and you probably haven’t slept in fifteen hours, and yet you keep smiling, big eyes blinking at him while you wait patiently for an answer.

“yeah.” he clears his throat, looking back at dana momentarily. she’s smiling at him, and then she turns to smack the side of robby’s arm, pointing him the direction of you two. “that sounds great. after you.”

he shouldn’t have said yes. he knows what’ll happen if you start thinking that you can fix whatever is wrong with jack abbot, and he would like to avoid that entirely. but you beam at him again like you had earlier with ellis, and jack is a lot of things, but one thing is he is not, is a jerk. he won’t disappoint you about this, not when he’s secretly relieved you’re eating after shift. he’s seen you with sugary granola bars and pastries when you should be filling up on protein after a shift like this.

so he follows you out, ignoring the exchange of money behind him.

breakfast is nice. you get chocolate-chip pancakes and he makes you get eggs too, and then hands you strips of bacon from his plate too. he hasn’t seen you like this before, and he tries to soak it into his memory.

(something deep inside says that he should cut the tether before you get too attached. it’ll only hurt more to prolong it, to let it linger. the possibility of something between the two of you. and then you offer him a bite of a pancake drenched in syrup and everything in his head goes silent.)

breakfast becomes a weekly recurrence. there’s a twenty-four seven diner he loves just up the road from the hospital, and he’s been before with shen once, robby a couple times if their schedules lined up. it’s not particularly unusual to see him there with you, though he feels like he’s committing some sort of a crime.

you wear pullovers from your alma mater. the backpack you bring to work is the same one you used all four years of college and medical school, a fact you are very proud of. when he looks at it—his chest hurts. it’s hardly worn, looks like it’s in great condition—a couple of pins tacked on the side where your water bottle sits and a pocket for your badge and wallet in the front. he has to force himself to remember that you’re younger than any woman he’s seriously talked to before. his wife had been two months older than him, something he used to tease her about all the time.

would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on.

you take him to another place that you like, too, closer to your apartment. you both eat bagels and sip on juice—orange for him, apple for you—and that’s where you learn more about his time as a medic. the breakfast burrito place near the park is where you tell him about how you’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were twelve, that you thought you’d had a calling for pediatrics and you’d even been the president of the peds club in medical school. and then you’d rotated through the emergency department third year and completely changed your plan.

you share a stack of waffles—chocolate chip with strawberries and whipped cream, at your insistence. he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say no to you, not when you ask him so sweetly. he learns about your kitten and how you’ve always been scared that you’re going to do the wrong thing and until very recently, that you’ve just been playing pretend and you’ll get caught one day.

and back at the diner is where he tells you about his wife. and you listen intently and nod and hold his hands when his voice breaks and run your fingers over his knuckles. you don’t let go of his hand the entire walk back to your apartment, and outside the door, you give him a hug. and the two of you stay like that for a while. that’s when you and jack kiss for the first time. slow, steady, a kiss that you’ve been dreaming of for months. it takes all the air out of your lungs and when you finally go inside, you realize your shoulder is a little wet and your lips are swollen.

even hours later, jack can still taste apple juice on his tongue.

another week after that, you both answer the incoming trauma together. it’s six-thirty, so someone might come and take over, but it doesn’t work out that way. it’s a man who got t-boned at an intersection on the way to school drop-off. his wife and daughter are getting their cuts stitched, you think, and the patient had been slurring at you when he came in. thank god i put her behind her mom today. thank god, thank god- and jack does something he doesn’t always do.

“get the mom, get the kid. let-let them talk.”

and while you do the ultrasound and the e-fast and order for type and cross-match, you hear his daughter crying and a wife telling her husband how much she loves him.

and you and jack try everything, everything you can think of, but sometimes, there’s just no coming back. he doesn’t even make it to surgery. jack walks out first, and then you, and you see his daughter turn away from the medical student that’s tending to her wound, standing up with hopeful eyes like you and jack have good news for her.

and you feel incredibly broken. your day hasn’t even started yet. and you lock eyes with jack for a second—just a second, and he stares back at you, hardened, in a way you haven’t seen before. you’ve both lost patients, lost patients together. sometimes it’s just different, in a way that you can’t explain.

it must have been an hour, an hour and a half you spent in the trauma room. the entire day shift is there now.

“head home, kid,” jack says. “i’ll talk to the family.”

you bring your hand to his shoulder, pulling back until he turns to face you.

“i’ll talk to the family.”

it’s not an easy thing to take care of. he tries to tell you something but you shake your head at him, the hand on his shoulder lingering. people are looking, he thinks. but then again, he’s never cared that much. and in this moment, neither do you.

you head over to the family, excuse the nurses and the student doing the stitches. you pull the curtains, and all he hears is sobbing.

and when you come back out, he know you held it together in front of them, but your shoulders are shaking, your chin is wobbling. and in front of all those people, he brings you in for a hug.

a real hug—like the one you had in front of your apartment. jack’s grip is tight on you, his arms caging you in, covering everything so you can’t see anything, can’t think about anything else but him. he rests his chin on your head, and closes his eyes, and then the two of you walk back to the lockers together.

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. and somehow, without ever telling you, you know all about how to do it. you know a lot of things about him. you know what this job does to him and that if he had gone to tell that family they lost their father and husband, that he would’ve ended up on the roof this morning. you know that jack abbot doesn’t halve any of his burdens, that he’s been afraid to rely on you like how you rely on him. to need you in the way that you need him. and you know that he won’t tell you what he needs, but you’ve gotten somewhat adept at figuring him out, just like how he has with you.

that day you leave holding hands. neither of you are in the right mood to go out for breakfast, so he elects to take you back to his apartment, an arm swung around your shoulder the entire walk there. you’re still a little teary-eyed, wiping them away at his front door while you head inside with him.

you’ve never seen the inside of jack’s apartment, but he’s mentioned it in one of your many conversations. the record collection, his wife’s plants that he takes care of, the kitchen that’s too big for one person.

the morning light hits the place beautifully. you stare out of his window while he heads to the kitchen, and you look around. first the records, then the plants, just like he’d described. there’s pothos and peace lily and little succulents along the windowsill. you look at the rest of it—incredibly fitting. a brown leather couch and a bookshelf with medical textbooks and a couple of mystery thrillers. you laugh to yourself, imagining jack curling up with one of those books at night.

when you turn back, he’s cracking eggs and laying out strips of bacon on the pan. you head over to the other side of the island, taking a seat on one of the stools.

“no pancakes?”

“you’re gonna get cavities, y’know,” jack says, and you smile at him.

“it’s worth it.”

“i love your smile the way it is right now. don’t go changing it on me.” and that does make you smile, staring at jack making breakfast for the two of you. it all feels so domestic. like you’re just walking into the life that was meant for you all along.

you’ve only been on the night shift for a couple of months.

how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he.

“mel texted me. she won the bet,” you say, setting your phone down. you lean against your hand, inhaling the smell of the first of many home-cooked meals you’ll eat, made by jack abbot.

“that so? i thought dana was a shoo-in.”

“dana got the timing wrong. thought it’d happen during the night shift. but technically, you hugged me at eight-thirty, so..”

“and what was the winning combo?” he stares at you, probably for the millionth time since you met him. and still, somehow, it’s enough that you feel it in your bones. you want to look away but you don’t. “you want toast, kid?”

“yes please. she didn’t say, but i’ll ask. later.”

you and jack settle at his wooden dining table ten minutes later, a plate full of protein and a promise that he’ll get you something sweet when you wake up later. jack lifts up his pant leg and takes off his prosthetic, setting it against the chair and relaxing a little bit more. you can see his shoulders loosen up. when he catches you staring, he smiles back.

“what?”

“nothing. do you have juice?”

“i think there’s some apple in there. i can-”

“no, i got it.” you get up, walking towards to the fridge. “i thought you didn’t like apple.” you know he doesn’t—he prefers orange.

“i changed my mind.” you smile back at him, finding the apple juice and setting it on the counter.

“cups?”

“the cabinet on your right. no, your other right.”

you laugh and open it up, your laugh dying in your throat as you stare at two yellow mugs sitting front and center in the cupboard. you pick them up, bringing them over to the table with jack, and stare at him.

“oh,” he says. “i can explain. it’s incase-” but you don’t want to listen for another second, so you sit on his lap, pressing your lips together and forgetting all about breakfast and apple juice.

♡ thanks for reading!

#i hope everyone likes this #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #night shift reader #jack abbot x you

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dilf-issues · 10 months ago

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Vanilla | C.M

Requested by Anon: hey dunno you take requests but since your writing is so hot , I'm willing to ask if you consider writing about roleplaying with Cillian and his wife or gf to break the dull routine they were stuck into , the way he suggested that to her being embarrassed and the sweet moments they ditch the characters in bed. He could bring his characters *cough cough * Tommy shelby. Thank you x

Synopsis: In which your boyfriend, Cillian, finds out you’ve been reading erotic fiction about his character in the Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby. Cillian shows you how much of a great actor he is.

Warnings: Age gap, the reader is in her 20s and Cillian is in his 40s. Roleplaying, extremely rough sex, dumbification, degradation, face slapping, spitting, pussy spanking, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, and a little cnc. THIS IS KIND OF DARK SO BE WARNED. Everything is consented it’s just that... Cillian’s gonna be rough, like ROUGH

Cillian had been busy. He had an upcoming new season this year and his schedule was packed. You haven’t spent time with him in quite some time now. He constantly apologized for not giving you enough attention and promised to make it up to you.

He decided to fulfill this promise.

Since he was the main character in his series ‘Peaky Blinders’, he did have massive privilege in the production. He had never done it before since he had been such a dedicated person to work with, however, he felt like he should sacrifice his work just for you. He wanted to spend the time with you, maybe have some dinner together at a nice restaurant. Just the usual things the both of you would do. Every time he had some free time he would do some nice things for you, treat you like a princess.

He came home from work that day, he got permission to take the week off and he even got back early from set. He wanted to surprise you, he had a flower in his hands a box of your favorite soft cookies. It was all so perfect.

When he came home, he saw that the first floor was empty and there were no signs of you anywhere. He went upstairs since he reckoned you were in the bedroom, probably taking a nap or reading a book.

Cillian was so happy. He was a man who barely showed any emotions in public but with you, it was different. He had a wide smile on his face, ready to surprise you but when he opened the door, he didn’t see you on the bed.

Instead, he heard the shower running and so he hummed to himself, setting the gifts down as he sat on the bed to wait for you.

As he patiently waited, he noticed your phone was still on. You were the type of person to let the screen go on forever instead of turning it off every 3 minutes like him. He glanced absentmindedly as he saw you were reading some sort of story on your phone. His actions were harmless, he just wanted to see what you were reading.

His eyes skimmed through the words as his blood runs cold.

‘Tommy had me bent over his desk, ass red and swollen from all the beatings. My pussy was leaking down onto the expensive wood, desperate for his cock to ram inside me.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, I need your cock!” I plead like a good whore as he growled.

“You are nothing but a filthy cocksleeve”

Tommy? Shelby? His Tommy Shelby? The character that he played?

It seemed like all of the blood started circulating to his face as he flushed at the filthy thing he had just read. Y/N? His sweet Y/N was reading something like that?

Cillian couldn’t believe it because someone as young and pure as he would never be this dirty. Because of their age gap, he saw her as someone that he needed to protect, shield from the rest of the goddamned world. His fragile little princess that he wouldn’t dare to inflict even a slight force in fear that she might break and shatter into pieces.

The sound of the shower became silent and it interrupted his thoughts, he quickly placed her phone where it belonged as he stood up and smoothened the spot on the bed where he sat to make it seem like he just came in.

When you had walked out, it took you a moment to notice Cillian standing there with your gifts but when you did, you gave him a small scream as you ran towards him, your figure wearing nothing but a small towel.

“Cillian?! You’re back? You brought me gifts!” You exclaimed as her wet body embraced him in a hug. Cillian was somewhat still blank from what he was reading earlier.

‘If she had liked that kinda stuff so much he could push her on the bed and beat her ass right now’

His eyes widened at his own thoughts as he tried to push them away, “Yes princess, I thought maybe I haven’t been paying attention to you now have I? I’m all yours for the week, baby”

You pouted as you nodded at him, and then he realized how submissive-looking you were. You had always had a demeanor of what he would expect someone much younger than him to have, however, Cillian was starting to look at it in a new light.

It doesn't help the fact that he still has his Thomas Shelby haircut for the filming.

It also doesn’t help she was almost naked in front of him, he hadn’t fucked her in weeks. It’s almost fitting.

Maybe doing something about it wouldn’t hurt now would it?

Oh... But it’s definitely gonna hurt you...

Cillian watched closely as the girl before him admired his gifts for her in awe. His eyes became more and more lusted as he figured out a way to approach you.

“Love, can I ask you a question?”

You hummed at him innocently as she raised her brows at him, “Anything, Cill...”

“What have you been reading on your phone, hmm?” Her eyes widened slightly as her heart started to pound in her chest. Cillian was looking at her so intensely that it was slightly scary. She didn’t know if she should lie, or if she should tell him the truth. However, since he had asked... It was obvious he knew the truth.

“Cillian I can explain” You sputtered, panicking on the inside as Cillian started closing whatever gap that both of you had, he was looking down on you in a way he had never done before. You felt the chill run down your spine as you felt the back of your knees hitting the bed.

“Explain” He commanded.

“It’s just... You know I love you and you know I should be honest to you no matter what. But... I just... We haven’t been together in a long time lately and even when we do... It’s always the same...” You felt guilty saying this to him, it’s not like he was bad at sex. He was great. However, you were getting bored with the same soft and loving sex you two always had. “I just... I hope you can be a little rougher, that’s all. You’ve always been... So soft”

“Soft... Hm?” He tilted his head to the side as he stared at you almost mockingly, “Be careful of what you wish for, love”

You had felt your heart stop when Cillian’s smooth Irish accent suddenly turned into the dark Brummie accent you had always heard about on the TV. The one you had always touched yourself to when he wasn’t around.

Then out of nowhere, Cillian had roughly pushed you on the bed as you fell down and whimpered softly. He pulled off the towel on your body as you were left naked, “C-Cillian!”

“Who the fuck is Cillian, eh? Have you been fucking whoring yourself out to another man?” Cillian cursed at you as he quickly took his clothes off, “You’re my whore. You’re mine to fuck, you got it?”

Then you can physically feel your gears shifting in your brain, “T-Tommy?”

Your body shivered as you felt yourself getting wet, you were all naked and you were ready for him. You felt your legs spread instinctively as you heard him laugh, “You really are such a desperate fucking cunt, eh?”

‘Tommy’ had bent down as he gripped your face by the cheeks and roughly shook your head, “Who do you belong to? Who do you fucking belong to?”

“Y-You Cill-Tommy! I belong to you!” Tommy smirked, as his hands traveled down to your navel, teasing you as he drew figures on the skin, making you whine, “Open your fucking mouth you dirty whore”

You wasted no time opening your mouth for him, wide with your tongue out. Suddenly, he did the unexpected when he spat in your mouth, “Fucking swallow it, princess”

You swallowed his spit like a good girl as you held out your tongue to show to him, suddenly seeking his praise and validation however it never came. Tommy just hummed as he let go of your face harshly, almost slamming your head onto the plush bedding.

Characters aside, Cillian was never like this. Throughout the year of your relationship, he had always been gentle and kind, treating you like a soft feather and taking care of you. Maybe because it was because he was much older he had felt like he needed to treat you gently. You never realized Cillian had this side to him. He had always had this side, you just never awaken it.

“Spread your legs wider” He commanded, his voice dark as his character, you listened to him, eager to show him you were his good girl as he hummed looking down at the glistening flesh in between your legs. You were so wet it had dripped down and leaked onto the bedsheet. Without a warning, Tommy gives a hard slap to your cunt and you screamed out. You thought he was doing it once but it seems like it came over and over again, beating your swollen pussy and clit until it was throbbing and red. You cried out of pleasure and pain, as you begged him. You didn’t know what you were begging for but it was sure not for him to stop.

“You fucking like this don’t you? Fucking hell, look at you. You’re fucking wet, you like getting fucking beaten and bruised huh? What a fucking whore. You are nothing. You are only good for fucking, you are only here to fuck. Remember that, you fucking cunt”

Tears were flowing down and you were desperate you were so desperate for his cock. After each word, Tommy spat on your body, leaving you all wet and filthy combined with your own sweat and arousal.

“P-Please! P-Please, fuck me, Tommy! Please I need your cock. Please I want your cum. I need it inside me!” You pleaded like a whore as he slapped your face. You moaned out as his hand traveled down your neck and choked it just enough to make you feel the air around you restricting. “Tommy, I can’t, I need your cock”

He scoffed, pulling down his pants as whipped out his cock. It was so hard to the point where it became purplish-red, the veins covering the base as the head leaked with pre-cum.

“You want my cock?” He lined up his tip on your vagina, “You fucking get it you cocksleeve”

Without giving you a warning and time to adjust, Tommy slammed his cock inside your cunt and he wasted no time ramming into you roughly. Not like you needed time to adjust since you were sopping wet. All you can do is choke out his name and moans as he grunts with each slam.

His pace was rough and deep and for someone like hin with his age, he had the stamina to go on and on fucking you so rough till you can feel him ramming in your stomach.

No words could even cum out of your mouth as your eyes rolled back as he fucks you braindead.

Spit drooling at the side of your mouth as you babble like a cock hungry whore underneath him.

“I’m gonna fucking cum and you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna fucking carry my babies, and even then it is not gonna stop me from fucking you stupid”

You could feel him twitching as his thrusts were getting sloppier and sloppier, you could also feel your orgasm coiling in your tummy as you cried out once you let it all go, the liquid splashing all over the both of you as you squirt on his dick.

You were heavily overstimulated and you screamed as Tommy fucked the cum out of him.

The warm seed spilled inside your walls as he grunted in pleasure, leaning down as he bit your neck and drew blood to the surface.

Tommy looked at you all fucked out, eyes still rolling at the back of your head as you continue to babble nonsense to nothing.

He breathes heavily as he lays down beside you, carefully moving your body to cuddle up to him.

“Like I said, my love... Be careful of what you wished for”

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mauvecherie-writes · 22 days ago

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𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩, 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 — 𝐥. 𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧

— rating: 18+ NSFW, explicit.

— summary: Lewis just couldn’t wait to get back home to his woman.

— warning: very little plot, minor angst, talks of feelings, fluff, sexually explicit, slight handjob, fingering, oral!f receiving, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, rough handling: hair pulling, slight spanking, choking, minor dirty talk, minor aftercare. NOT EDITED

w.c: 5.0K

— ru’s 💌: am i back? am i not? time will tell 🤭 please enjoy! like, reblog and comment <3

He couldn’t stop his leg from shaking as the plane continued to descend.

“Since when have you been nervous about flying?” The voice of his father it through the noise of the podcast Lewis was listening to. He moved his headphone away from his ear and turned to his Dad with a soft smile playing on his face.

“I’m not nervous because of flying, Dad. I’m just anxious to see my girl.” Lewis confessed. Anthony chuckled – his smile spread and filled his whole face.

“She’s your girl now? When did that happen?”

“YN’s been my woman from the moment you introduced us. Things have been going really good between us. I just haven’t asked her officially.”

“Why haven’t you?” Lewis sighed at the question, rubbing his forehead as he thought of an answer. The both of you had never really discussed about the boundaries of your relationship, things just fell into place. In the beginning, things were meant to be strictly casual – whenever either of you where in town or whoever could fly out. However, as things progressed over the months, the both of you found yourselves dropping everyone else and exploring things exclusively without thinking too much about it.

However, there was something about this weekend, being away from you, had left an ache in his heart when he thought of you. When you’d spoken to him, telling him that you missed him in that soft, little voice of yours, - you took the last pieces of his heart and made him yours, completely.

“It’s been on my mind lately. I just think it’s time to make it serious. I don’t want her thinking that I’m wasting her time when I know she’s the one.”

“Alright, son. As long as you do what needs to be done. The next I see her; she better be my daughter-in-law.”

“I’ll do my best.” Lewis chuckled.

The plane landed and he separated from his parents and rode the town car towards your address. Originally, he would have met you at his home, but it was getting renovated to extend the closet to include more space for you. When it came to fashion, the both of you were competing but you had the leg up due to your vintage bag and shoe collection. One of the many things that he loved about you.

In his hand, he only had his essential hand luggage and a bouquet of your favourite flowers. The rest of his bags would be delivered tomorrow as for what he had planned, there was no need for clothing.

With his spare key, Lewis opened the door to your townhouse and the immediate aroma of spices hit the senses of his nose. It brought a small smile to his face and the sense of welcome. He was home.

“Sweetheart! Roscoe!” He called out and the response he received was an excited squeal and an enthusiastic bark. The patter of nails on hardwood floor and soft thudding of bare feet on the wooden floor got heavier, the closer they came towards him and around the corner. You were ahead of the aging dog, in your barest form of beauty, dressed in just a white, camisole top and an old pair of his shorts. Not caring about what was in his hands, you dove into his arms and wrapped your limbs around his body. The speed in which you came at him almost knocked him out, but he quickly recovered.

“Woah!” Lewis lightly let out a laugh as he manoeuvred the flowers into his other hand and then secured his free arm around your waist as you snuggled your face into his neck and held onto him tightly. Without words, your hug conveyed how much you missed him and God, did he miss you too. Having you in his arms completed him in a way that he had never felt before.

“I missed you too, baby.” He whispered into your ear. He walked away from the door and with Roscoe following until Lewis settled on the couch with you still in his arms. You leaned back and took him in.

“Look at you.” You mumbled as you knocked his cap away from his head and freed his curls from their cage. He had been letting his curls loose lately and you swore your attraction to him increased tenfold. Your fingertips massaged the sides of his temples and his eyes fluttered close, and a lazy smile drew on his face.

“I missed you so much.” Lewis stated again which made you giggle.

“I missed you more even though we FaceTimed every day for these past two weeks.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same as having you right in front of me, sitting on my lap.” His hands came to your waist and settled there. “Nothing compares to this moment.” He added as he drew soft, circular patterns on the sides of your hips.

“Oh yeah?” You questioned, your eyebrow quirking up as you tried to contain your glee.

“Yes, baby. Now gimme a kiss, we’ve been apart for too long.” You didn’t need telling twice as you leaned down and captured his lips as you cradled his face into your palms. He hummed softly as your lips touched and the tingling feeling of your fingers rubbing on his beard. Lewis smiled was your mouth’s entangled in a slow dance of passion. Lovers, reuniting and quenching their thirst – drinking the lust your bodies desperately seeked. Lewis’s hand came to the back of your neck and pulled you closer as the kiss deepened.

Your core began to dampen, and you could feel him hardening beneath you and for a moment, as you drowned in his consumption, a disgruntled bark broke the haze. You turned your kisses to the underside of his jawline and to his neck as Lewis finally gave Roscoe some of his attention.

“Sorry my boy. I just had to great Mummy first.” He said just before Roscoe jumped onto the couch with some effort and then forced his way in between your bodies causing the both of you to laugh. “Alright boy. You have my attention.” You got up from his lap and placed one more kiss on his forehead and scratched behind Roscoe’s ears.

“Go freshen up, I’ll finish getting dinner ready.

Half an hour later, Lewis returned to the living room feeling livelier, changed into another pair of grey sweatpants and nothing more but the rainbow pearls around his neck along with a customised diamond encrusted cuban link chain that you bought him for his birthday. He kept his curls loose, a bit more damp from moisturising them. You licked your lips as you drank in his form. Witnessing his muscles and taut body move across the living room, relaxed and little sluggish. His freshly detailed tattoos, glistening from the shea body oil you know that he took from your side of the vanity table.

As you prepared a plate for him, you began to think to yourself that if you had told yourself a year ago that you would be fixing a plate for a man and becoming a mother to an aging dog who took your heart, you would have laughed at yourself. But here you were, doing exactly that. Tony Morrison was turning in her grave.

You silently watched as Lewis prepared Roscoe for bed, getting him more comfortable.

“Baby, come eat.”

“What did you make?” Lewis asked as he stood to his full height and approached you by the kitchen island.

“Shredded tofu tacos with pico de gallo with triple cooked chips. I made buffalo cauliflower too but that depends on whether you finish these tacos or not.”

“Everything sounds so good.” Lewis unconsciously licked his lips as you placed the food down in front of him. “Your cooking is always good.”

You sat beside him as you watched him eat and be happily fulfilled. Your hand came to the nape of his neck, playing with the tiny trestles of curls that laid there as he ate each of tacos on his plate.

“You should have been a chef.” Lewis groaned as he cleared everything that was on his plate, including the small bowl of buffalo cauliflower that he asked for.

“Why do people love saying that to me just because I can cook?” You giggled.

“Because all of that elbow work you put in could open a very successful, generational restaurant.”

“Fuck off.” You playfully dismissed him as you shoved his shoulder. With his plate clear, you took it away from him. As you stood by the sink, he couldn’t help but admire everything about your being. Before he met you and in the beginning days of your relationship – the hyper independent side of you would have never been doing everything that you were doing now but Lewis took great pride in the fact that you only did this for him.

The owner of your own accounting firm – one of the few forensic accountants in the city. Because of your niche, you were one of a kind and you were the best in the game. Your father and Anthony were tennis buddies, and you had a shared a few games with the man. Anthony introducing you to his son changed your lives.

“How’s the firm?” Lewis asked as he drank his water.

“Good… We finally aced the TSB contract.” You announced which caused his face to break out into a wide grin before he pulled you into his arms as he placed kisses all over your face.

“I knew you would get it! Congratulations sweetheart.”

“Thank you!” You giggled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and softly pecked his lips, the laughter never stopping as he kept coming back for more kisses. His fingers caressed your back as he held you close.

“Joining the baller’s club huh.” You rolled your eyes at his playful comments. As much you were making in the upper six figures – it was nothing compared to your wealthy lover. His generous gifts certainly helped.

“Let me actually fulfil part of my contract first. They could easily change their minds.”

“Then come to a race weekend. It’s more than just entertainment; it’s also a really good place to network with people on an international scale.”

“Look at you being supportive and shit. Am I also getting a hint of something else?” You raised an eyebrow and looked down at him inquisitively.

“I know you’ve been to a couple of races but this time I want you there as my VIP guest.” Lewis nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders as he absentmindedly drew patterns on your exposed skin.

“What race?”

“Which ever race that you can fit into your schedule. I know you’re a busy woman.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, Mr Hamilton.” You whispered as you leaned down and captured his lips. He hummed softly into your mouth as your tongue leisurely caressed his, taking over his senses as you began to consume his every thought. Lewis could feel himself hardening against you as you pressed against him and all of his feelings that had been building up over the past few weeks that had mounted over.

“Take me out.” He suggested, mumbling onto your lips as he broke away. Your eyes darkened with lust, licking your lips – savouring his taste.

“Just like that?” You whispered.

“Just like that.” Lewis confirmed with his voice in a lowly tone as he moved to his feet and glided his hands away from your hips to your ass and groped it. Shifting your positions, your back was then pressed into the kitchen island edge as he crowded your space. Your hands slid into his sweatpants, and you pulled him out just as he asked.

Lewis sighed softly as your warm hand covered his tip, and you began to tug. His hand came to the back of your neck and pulled your lips towards his. With each stroke of your hand, you could feel him getting harder and harder. His pre-cum coated your palm, making your pulls more fluid, turning him on even more than he already was.

And you? Your essence was beginning to collect in between your thighs. You gasped into the heated kiss as he suddenly lifted your body into his arms, and you secured your legs around his waist. You moaned into his mouth as you felt his length against your warm centre.

Once in the bedroom, you began to strip at the clothing that was suffocating you. Lewis gently laid you down on the bed and pulled the shorts down the length of your legs. The he did the same, discarding the sweatpants and standing in between your legs.

Looking down at you, parting your thighs softly until he could see your cunt. Your core was dripping, your clit blooming and swollen. It never took much to get you wet like this, but it was only something that he could do to you.

“So fucking pretty.” He mumbled, more to himself than you but his comment made you smile, nonetheless.

“You always say that.” You responded as you parted your legs further as he hovered above you.

“Because it’s true. Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, and it’s all mine.” He said before he crashed his lips into yours, craving your taste more than he’d ever before. With his tongue parting your lips as he deepened the kiss, he pushed two fingers inside of you.

“Uuhhh.” You whimpered as your tongues collided hungrily. It was like the pit of your stomach was collapsing within itself at how good his fingers felt inside of you. Your walls were so snug and tight around his fingers.

“You’re soaking me already, baby.” He mumbled, his teeth latching onto your bottom lip and lightly tugging.

“Mmm.” You whimpered yet again and wrapped your hand around his wrist as he pushed his fingers deeper into your pussy. The both of you followed a rhythm, the pace increasing as your hips lifted off the bed as your breaths became heavier. Your braids had fallen out of their bun and using his free hand, Lewis loosened the rest and tugged at them, forcing you to meet his eyes. Chest to chest, the chain around his neck brushing against your breast as his hair tickled your cheeks as the curls created a curtain around your face. Complete tunnel vision on him as he made you feel good with his fingers.

Lewis watched as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he curled his fingers and hooked them on your spot. The sound of your name leaving your lips was so sweet and it made his dick throb even harder. He pulled his fingers out of you, causing you to pout. He quickly changed that expression when he pushed those fingers into your mouth.

You eagerly sucked on the digits, your tongue making sure not to mis any drop – sucking on them just like you would his dick. He smirked as he watched desire drive your actions. With his fingers pushing on your gag reflex. Lewis shifted his body so that he was at eye level with your pussy. The back of your thighs was on his shoulders as his mouth watered at the sight of your lower lips. He unconsciously licked his lips as your arousal trickled out of you.

The sweetest nectar of forbidden fruit.

“Hold your legs for me, sweetheart.” Lewis instructed and you followed his command. Not wasting anymore time, he spread your use open and swiped his tongue from your asshole to your cunt and back. Soft mewls left your mouth as you squirmed beneath his hold. His hands held you down by the back of your thighs as he completely devoured you. He circled your clit with his tongue, dipping the tip in and out of your cunt -making a mess.

“Oh god!” You cried our as your legs tried to close around his head.

“Just me baby.” Lewis chuckled. “It’s me taking care of this sweet ass pussy.”

“Yeess!” You cried as your hand planted themselves in his thick curls and tugged. Urging him for more and Lewis wasted no time giving it to you. As he feasted on your clit, he dipped his finger back into your core. The combination of his tongue and his fingers had your walls tightening around his digits and and he could feel your orgasm on the rise.

“Let me have it. I need it baby.”

“Lew- shit!” You hissed, crying out in pleasure as your juices began to leak out of you.

“Give me more! C’mon!” He urged you. You body seized as your climax took hold, and he desperately lapped your juices until your body stopped trembling.

One of the many things that you loved about Lewis was that he treated sex like an art form. He always took his time learning your body, accepting every reaction that you gave hi, pushing him to stroke you, harder and faster past your limits.

“Goddamn, so fucking beautiful.” Lewis whispered as he placed a kiss on the inside of each thigh and trailed up the length of your body. He hungrily claimed your lips, kissing you with a passionate force that provoked whimpers out of you. Your essence coating his lips, making sure that you know how good you taste.

“I need you inside of me.” You whispered against his mouth as your hand found its way between your bodies and wrapped around his dick.

“Put it in for me, baby.” He mumbled as he lifted your leg and placed it over his shoulder as the other, he held down with his hand as you slowly pushed him into you. Your eyes immediately closed your pussy fit around him like a glove. Made just for him, that’s how good it felt. Nothing and no one compared to this moment.

And you loved it every time.

“Every time.” He sighed as he buried himself deeper into you. Your hand came to his chin and tugged him closer by his bear. You pecked his lips before you pushed your thumb into his mouth. The tingles that shot through you due to the suction made your pussy clench round him.

“Fuck me like you hate me.” You whispered against his mouth.

“Oh, I will. I just needed a minute to appreciate how you feel.” Your eyes slowly peopled open and locked in with his lust filled ones. Lewis crowded your space as he began to move in and out of you.

Nails dug into his skin as your mouth hung open as his every thrust rattled your body. Lewis’s brows furrowed as he enjoyed the fee of your walls rhythmically pulsating around him. Your warmth, your tightness, your wetness – all for him to experience.

No one else.

“Oh my god!” You gasped. Through your glazed eyes, you saw him smirk down at you. He began to circle his hips, driving deeper into your tunnel but keeping the same pace.

“Right there?”

“Yess – Oh fuck! Yes!” Your eyes crossed as you threw your head back. Lewis leaned down and sucked on your exposed neck as he pressed the tip of his dick against the ceiling of your cunt. The sounds you were making were even foreign to you; your toes curled above his head as the knot in the pit of your stomach clenched.

“Fuck, baby. You always feel so good.” He trapped his bottom lip with his teeth and looked where your bodies joined. The wetter and tighter you got, the more he sped up until a ring of your cream collected at the base of his dick.

“Lewis!” You cried out his name.

“I know baby, I know. Give it to me.” He mumbled as he leaned down and placed kisses along your jawline. “Come on this dick, YN.”

Your words got stuck in your throat as you arched into his chest.

“I want you to look, sweetheart.” Lewis said. “Look at how I fuck this sweet pussy, and you cream all over me.”

“Baabbyy.” The nickname came out as a whimper as you dipped your head down and looked as his dick nestled deep inside and pull out, over and over. Your cream was covering his length and catching on his trimmed pubes. Without thinking, you reached down and with your finger, collected your essence and brought your fingers to his mouth. Lewis groaned as your cum touched his tastebuds.

The look of pure hunger in his eyes was your trigger. Tingles shot up your spine and took over you. “OH FUUU-.” The words were lost in a silent scream as your orgasm erupted. Lewis moaned aloud as you felt his release flood your walls which intensified your climax. You dropped your legs to his waist and wrapped your arms around him after he was spent.

He collapsed on top of you and took deep breaths to gather yourselves even though he was pressing on your chest. Lewis then patted the side of your thigh, and you moved your limbs away from his body. You softly sighed with a pout as he pulled out of you and disappeared into the en-suite.

You climbed towards the headboard and laid down onto your stomach with your eyes closed. You felt the bed dip beside you, then the warm dampness of a cloth on the inside of your thighs. A hum left you as you enjoyed the tenderness of his touch as he cleaned you up and left chaste kisses where his fingers gripped your skin.

“Thank you, my love.” Your voice came out airy and soft. The way you sound when you are tired.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”

“Not a chance. You have much to make up for.”

Lewis chuckled. “I do, don’t I?”

“You were only gone for two weeks but why did I miss you so much this time?”

“Because before I left, we had an unfinished conversation.”

You turned around onto your back, the jiggling flesh of your breast bouncing with the movement. The sight of that had his dick standing to attention. By the little smirk on your face, you knew what he had referring to.

“You have been my unexpected surprise. Coming at a moment I had sworn no distractions.”

“Am I a distraction to you, Mr Hamilton?” You asked as you leaned forward onto your elbows, and it brought your face closer to his.

“No, you’re not sweetheart. You’re everything I didn’t expect to be blessed with and more.”

“I like that answer.” You closed the gap between you and pecked his lips.

“I like you.” He murmured as he kissed you back, holding onto your Ips for longer. Your hand came to cup his cheek.

“I like you too.” With one last peck, you moved away from the bed. You don’t know why but the sudden urge to run took hold and you swiftly moved to the closet as the beating of your heart was loud in your ears. You had known that this conversation was coming. It had been lingering over your heads for more than enough time now and yet, a part of you was still not ready to face it. You had already given so much into this relationship and what scared you the most was how … easy it was to do. Lewis pulled out parts of you that had been dormant and you hated how it made you love him even more for it.

To be confronted with his feelings too. To know that he reciprocated what you gave and then-some was overwhelming.

“You avoiding me sweetheart?” You heard him speak from behind you as you turned your attention your jewellery vanity.

“Babe…”

“No, no. You are avoiding me.”

“I’m not. I’m just trying to get my emotions in control.” You confessed as you stayed facing the dresser, sorting out your jewellery, trying to keep your fingers busy.

“Talk to me then.” His voice sounded closer than before, but you didn’t feel his warmth.

“You have no idea how badly I want this.” You whispered your admission. “And for so long, it felt like admitting it out loud was a fool’s dream.”

“Did you think I didn’t want the same thing as you?” He asked.

“It’s not that I didn’t but I was weary because I know that this is a trying time in your career and you’re so focused on reclaiming what was stolen from you and you’re such a narrow minded visionary when it comes to your goals and as much as I can feel that you want this – you are right in saying I might be a distraction.” You nervously chewed on your bottom lip as your fears spilled out. You still weren’t looking at him, but you felt his arms circling your waist and his face buried in the crook of you neck.

“It would be foolish of me to say you’re wrong. You’re right, I do want to get back to the top of my game and I’m doing everything in my power to make sure that I do. And despite saying all of that, the way I feel about you YN far surpasses that. We were meant to find each other when we did. You are here to remind me that there are things that don’t wait for the right moment. I would be a fucking idiot if I let you go and ask you to wait when I can experience what we have now and grow in love together.”

You were quiet as you let his words wash over you and settle within your heart. “You really mean that?” You asked, your voice soft but full of hope. Your bodies swayed side to side as laid kisses on your neck and up to the back of your ear.

“I do. I want this for as long as you want me, but I don’t want to do this with anyone else, and I don’t want to.” His touch melted you as he explored your curves, enticing your senses, and you could feel his hardness beginning to press against your ass. Your body felt like it was vibrating from how much it craved him.

“Lewis.” You mumbled his name as he bent your body forward until you were pressed over the vanity table. The bite of the wood against your chest did not compare to the sizzling touch of his fingers in between your thighs, spreading your wetness around. Your body just called to hi and he always knew how to answer.

“Ssshhh, I know just what you need, sweetheart.” He spoke as he parted your legs even further and slipped right back into you. You braced yourself by holding onto the vanity’s edge as he delivered long and deep strokes.

“Oh my!” You gasped as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. His thrusts rattled your body over and over until your legs were trembling beneath you. The way that he was controlling your body, you knew that there would be no-one else that would ever come close.

Your orgasm quickly rose, jumbling your thoughts and only leaving Lewis. Your hand behind and pressed against his abs.

“Move your fucking hand!” He hissed through his gritted teeth as he pushed himself deeper into you. “You told me to fuck you like I hated you and I am.” You could hear the teasing in his voice. Then he wrapped your braids around his wrist and pulled until your back was deeply arched. The new angle had you gasping for air and standing on your tiptoes as you braced yourself.

The slapping of his pelvis against your ass, your mingled heavy breathing, and the quivering of your cunt around his dick was pleasurably overwhelming.

Tell me you’re mine, YN.”

“I – I, oh GOD!” You screamed as your eyes closed with tears lining your lashes.

“Fucking tell me!” He taunted with a heavy slap on your ass cheeks.

“Yes! Yes! I’m yours!” You moaned out loud. Using your braids, he pulled you up to his chest and placed your right knee onto the vanity table. His left hand came to your jaw and other came in between your thighs and rubbed on your clit in rhythm with his thrusts.

Lewis licked his lips as he watched the pleasure completely take over your face. He held onto your jaw and the pressure forced you to open your eyes and meet his gaze.

“You promise?” His words soft and light as if his dick wasn’t hammering on your sensitive spot. You nodded your head as your eyes crossed as you clawed at the hand applying pressure on your throat. Your moans turned to soft but heavy whimpers as your walls tightly clenched around his dick, causing Lewis to hiss against your cheek.

He pounded you faster and faster until both you and the vanity were rattling. You held on tightly as your climax peaked and Lewis held onto you tightly as he coated your walls, his hoarse moans sweetly ringing in your ears. He rutted into you until he was spent.

The smell of your sex and the sound of your breathing were your only companion until you opened your eyes and the first thing you spotted was the crack on the side of the vanity mirror. You couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped.

“What?” Lewis questioned as he untangled himself from you and turned you around until you were facing him.

“We broke the vanity.” You said as you played with his chains. His eyes moved past your head to the crack. He smiled as he turned back to you until his lips met yours and pulled you into a passionate kiss.

“You won’t need this one anymore. I bought you a bigger and sturdier one for the new closet in Knightsbridge.” The lack of hesitation in his statement brought finality to what this was.

“This is it huh?” You smiled as he picked you up in his arms and headed towards the shower.

“This is it. You’re the only one for me, YN.” He smiled as you ran your hands through his now sweat damp curls. You hugged him tighter. Yeah, this was it for you too.

—————————

reading list: @queenshikongo3 @dhlfastestlap @saintslewis @serpenttines @saturnville @hopefulromantic1 @iamquiantrelle @cocobutterqwueen @melodichaeuxx-lacritquexx @sapphireheaven @olyvoyl @lewisroscoelove @lh44adore @hellomadamebutterfly @scorpiobleue @laneywrld @qveenmelanink @tremendousstarlighttragedy @bekindbecoolbeyou @greedyjudge2 @itsapurrfectstorm @createdbylivingclocks @omgsuperstarg @peyiswriting @miyuhpapayuh @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @henneseyhoe @jessnotwiththemess @alianovnaromanovanatalia @leilaxaliel @hotfudgeslug @iamryanl @pickingupmymercedes @eleetalks @ambs-06 @annisassintchaska @boujiestpoet @nayaesworld @nat-lh-44 @mochachocolatteyaya @melaninpov @kindan3rdy951 @elyseesarchive @sl33p-deprived-princess @soiguessimtheshit @acidlv @trinitoldyouso @gwenda-fav

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 2 months ago

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"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME!"

Vodou or Voodoo!reader x platonic Yandere batfam

You haven't gotten out of bed in days, lying there rotting away like a bone. Your amulet, once vibrant purple, is now dusty and dark. Your bedroom is cold, and your altar is neglected; the candles are out. You haven’t put food there, fixed the tablecloth, or done anything. You haven’t prayed or performed a ceremonial dance. You've never been this depressed, this sad, or this angry; you're in despair. Ever since arriving at the mansion, you've felt your life and soul being sucked out, which is strange—you were so lively before. You feel dead, yet you can hear the chatter and laughter downstairs seeping through your thick walls. Usually, you drown it out, but today you listen. You can feel their smiles, their joy, their anger—everything, yet you're not present.

“Why don’t you go down there?” a spirit says, its ghostly hand caressing your shoulder.

“They don’t want me there; you know that already,” you say, your voice cracks. Of course it did; you were crying for hours, maybe even longer, but better not count. “Don’t be like that; they’re your family.”

You scoff at what the spirit says. You want to slap its hand away, but you obviously can't touch it; you can't even feel it, just the cold air that caresses your dark skin.

“I’ll only ruin it,” you say, hovering overhead, letting your despair consume you. If you continue like this, how will you become a great Priestess? Your altar has no gifts, no offerings. You haven’t fixed your hair in days; you haven’t sent us anything, and we love your voice. “Please, my child,” the spirit pleads, “you do not want to go down there. At least do something.”

You don’t answer again. You curl up into a ball. The spirit sighs. “As you wish, young Priestess,” and they disappear into purple smoke. But all you can think about, deep in your head, is that it just isn’t fair. You’re a nice kid; you’re sweet, you’re kind, you’re honest, you’re polite—the nicest of them all. Even if there was a niceness contest, you’d come out on top, leaving everybody in your wake. But your father seems to favor the ones who are cruel, mean, and rude. Your younger brother, Damian—a little devil, held you at swordpoint, threatened to kill you, called you a bastard, and you’re supposed to forgive him with open arms? What kind of idiot does Bruce take you for?

And your older brother, who prides himself on family, barely even knows you—the sucker might have to look up your middle name, maybe even your birthday, on some celebrity website. He’s always spending time with the little devil; you have no clue why. You’re way more fun to hang out with than him. But who cares? And your second eldest brother is rude, scary, and he smells like pure death, as if he crawled out of his grave, clutching dirt from the ground beneath him. It makes sense—his eyes are naturally green, just like Damian's, but he’s alive. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe Papa Legba, but him cross without knowing.

And the brother who is the same age as you, Timothy, makes you snore when you hear his name. He’s intellectual, so smart, and yet so stupid, so dumb, and so hypocritical. He’ll find everything and anything to correct you on, even if you’re right, just to ensure that you’re slightly off the mark. The brother you thought you would have an unbreakable bond with is so tight he cut off blood circulation; yet, this bond is flimsier than a piece of string. He’s always talking with Cass, and you're never invited. You have more in common than they think, but to them, you’re just another bastard of Bruce Wayne—Cass, Steph, and Babs are your sisters. You’re supposed to gossip, talk about boys, play hand games, and hold each other, but they are only close with each other and not you.

I mean, trios were never meant to be broken; who even wants a quartet? You pray to Bondye every night. You expel all the darkness within your amulet, and your wishes are always the same each night: “Please, Supreme Lord, let them greet me with open arms; let them see me as their kin; let them love me; let them notice me.” But each night, you are met with nothing but silence. Bondye is quiet, and so are the loa. They always talked to you, but whenever you beg for this family to see you, they can never answer; they can never give advice. At first, you thought it was a test—a series of trials you had to go through to prove that you were worthy of their love. So whenever you were met with hostility, it was like the sharp end of a blade. You opened your arms to them; the trials got harder, and it started to become impossible.

Maybe I have to go in a different direction; maybe meet force with force. But then you get scolded. Maybe you just don’t fight back, but if you don’t, then you will be forgotten. So what next? How do you pass this test, these everlasting trials? You have no clue, no idea, and in fact, you feel lost, and you start to lose faith. Maybe you were just not meant to be loved; you weren’t meant for affection, you weren’t meant to be held, dear. So you let that bitterness and anger swallow you whole as you wallow in your own sorrow and self-pity. This young High Priestess is filled with hurt.

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ironinc · 1 month ago

Text

Can’t Look Away, Lingerie.ᝰ.ᐟ

Peter Parker x F!Black Reader. (Smut/NSFW)

˗ˏˋ You and your boyfriend Peter Parker are browsing through a lingerie store. Picking out pieces that catch your eye. After going to a private dressing room, he sits there watching you try things on— piece by piece, he can’t help the way his jeans are suddenly feeling so tight.

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Very explicit & detailed. | A/N: I’m so sorry I haven’t posted in a while. Life was beating me up for a second😩. Peter is aged up to 23 in this, and you’re 21. | WC: 2,206

(Long strides definition: refers to taking large steps when walking or running, covering more ground with each step. Accentuating definition: To make more noticeable or prominent.)

⋆˙⟡

It started innocently enough. You’d just gotten your hair done that morning, the silk press smooth and gleaming under the sun’s soft light. It’s perfect for the winter time. He’d noticed it immediately, his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he leaned in to whisper, “You look gorgeous.” The compliment sent a shiver down your spine, but you’d brushed it off with a playful smile, and a sweet “Thank you handsome.” pretending it didn’t affect you as much as it did.

The lingerie store wasn’t part of the plan. You’d passed it on your way to grab something to sweet to drink, the window display catching your eye. He’d noticed your lingering glance and, without a word, steered you inside. “Let’s see what they have,” he said, his tone casual, but the look in his eyes told a different story.

Inside, the store was a maze of delicate fabrics and seductive designs. He moved through the aisles with a confidence that surprised you, his fingers trailing over straps and lace as if he knew exactly what he was looking for.

His hand brushes against yours as you both reach for the same piece—a delicate black corset with intricate lace detailing with a matching thong. His dark blue shirt clings to his muscles, the fabric taut across his broad shoulders, and you can’t help but let your eyes linger for a moment too long.

“This one,” he says, his voice low and steady, his fingers grazing over the fabric. “I want to see you in this.”

You feel a sudden heat in your cheeks as you nod, unable to form words. The worker at the counter eyes you both with a knowing smile, handing you a key to the private dressing room at the back of the store. “Take your time,” she says, her tone light but suggestive.

As you step into the small, softly lit room, Peter closes the door behind you, the click of the lock sending a jolt of anticipation through your body.

He sits on the comfy bench, his blue jeans perfectly fitted, his legs spread just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes are on you, dark and focused.

“Show me,” he commands, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak.

You turn your back to him, pulling off your sweater and letting it fall to the floor. His gaze burns against your skin as you hook your fingers into the waistband of your jeans, sliding them down your legs. You’re acutely aware of the silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You reach for the corset, the cool silk sliding against your skin as you fasten it around your torso. The sensation of being laced up, of the fabric tightening around you, sends a thrill through your body. Not forgetting to put on the matching silk thong that came with it. You glance over your shoulder, catching his expression—his jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed with desire.

“Turn around.” He says, his voice stern and a bit low.

You comply, your breath catching as his eyes rake over you. The corset hugs your curves perfectly, accentuating every inch of your body.

He leans forward, his hands resting on his knees, fingers twitching as if he’s resisting the urge to touch you. “Fuck,” he mutters, his voice thick.

“You look…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to. The way he’s looking at you says it all. His gaze drops to your hips, to the silk matching panties you’re wearing, and you can see the bulge in his jeans growing more pronounced. You swallow hard, and your mouth suddenly dry.

“What do you think?” you ask, your voice trembling just slightly.

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stands, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulls you closer. “You’re killing me,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “You know that, right?”

You can feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his chest pressing against you. His lips brush against your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Peter…” you whisper, but he cuts you off with a sharp tug on your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

“I didn’t say you could say my name,” he says, his voice a low, calming tone. His other hand slides down your back, over the curve of your ass, and you can’t suppress the moan that escapes your lips. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, your body trembling with anticipation. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in one swift motion. The cool air against your skin makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his palm as he cups you, his fingers sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, feeling how wet you are. “You’re dripping for me.”

His fingers move with purpose, teasing and stroking, driving you to the edge. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. “Quiet,” he commands, his voice firm. “We’re in public, remember?”

The reminder sends a thrill through you, the danger of being caught only heightening your arousal. His fingers continue their torturous rhythm, and you can feel yourself growing wetter, your body responding to his every touch. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Let me hear you.”

You can’t hold back any longer. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he rewards you with a deeper stroke, his fingers curling inside you. Your knees buckle, but he holds you up, his strength keeping you upright. “You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. “I can’t wait to feel you around me.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, your body aching for more. He pulls his fingers away, and you whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t leave you waiting for long. His hands move to his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease. The sound of his zipper going down is loud in the small room, and your breath catches as he pushes his jeans down just enough to free his cock.

He’s already hard, his length straining against his boxers, and when he finally pulls them down, you can’t tear your eyes away. He’s thick, his cock twitching with need, and pre cum.

You can feel a fresh wave of wetness between your thighs. “Fuck me,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips. “Now.”

You don’t need to be told twice. He sits back on the bench and you follow. Straddling his lap, you reach for him, your fingers wrapping around his length, guiding him to your entrance. The tip of his cock presses against you, and you both let out a simultaneous gasp as he pushes inside.

He’s big, stretching you in the best way possible, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust, though. His hands grip your hips tightly as he thrusts into you, his cock filling you completely.

The sensation is overwhelming, and you can’t help but moan, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck,” he growls, his voice strained.

“You feel so fucking good baby.”

His hips move with a rhythm that’s almost brutal, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. You can feel the tension building in your body, your muscles tightening as so much pleasure washes over you.

His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he fucks you harder, faster.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters, his breath hot against your neck. “I can feel you creaming on my cock mama.”

The words send a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body responding to his every word, every touch. You can feel yourself getting closer, the pressure building inside you until it’s almost unbearable. “I’m close,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He doesn’t respond with words, but his thrusts become even more relentless, driving you insane.

Then… the door handle rattles, sharp and insistent, breaking through the haze of pleasure that’s consumed you both. Your body tenses, your breath catching in your throat as the sound echoes in the small, intimate space. But he doesn’t stop. Not for a second. His hips keep moving, his cock driving into you with a rhythm that feels almost primal, his grip on your hips tightening as if to anchor you both in the moment.

“Whoever it is, they can wait,” he growls, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against your skin. “You’re too fucking good to stop now.” His words are a command, a demand, and they send a shiver down your spine. You can feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, the sweat beading on his skin as he fucks you harder, deeper.

The sound of the door handle rattling again fills the room, louder this time, more urgent. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through you. The idea of being caught, of someone walking in and seeing you like this, only heightens your arousal. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your body responding to the danger, to the thrill of it all.

“She’s going to hear us,” you whisper, your voice trembling, though you’re not sure if you’re warning him or begging him to keep going.

He lets out a low, dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Let her hear baby,” he says, his voice dripping with dominance. “Let her know how fucking good you feel, how you’re creaming on my cock right now.”

His words are filthy, raw, and they make your body clench around him, your walls tightening as if trying to pull him even deeper. He groans, a deep, guttural sound that seems to come from the very depths of his chest. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he mutters, his hips slamming into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

The sound of the door handle rattling again, louder this time, pulls you back to the reality of the situation. Your eyes dart toward the door, your body stiffening with the fear of being caught. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he fucks you even harder, his cock pounding into you with a rhythm that’s almost punishing.

“Stop worrying about them,” he says, his voice firm, commanding. “Focus on me. Focus on how good I’m making you feel.”

His words are like a spell, pulling you back into the moment, into the pleasure that’s coursing through your body. You can feel it building inside you, the pressure growing with each thrust, each word, each touch. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, your body trembling as your orgasm starts to crest, threatening to pull you under.

“That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough with desire.

“Let go, come for me, my pretty girl.”

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge. Your body tightens around him, your walls clenching as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatens to escape, but it’s no use. The sound slips out, low and guttural, as your orgasm consumes you.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give you a moment to recover. His thrusts become even more relentless, his cock driving into you with a force that leaves you gasping for air. You can feel him getting closer, his rhythm becoming more erratic, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters, his voice strained. “I’m gonna come.”

His words send a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body responding to the sound of his voice, to the way he’s fucking you, to the way he’s claiming you. You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, his body tensing as he buries himself deep, his release flooding you, filling you completely.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the sound of your breathing, heavy and labored. But then the door handle rattles again, louder this time, more insistent, pulling you both back to the reality of the situation.

He pulls out of you slowly, his breath still coming in short, ragged gasps, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, a reminder of what just happened, of how good he made you feel.

“We need to get dressed,” he says, his voice low and smooth, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. “Before someone actually walks in.”

You nod, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm, your mind still hazy with pleasure. But as you start to move, to reach for your clothes, you can’t help but glance at him, at the way his body looks in the dim light of the dressing room. His muscles are still taut, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his jeans hanging low on his hips.

“You’re not done yet,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your body responding to his words, to the promise in his voice. You can feel the thrill of it, the danger, the excitement, coursing through you, and you know that no matter what happens next, you’re his. Completely, utterly, his.

After getting dressed and opening the door, you both find yourselves face-to-face with a store worker checking in on you, just making sure everything is okay considering the soundproof walls. The tension between you and Peter is palpable as you both share a secret smile.

You end up buying the corset and matching underwear. The anticipation between you grows as you both leave the store, knowing you'll both get to see the final result later that night and finish what was started.

How do you guys feels about it 😩 he’s such bf material I’m sick. Please let me know if yall have any requests! I love you guys so much! Thank you for 160+ followers and the love on my last post <333

(Credits: Cherry.Editor on TikTok) I love their edits so much wth-

- I’ll see you soon ‹𝟹 (MasterList) ⋆˚࿔

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animamii · 2 months ago

Text

Junior year rolls around and ohh has highschoolsweetheart!Eren changed.

You hear him before you see him—his voice cutting through the morning hum of students catching up after the summer break. It’s familiar, unmistakable, and yet, when you turn around, your breath catches in your throat.

Oh.

This was not the Eren Yeager you left behind in sophomore year.

Gone was the lanky boy who used to trip over his own feet during gym class, the one who wore those wrinkled short-sleeved button-downs with the same rotation of black skinny jeans and scuffed Converse. The Eren standing before you now was… different.

Taller. Broader. The summer had done something to him—his arms, his shoulders, his entire build had filled out in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a moment. His hair, once perpetually messy but in a boyish kind of way, had grown out just enough to curl at the ends. He still had that same wild energy, the same excitement in his eyes as he grinned at you, but there was something undeniably new about him. And he was pretty. Not that he wasn’t always attractive—he was, and you’d never denied it to yourself. But this? This was unfair.

“y/n!!” He reaches you in a few easy strides, completely oblivious to the way your brain is currently buffering. Before you can even react, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders like it’s nothing, pulling you in for one of those classic Yeager side hugs, all warm and familiar and way too casual for the internal meltdown you’re having.

“Dude, I haven’t seen you all summer!” he exclaims, ruffling your hair in that annoying way he always does, like you’re still kids and he doesn’t look like he walked straight out of a teenage coming-of-age movie. “Why’d you ignore my texts? I was about to file a missing person report.”

You blink. He’s looking at you like he hasn’t changed at all, like he isn’t standing there all tall and golden, like he isn’t suddenly one of the hottest guys in school. And you? You’re still standing there like an idiot, trying to piece together a response.

“I— I was busy,” you manage to say, and it’s only half a lie. You had been busy, but you’d also needed space. Space to sort out the mess of feelings that being best friends with Eren Yeager had turned into over the years.

Eren, being Eren, doesn’t notice your internal crisis. “Pfft, busy. You mean ghosting me?” he teases, nudging your side. “I should’ve just shown up at your house.”

You scoff, regaining some of your composure as you roll your eyes. “Like my mom wouldn’t have loved that. She’s still convinced we’re secretly dating.”

Eren barks out a laugh, shaking his head as he tosses it back. “She’s been saying that since middle school. At this point, I think she’s just manifesting.”

Your heart lurches at his words, but you shove the feeling down. This is Eren. Your best friend. The same guy who used to perform Justin Bieber songs in the middle of the quad for you. He might look different now, but he’s still him. Even if the way people are starting to stare at him—at you two together—is making your stomach twist in a way you’re not quite ready to admit.

The first day of junior year had barely started, and yet, you already felt like you were walking through some alternate reality. Eren was still draped over you, arm slung around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world, completely oblivious to the way people were looking. Correction: the way people were looking at him. It was impossible to ignore. You could hear the whispers as you walked down the hallway together, the way heads turned when he passed.

You roll your eyes, scoffing as you nudge him off you, but the warmth of his arm lingers on your shoulder. “Yeah, well, she’s gonna have to give it up eventually. We’re not dating.” You don't know if you say it to convince yourself that there is no possibility it would become reality.

Eren grins like a bad little kid, his eyes glinting in that Eren Yeager way that usually spells trouble. “Not yet.”

Your heart does this annoying little skip in your chest, but you quickly shove him with more force this time, scowling to hide the smile that forms against your own will. “Shut up.”

He just laughs, dodging your next attack like the menace he is. “Damn, I missed you,” he grins, and there’s something about the way he says it—casual, easy, genuine—that makes your stomach flip. You hate how easily he gets under your skin. How he annoyingly burrowed his way into your heart.

Before you can retaliate, a group of girls passes by, whispering not-so-subtly behind their hands. You recognize some of them—volleyball girls, cheerleaders, a couple of girls from your English class—but they barely spare you a glance. Their eyes are all locked on Eren. And he knows it. The worst part? You know he knows it, too.

One of them, a tall blonde with perfectly curled hair, flashes him a bright smile. “Hey, Eren,” she says, twirling a strand around her finger like it's a damn high school movie. You're usually a girl's girl, but right now you were shooting daggers at her.

Eren, to his credit, doesn’t look phased. He just tilts his head, grinning in that annoying way that makes your blood boil. “Hey.”

That’s it. Hey. And yet, the girl giggles, and you want to die. It’s like some cruel joke. Last year, nobody would have given him a second glance. He was your Eren—goofy, loud, a little dorky, always getting himself into trouble. Now? Now he’s on the varsity football team, his arms are looking a little too good in that fitted black tee, and suddenly he’s the guy every girl is looking at.

You hate it. You don’t even know why you hate it, but you do.

Eren barely acknowledges them, turning back to you like nothing happened. “Anyway,” he says, slinging an arm over your shoulder again like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you. “What class you got first?”

You shake yourself out of whatever weird haze you’re in, clearing your throat. “Uh—math. Mr. Moblit.” Your eyes scan over the salmon pink piece of paper that held your class schedule, and Eren leans in just a little too close to read it.

He groans, dramatically throwing his head back. “Ugh, lucky. I got stuck with Mr. Shadis.”

You snicker. “That sucks.” You can't help but smile when you see the same characteristics from Eren. Even if he did look fine ass hell, oh so different from last year, he still acted the same.

“I know, right?” He sighs, dropping his head onto your shoulder in fake despair. “If I fail, just know it’s because Shadis has it out for me.”

“You fail because you never pay attention,” you remind him. You've had plenty of classes with Eren, with him always sitting next to you. He would be doing anything but pay attention.

“Okay, but, like, who even uses calculus in real life?” Eren squints his eyes, and you can feel every little movement he does as his head rests on your shoulder.

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you for the second time, ignoring the way your skin tingles where his head was resting. “Come on, dummy. We’re gonna be late.”

He groans again but follows after you anyway, falling into step beside you like always. Like nothing’s changed. Except everything has changed. And you’re starting to realize you have no idea what to do about it.

Lunch rolls around, and you find yourself dragging your feet through the cafeteria, still processing the weirdness of the morning. You’re not sure what to make of Eren’s sudden glow-up—or the way your chest does this annoying little flutter every time he looks at you like nothing’s changed. All the effort of trying to get over your little crush on Eren was wiped clean, the boy really had a grip on your heart now.

You end up at your usual lunch table, the one you share with Ymir and Historia, Sasha too but she was going to the culinary club's welcome party because duh, Sasha isn't going to miss out on extra free food. The two of them are already sitting, bickering about something stupid, but the moment you drop into the seat next to them, it’s like they both sense something’s off. They can feel the energy radiating off of you, the look on your face when something is bothering you. Ymir eyes you with a raised brow, and Historia’s gaze flickers to the door, where Eren is walking in, looking effortlessly cool, chatting with Armin as they make their way toward your table.

“Oh, boy,” Ymir mutters under her breath. “You’ve got that look on your face. What’s going on with you and Yeager?”

"How do you know it's something between me and Eren?" You raise an eyebrow, a little frustrated that she knows you so well.

"It's always about Yeager," Ymir and Historia say in unison, giving you that look of obviousness.

You roll your eyes. “It’s nothing. We’re fine.” A deep sigh still escapes your lips as you open the bottle of apple juice your lunch came with.

“Mmmhmm,” Ymir hums skeptically, but she doesn’t push it. Historia, on the other hand, flashes you a concerned smile. Her brows perch up with sympathy.

“You sure? You’ve been acting… different.” Her voice is soft, almost too knowing, but it’s enough to make you squirm.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” you say, the words coming out a little sharper than you intended. But it’s not like they’re wrong. You have been acting weird. And it’s all because of Eren, damn that boy.

Your thoughts are cut short as Eren plops down next to you, his familiar arm slinging around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yo! What’s up, guys?” His voice is as loud and cheerful as always, but there’s something in the way his eyes linger on you that makes your stomach twist. Ymir raises an eyebrow, but Eren doesn’t seem to notice. Historia’s gaze flits between you two, but she stays quiet, focusing on her lunch.

“Hey, y/n,” Eren says, his voice a little softer now, and you feel your heart race. “You doing okay?” Your eyes flicker to him, seeing his pretty face in a concerned look as he stares at the side of your internally panicked face. It's enough to make your insides ache, enough to make your heart beat a thousand times faster.

“Yeah, just… tired,” you reply, shrugging it off like it’s no big deal, even though your mind is anything but calm.

“You sure?” His expression softens, and for a second, it’s like the world fades out, leaving just the two of you. His hand, warm against your back, feels like it’s burning right through your shirt. “You don’t look fine.”

You can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks. “I’m fine, really.”

Eren nods but doesn’t look convinced. He leans in a little, lowering his voice so only you can hear, “If you say so. Just know, if you need anything, I’ve got your back, yeah?”

Your heart stutters at his words, the genuine concern in his voice tugging at something deep inside you. But the moment is interrupted by the loud cackle of a voice from across the table.

“You hear that, Historia?” Ymir teases, her grin far too knowing. “Eren’s looking out for y/n. Makes me wonder if you’ve got competition, huh?”

Eren laughs, unbothered, and flicks Ymir’s ear. “Shut up, Ymir. You know it’s just—” He looks at you for a moment, his grin faltering, then shrugs it off. “Just what we do. We're best friends. Nothing weird.”

You feel your heart drop a little, but you brush it off. “Right. Nothing weird.” It's almost as if you're trying to reassure yourself, which, let's be honest, you really were trying to. Trying to convince yourself that it's all in your head.

But the way Eren’s smiling at you, like he knows more than he’s letting on, makes your pulse race. His eyes linger a little too long, and you wonder if he’s trying to figure something out, too. The tension is palpable, thick enough that even Ymir and Historia seem to sense it. They share a glance, but neither of them says anything. Instead, Ymir kicks you under the table—hard enough to make you wince.

“Aye, stop thinking too much,” Ymir's expression says, clearly reading you like an open book. She doesn't even have to say anything for you to understand what she's trying to say “Just enjoy the moment. Eren’s not going anywhere.” And for the first time today, you almost believe her.

The conversation drifts as you try to settle back into the easy rhythm of lunch. But the moment is short lived. The clatter of trays and the loud chatter of students fills the air, and before you can catch your breath, a new wave of noise arrives.

Reiner, with his usual cocky grin, leads the pack of jocks toward your table. His broad frame and confident swagger draw attention the way Eren’s used to, but this time, you can’t help but notice the way the girls at nearby tables watch Reiner too. He’s got that easy, good-looking charm, but there's something about Eren that just hits different, even now, when the jocks are slowly taking over the cafeteria’s social pecking order.

“Yo, Yeager!” Reiner calls, leaning over the back of your seat, making you jump in surprise. “You ditching us for the weirdos?”

Eren’s arm drops from your shoulders as he shifts his attention to Reiner, but not without a small, teasing grin. “If you’re calling them weirdos, I think you’ve got the wrong table, man.”

A few of the other guys laugh, though it’s more because it’s Eren, and he’s got that goofy, unpredictable humor. The girls now huddled around your table all stand up a little straighter, their eyes darting toward Eren, and you feel a sudden, sharp pang of frustration deep in your chest. You try to ignore it, to keep the casual mask in place, but something’s different now. The subtle tension between Eren and you—it’s like it’s palpable to everyone but the two of you.

Reiner, not one to let Eren off easy, takes a seat beside him, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Come on, man, we’ve got practice in an hour. I’m dragging you back, and we’re gonna talk strategy, not... whatever this is.” His eyes flick over to you, and you swear you catch a hint of amusement in them. It’s like he knows something you don’t.

Eren glances back at you, his expression a little unsure, like he’s debating whether to stay or go. For a brief moment, his eyes soften, but then, in typical Eren fashion, he shrugs and grins, looking more at ease than you feel. A part of you hopes he'll choose to stay, just to reassure you that things really didn't change.

“Alright, alright, I’ll go. But only because you’re begging.” He stands up, brushing his hands off as if he’s wiping away the conversation, like he doesn’t even see the way your heart drops when he stands a little too far away from you now.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck. All that leaves your mouth is a disappointed huff of a breath. Eren turns back toward you, like he’s about to say something, but then his attention shifts to the group of jocks calling him over.

“Later, y/n!” he calls, throwing a casual wave over his shoulder. “Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

You’re left frozen, your hand still halfway raised as you force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. Reiner slaps Eren’s back in that overly friendly way he always does, and Eren just laughs, falling into step with him as they make their way to the other side of the cafeteria. You hate the way your stomach twists watching them go. It’s like they’re speaking an entirely different language—one you’re not part of. The table around you is quieter now. Historia looks at you, her expression sympathetic, but Ymir—well, she looks way too smug for your liking.

“Wanna talk about it?” Ymir teases, but it’s not unkind.

You sigh, dropping your gaze to your lunch. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Uh huh,” Ymir replies, that knowing smirk still lingering on her lips. “I’m pretty sure Eren’s just trying to keep his cool in front of the jocks. You’ve seen the way he’s been around you lately. He likes you, trust me.”

You frown, not sure how to respond. Eren might be acting like nothing’s changed, but everything has changed. And the worst part? You’re not sure if he even knows it yet.

“Don’t worry,” Historia sympathetically adds, her tone reassuring. “He’ll figure it out eventually. You’ll figure it out.”

You give a noncommittal hum, not sure if you're ready to figure anything out just yet. But as you glance across the room, watching Eren laugh with Reiner and the others, you can't shake the feeling that something’s coming. Something big. Some type of shift. You spend the rest of lunch pushing food around your tray, pretending not to notice the way your eyes keep flickering toward the jock table.

Eren looks good—annoyingly, frustratingly good. He’s leaned back in his chair, laughing at something Jean said, that lazy grin plastered across his face like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. His long fingers drum absentmindedly against the table, and when one of the cheerleaders—Annie’s friend Hitch, you think—leans in to whisper something to him, your stomach twists.

You snap your gaze away, cursing yourself. Why are you even watching? You’re not his girlfriend. You’re his best friend. And best friends do not sit there like jealous exes just because other girls are realizing what you’ve known for years—Eren Yeager is stupidly, effortlessly attractive.

“You’re making it too obvious.” Ymir’s voice is flat and teasing. You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s smirking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to have something to do.

“Mm. Right. And I’m straight.” Ymir leans on her fist, watching you with open amusement. Historia sighs, nudging her in the ribs before giving you a softer look.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Historia offers, “he hasn’t actually looked at her once.”

Your eyes dart up before you can stop yourself, and— Historia’s right. Eren’s nodding along to something Reiner’s saying, but his gaze keeps drifting. He’s scanning the cafeteria, like he’s looking for something. Or someone. And then, just like that, his eyes find yours. For a second, time stutters.

Eren’s lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to catch you staring, and for a fleeting moment, something flickers across his face. Something unsure. Something vulnerable. But then Reiner nudges him—too hard, probably on purpose—and Eren snaps out of it, laughing as he shoves him back. And just like that, the moment is gone. You exhale sharply, turning away. You hate this. The push and pull, the way he makes you feel like maybe—just maybe—there’s something more, only to act like nothing’s changed the next second. Maybe nothing has changed. Maybe the only thing different is you.

“You should talk to him,” Historia says gently.

You scoff, picking at your food. “And say what? ‘Hey, Eren, just wondering if you’ve realized you’re hot yet and if that means you’re too good for me now?’”

Ymir cackles, hands drumming on the lunch table as she childishly kicks her feet. “I mean, I would pay to see you say that to his face.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “This is a nightmare. It's never been this complicated with Eren before.” It had always been complicated, but not this complicated.

Historia opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, the cafeteria doors swing open, and the familiar screech of a whistle pierces the air.

“Football team! Practice starts now!” Coach Smith stands at the entrance, arms crossed, his stoic expression already promising death if they don’t get to moving. The jock table groans, but they all start standing, grabbing their trays. Eren stretches as he gets up, his shirt riding up just enough to show a hint of skin, and you swear you hear one of the volleyball girls sigh dreamily. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

Eren turns, catching your expression, and grins. “What’s that look for?”

You school your face into something neutral, a deadpan almost. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’ll survive an entire practice without getting distracted by your fan club.”

He blinks, then laughs—like really laughs, loud and unfiltered. “Pfft, fan club? Yeah, right.”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, but then you stop. Because—he’s serious. He really doesn’t see it. All the stares, the whispers, the way girls—entire groups of them—are looking at him like he hung the damn moon. He doesn’t even notice. Eren’s still just Eren, in his own head. You should be relieved. Maybe you are. But mostly, you just feel confused and overwhelmed.

“Well, try not to get tackled into the ground,” you say instead, grabbing your drink to take a sip.

Eren grins, nudging you lightly as he starts to walk away. “Aw, you worried about me, y/n?”

The drink nearly chokes you, the cooing tone of his voice making you feel uneasy and bashful. “Not even a little.”

He just laughs, throwing one last lazy wave over his shoulder before jogging after Reiner and the rest of the team. And you? You watch him go, stomach twisting, hating the way his absence already feels like a weight pressing down on your chest.

The late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows over the football field. The team is mid-drill, running play after play under the sharp bark of Coach Smith. Eren is breathless, sweat slicking his skin, but his mind isn’t really in it. Not fully, anyway.

Because you’re sitting on the bleachers, and you’re laughing at something Historia just said, and it’s distracting as hell. His gaze keeps flickering toward the bleachers, toward where you’re sitting with your friends. You look relaxed, leaning back with one knee pulled up. He can’t hear a word from this far, but that doesn’t matter. He knows your expressions by heart—every little eye roll, every laugh, the way your lips purse when you’re pretending to be annoyed but aren’t really.

He’s staring again.

“Yeager! Focus!” The loud shout of Coach Smith jolts him out of his trance, but it’s too late. Whooosh.

Eren barely ducks in time to avoid a pass he wasn’t paying attention to. Jean groans in exasperation, throwing his head back and smacking his hands on his pads. “Dude, wake up! What the hell are you even looking at?”

Eren shakes his head quickly, clearing his throat. “Nothing,” he lies, trying to mask the way his heartbeat kicks up. Grabbing the football that he failed to catch, slackly tossing it back to Jean.

Jean, of course, is already following his gaze, his eyes landing exactly where Eren doesn’t want them to. The smirk that stretches across Jean’s face is almost unbearable. “Right. Nothing.”

Eren scowls, shoving Jean as he jogs past. But before he can settle back into formation, something shifts near the bleachers—movement that immediately snags his attention. Someone’s walking up to you. Eren’s brows furrow as he squints. The guy is tall, lanky, his bright red hair messy in a way that seems purposefully unkempt. He’s wearing a ripped band tee, chains dangling from his jeans, and—oh, great. Floch Forster.

The guy moves with a swagger that makes Eren’s teeth grind. Ripped jeans, faded punk band tee, chains dangling from his belt loops—he looks like he just crawled out of a basement concert. Floch has always been a talker, a surprisingly smooth one at that, and judging by the way he leans in, he’s in full flirt mode. Eren watches, growing tenser by the second. He expects you to roll your eyes, wave him off, something. But you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. Why aren’t you moving away? Eren’s jaw tightens. Then Floch takes another step closer. That’s it.

Eren doesn’t even realize his feet are moving until Jean grabs his jersey. “Dude, where are you—?”

“I’ll be back,” Eren mutters, ripping himself free and jogging toward the bleachers before anyone can stop him.

You hadn’t expected company, least of all from Floch Forster. Historia had just nudged you, muttering something about incoming trouble, and before you could even react, there he was—Florian “Floch” Forster, king of misplaced confidence, leaning against the railing like he had all the time in the world. You don’t hate Floch. You don’t like him, either, but he’s harmless enough. He’s always been a little too flirty, but in a way that’s more for show than anything else.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his signature gaudy smirk already in place. “If it isn’t the prettiest girl in the bleachers.”

You exhale through your nose. “Oh, god.”

Floch grins, clearly unfazed. “What? That’s a genuine compliment. You’re breaking my heart here, y/n.” His tone is cocky, almost annoying.

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “Do you even have one?” A grin forms on your face, it felt kind of good to banter and maybe knock him down a peg.

“Oof.” He presses a dramatic hand to his chest, cheesing way too hard. “Harsh. But hey, I like a challenge. Y’know, if you ever wanna find out, I could show you—”

“You couldn’t,” you cut in. It's a little abrupt, shocks Historia a bit at the snappiness, but it just comes out.

Floch laughs, plopping down beside you with zero hesitation. “Alright, alright, I’ll cut to the chase.” He leans back on his palms, eyes flicking toward the football field before settling back on you. “How long are you gonna keep pretending your best friend isn’t in love with you?”

You choke on your drink, sitting up straighter now as you sputter a cough. “Excuse me?”

Floch just raises a brow, looking entirely too smug for your liking. “Come on, y/n. The guy stares at you like you hung the goddamn stars. It’s actually painful to watch.”

Your face burns, but you force a scoff. “You’re delusional.”

Floch shakes his head, watching your reaction closely. “Am I? He’s been in love with you since, what, forever? But the dude’s an idiot, so I get why you’re waiting. He’s probably still convinced you’re out of his league.” Out of his league?

Something about that statement makes your stomach clench. That’s not true. Right? Floch doesn’t miss the flicker of doubt in your eyes. His smirk stretches a little wider, sensing an opening.

“But y’know,” he continues, shifting closer, voice dropping just slightly, “if he’s not gonna make a move, maybe you should let someone else have a shot.”

Your lips part, caught off guard. “What?”

Floch leans in just enough for the air between you to thin, to start smelling like his axe cologne. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs. “Maybe you should let someone who actually sees you take you out sometime.”

Oh, you think, heartbeat stuttering slightly. Although your mind was still half focused on what he said about Eren. Before you can formulate a response, something shifts in the air—sharp and tense.

“Oh, hell no.”

The voice is unmistakable. Your head snaps up just in time to see Eren—sweaty, breathless, and looking pissed—hopping the railing in one effortless motion.

Floch doesn’t move. He just smirks. “Well, speak of the devil.”

Eren doesn’t respond, his fists clenching at his sides. His green eyes—usually filled with something bright, warm—are now dark with irritation.

“What the hell are you doing here, Forster?”

Floch tilts his head, all mock innocence. “Relax, man. Just having a friendly conversation.”

Eren’s jaw ticks. “Yeah? Well, have it somewhere else.”

The tension is thick, electric with an almost uncomfortable tension. You glance between them, unsure if you should intervene. Maybe you should, but all you can do is look up at Eren. The way some strands of hair stick to his forehead, the way his thick brows are furrowed. The way he almost seems territorial over you.

Floch exhales, shaking his head like this is all some kind of joke. He shifts his gaze back to you. “Really? You’re just gonna let him chase me off like that?”

You hesitate. And that hesitation is all Floch needs.

He incredulously chuckles under his breath, standing up and dusting himself off. “Man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Eren’s jaw tightens. “See what?”

Floch flashes one last cynical smirk before turning to leave. “Nothing, man. Nothing at all.”

And just like that, he’s gone, his chains jingling as he strolls down the metal steps like he hadn’t just stirred up a storm. The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.

You exhale, crossing your arms as you finally shake out of your daze. “That was so unnecessary.”

Eren scoffs, finally looking at you. “He’s a dick.”

You narrow your eyes. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Eren looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a split second, something unreadable flickers behind his eyes. His lips part like he wants to say something—something important—but instead, he just shakes his head.

“Forget it.”

And with that, he turns, hopping back over the railing and jogging toward the field without a second glance. But you know better. It wasn’t nothing. And now, you don’t know what to do about it.

Eren doesn’t look at you for the rest of practice. Not once. It’s infuriating. From your spot on the bleachers, you watch as he throws himself back into drills like he’s got something to prove, pushing harder than necessary, muscles taut with tension. His jaw is tight, brows furrowed in concentration—but you know him. You know when he’s actually focused and when he’s just using the game as an excuse to run from something. You also know what—or who—he’s running from.

You exhale, frustrated. It’s not like you wanted Floch’s attention. Hell, you would’ve been fine never speaking to him again. But Eren had stormed over like he owned you, like it was his problem to handle, and now he won’t even look at you? It was all too confusing.

Eren misses a catch from Bertholdt, taking off his helmet and throwing it to the ground with an audible 'fuck!' that echoed around the football field. Running a hand through his sweat drenched hair, the frustration in his face is super evident.

Historia, sitting beside you, hums in amusement. “That was deliciously messy,” she murmurs, sipping from her water bottle. "The whole situation. Possessive Eren, the little bicker, everything."

“It’s annoying.” A scoff leaves your lips and you can't help but stare at Eren with a confused and irritated expression.

“Oh, it’s both.”

Ymir snickers, her sunglass covered eyes looking at the way Eren is still pouting. “Dumbass is jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “He is not jealous.”

Ymir glances at you with an expression so patronizing you want to shove her off the bleachers. “Right. He just lost his entire mind over Floch flirting with you for no reason at all.”

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because—yeah. The thing is, Eren isn’t the jealous type. He’s never been possessive over you before, never given you any reason to think he cared about who talked to you. He’s always been the annoying one—flirting playfully, ruffling your hair, teasing you about your nonexistent love life like it was all some big joke. And maybe it was. Maybe he was just messing around, just playing into the dynamic you’d always had. But today felt different. And that scared you more than anything.

You wait for him by the locker room. It’s a stupid idea. You know it’s a stupid idea. You could’ve gone home, could’ve ignored the way your pulse has been pounding ever since practice ended, ever since he stormed off like you did something wrong. You could’ve pretended it didn’t bother you—the way he looked right through you for the rest of practice, the way his body went stiff when you so much as moved in his direction, the way he threw himself into drills like he was trying to hit something that wasn’t there.

But you’re still here. Waiting.

The late afternoon sun is sinking lower in the sky, drenching everything in a honey-gold glow. It should be pretty, peaceful even, but the knot in your stomach makes it hard to appreciate. The air is thick, humid from the lingering heat of the day, and your skin feels sticky, uncomfortable. The locker room door swings open in intervals, groups of players filtering out, laughing, talking about parties, weekend plans, things you can’t bring yourself to care about.

Then—finally—he steps out. Eren.

You feel his presence before you even see him, your body going still, your heart stuttering in your chest. He looks good. Unfairly so. His hoodie is loose over his shoulders, damp hair falling into his face, a few strands curling at the ends. His skin is still flushed from exertion, the glow of the sunset catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat where the collar of his hoodie has slipped down just enough. He’s effortlessly attractive, in a way that makes your stomach twist with something you don’t want to name.

He notices you immediately. Stops in his tracks. Something flickers across his face—something unreadable—but then it’s gone, replaced by a carefully neutral expression, like he wasn’t just throwing a damn fit over you and Floch thirty minutes ago.

Your arms cross tightly over your chest. “You ran off.”

Eren exhales, looking past you, jaw tight and thick brows furrowed. “Didn’t run.” His voice is flat, clipped. You know him too well to miss the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his shoulders are tense even though he’s trying to look casual.

You take a step closer. “Eren.”

His jaw ticks. “What?”

That’s all he says—short, sharp, like a blade cutting through the space between you. It makes irritation flare in your chest, a spark igniting beneath your ribs. He’s the one who lost his mind over nothing. He’s the one who got weird. And now he’s acting like you’re the problem?

You grit your teeth. “Are you seriously mad at me?”

His head snaps toward you so fast it nearly startles you. “Mad at you?” He lets out a dry, humorless scoff, running a hand through his hair, making the damp strands even messier. “I’m not—" he cuts off for a second, rubbing that same hand over his face with a groan, "Jesus, y/n. I just don’t get why you were even entertaining that guy.”

Your stomach drops. The word entertaining rubs you the wrong way, makes your irritation flare into something hotter. “I wasn’t entertaining anyone,” you snap, voice tight with attitude.

Eren exhales sharply, shifting his weight like he’s trying to hold something back. “He was all over you.” yeah, he was dragging it.

Your lips press together. “And?”

His eyes darken, flickering with something upsetting, something raw and vulnerable. “And I didn’t like it.”

It’s barely above a whisper, but it slams into you like a physical force. Your breath catches. The words linger between you, heavy, charged with something neither of you can name but both of you can feel. Your heartbeat is erratic, hammering against your ribs. You’re staring at him, searching his face for answers, for clarity, for anything—but he’s already looking away, already forcing his expression into something other than frustrated jealously, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire world shift on its axis.

He knows. You know he knows. And that terrifies both of you.

He inhales sharply, like he’s about to say something else—but then he stops himself. A muscle in his jaw twitches before he shakes his head with a seemingly defeated sigh. “Forget it.”

“No,” you say quickly, stepping forward, voice urgent, desperate. “Eren—”

But he’s already turning away. Already walking. And this time, you don’t try to stop him. Because the truth is—You’re just as scared as he is.

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the space he left behind. Minutes? Seconds? It feels longer than it probably is, but the weight in your chest doesn’t go away. You don’t get it. You’ve had arguments with Eren before. Dumb ones. Stupid ones. He’s annoyed you a million times, and you’ve annoyed him right back. But this? This hurts in a way you don’t know how to process.

Because it felt real. Because it felt like something cracked open between you—something undeniable. And because deep down, in the part of you that you’ve tried to shove away for years, you know the truth: You don’t want him to be okay with other guys flirting with you. You don’t want him to treat you the same way he treats every other girl. And if today proved anything—if the way he reacted, the way he looked at you was any sign—maybe he doesn’t want that either. Maybe he never did.

Eren’s hands are clenched into fists as he walks, barely registering the conversations around him. His heart is still pounding. His body is itching with leftover adrenaline, but it has nothing to do with practice. What the hell was that? His own words play back in his mind, over and over. "I didn’t like it." What the fuck was he thinking, saying that out loud?

He’s been reckless before. He’s flirted with you for years—always playfully, always in a way that he could pass off as a joke. But that? That wasn’t a joke. That was raw, unfiltered, stupid.

Because he can’t have you. Because you don’t see him that way. Because even if you did, he’s not good enough for you. You’re y/n. You’re his best friend. The girl who somehow makes everything in his life feel a little easier, a little lighter, just by being around. The girl he’s been in love with since he was old enough to understand what love is.

And you deserve someone better. Someone who isn’t just figuring out his place in the world. Someone who isn’t Eren Yeager—impulsive, reckless, always getting himself into trouble.

But even knowing that—Even knowing he should stop—He still turns around, just for a second, just to look back. Just to see if you’re still standing there. And when he sees you—arms crossed, head slightly bowed, looking like you’re caught up in your own spiral—It fucking kills him. Because if he wasn’t such a coward, he’d tell you the truth. That he doesn’t just like you. He’s yours. He’s always been yours. But it’s too late now. And it’s all his fault.

414 notes · View notes

ditzydoe444 · 3 months ago

Note

Jason finding out his sweet shy girlfriend has nipple piercings and/or a clit piercing

-🪼

a/n: i might have to make a part 2 with smut

“hey sweetheart,” jason whispered softly as you walked into his piercing room, you were a clingy little thing, being his shadow following him everywhere. “what are you doing here?” he snuggled deep into your neck smelling your sweet scent. you beamed, your huge smile displaying your pearly whites were enough to make him weak at the knees.

the two of you were polar opposites, he was the brooding tatted and pierced man who would make anyone walk away if they stared the wrong way at him, and you on the other hand? you were a ray of sunshine. you were too good for him, hence why the two of you haven’t had sex, he didn’t want to scare away the only good thing in his life, he couldn’t afford to.

you nodded, your teeth sank into the bottom of your lips as you undid his belt, “doors locked and receptionist said that you don’t have any more clients so?”

he frowned, grabbing your shoulders as he gently squeezed them. “you want your first time here? at my tattoo parlour?” jason always thought about making it romantic as cheesy as it seemed, you deserved the best and he was going to give you the best.

“i want it here jacey, please, i can’t wait anymore.”

you’ve waited for what felt like ages, you were always a little insecure but after a few months with him jason treated you like the best thing in the world, he was different.

without a warning he slammed his lips on yours, holding the back of your head tightly as he wrapped your hair with his hand. “fuck darlin,” he groaned as he lifted up to to the counter, tugging your skirt off as you lifted your shirt up.

jason’s eyes went wide seeing your nipples pierced, you didn’t seem like the type to have them, god you were scared of getting your cold shot done to the point of tears.

though his shock then turned into jealousy, who pierced you? who got to see you like that?

it didn’t help when you took your panties off, putting your knees up to your chest just for him to see a small piercing on your fucking clit.

“didn’t know you were pierced baby,” he cooed as he gently traced your wet folds, watching as the tips of his fingers glistened with your arousal.

you grinned shyly, “you don’t know a lot of things jacey.”

those things included how you spent the last month with fingers shoved up your cunt thinking it was him, humping your pillows before going to bed.

“who pierced them darlin?” his voice low, if your nipple piercings weren’t enough having some stranger piece your clit? god he was going insane.

“just some piercer down the street from my apart,” you gasped as he inserted a finger, his other hand stroking his cock.

“hm guess i’ll have to have a talk with them.”

#anon 🪼#jason todd #ch: jason #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #dc jason todd #dc universe #dc characters

463 notes · View notes

chrrybbmb · 2 months ago

Text

EQUILIBRIUM

STARRING ... SPIDEY!J. JUNGKOOK X READER

WORD COUNT ... 7.5K

SUMMARY ... how long can you pretend not to notice you're falling headfirst?

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slow burn. mutual pining. they’re both falling so hard they need a helmet AKSJASK. reader’s acceptance era. they wanna kiss each other so bad but are too stupid to realise it someone please bonk them on the head. implied spidey!jk fight. she’s a lil bit short but that’s okay things are moving forward!!!

playlist : give you the world (steve lacy). i think (tyler the creator). me gustas tu (manu chao). falling for ya (grace phipps). the feels (twice). out of my league (fitz and the tantrums). more than a woman (the beegees). be my baby (the ronettes). rather be (clean bandit). cupid (fifty fifty).

taglist. prev. next.

he’s been staring at the same sentence in his notes for the past five minutes.

it’s not even a hard one. something about limiting reagents and product yield—stuff he could usually recite without blinking, but you’re sitting right there.

curled into the far side of the library booth, legs tucked under you, pen twirling between your fingers like you’ve likely done a hundred times before. there’s a smudge of blue ink on your thumb and a crumpled piece of gum wrapper on the table between you, and jungkook can’t seem to make his brain work long enough to finish a full thought.

you hum under your breath as you copy down the last equation he walked you through. nod a little to yourself when it clicks.

jungkook has never hated a reaction more.

not because he minds teaching. not because he minds being here. but because he wants to kiss you. he’s been thinking about it more than he should. enough that it’s starting to interfere with things, like memory and rational thought and knowing when to look away.

your lips purse as you underline something. your brow furrows. he looks back at his notes and pretends he didn’t notice.

“you okay?” you say after a moment.

your voice is soft. casual, like you haven’t just dragged him out of a thought spiral that involved your lip gloss and his complete and utter lack of self-control.

he glances up too fast, eyes wide. “what?”

you blink at him. “you’ve been on the same line for ages. just wondered if you were, i don’t know... buffering.”

a beat, then you grin.

jungkook exhales through his nose and drops his pen. presses the heel of his palm to his temple like that’ll help short-circuit whatever his brain is doing. “i’m fine,” he mutters.

“uh-huh,” you say, clearly not buying it. you nudge the gum wrapper closer to him with the back of your knuckle. “you sure it’s not the limiting reagent that’s got you in a chokehold?”

“positive,” he says. “limiting reagents are easy.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and yet?”

he glares at the sentence in his notebook like it’s personally wronged him, and you laugh under your breath, the sound warm, bright in a way the library doesn’t deserve.

he hates that it makes his stomach flip.

“okay, professor,” you tease. “if you’re done glitching, i have questions.”

he nods slowly, swallowing back everything else he wants to say. “hit me.”

you scoot a little closer, shifting your notebook between you, your leg bumping his under the table. not on purpose, probably, but jungkook flinches anyway. you don’t seem to notice. you’re already flipping back a page and chewing on your bottom lip, scanning your notes.

“this one,” you say, pointing to a messy line halfway down the margin. “the molar ratio part? i think i missed something.”

he leans in before he can stop himself. close enough to see the faint shimmer of your lip balm, the way the library’s overhead lights reflect in your eyes. bad idea. he clears his throat, forcing his eyes back down. “you just have to compare the coefficients from the balanced equation. it’s about how many moles of reactant are required to fully react with the other.”

“right,” you nod, writing as he speaks. “so it’s about proportion?”

“exactly.”

you hum again, more to yourself this time, scribbling in the margin. your handwriting is uneven and fast and a little chaotic, but it makes something in his chest ache anyway.

you’re too close.

he shifts a little, subtly. just enough to give himself space to breathe. because he doesn’t want you to see the way it’s affecting him the way everything you do lately seems to be affecting him. it’s getting bad.

the way you lean into him when you’re focused. the way you smile when you finally understand something. the way you call him ‘professor’ sometimes, like it’s a joke, but he still thinks about it later when he’s brushing his teeth.

you nudge his notebook with your pen. “you’re being quiet again.”

“just thinking.”

you glance at him sideways, a small smile tugging at your lips. “about chemistry?”

he lies. “yeah.”

you laugh. soft and a little disbelieving. “you don’t sound very convincing, you know.”

he shrugs, eyes still on your notes. “i’m not good at this whole… thing.”

“mm. i don’t know.” you twirl your pen again, the ink-stained tip catching a smudge across your palm. “you’ve managed to teach me more in two weeks than i’ve learned all semester. that’s gotta count for something.”

jungkook wants to say thank you. wants to make a dumb joke. wants to reach across the table and take your hand just to see if you’d let him. instead, he stares at the gum wrapper between you. you don’t seem to notice the shift.

“you’re good at it,” you add, quieter this time. “the tutoring thing. i didn’t expect that.”

he raises an eyebrow. “why not?”

you glance at him like it should be obvious. “you don’t really talk. during class, i mean. you kind of just show up, take notes, and disappear.”

he shrugs again. “maybe you just weren’t paying attention.”

your smile falters a little, flickering into something softer. more real. “maybe,” you admit. “but i do now.”

and there’s something in the way you say it that makes his heartbeat stutter and his mouth dry.

you shift again, settling back into your seat. “anyway. i think i get it now.”

he nods, pretending like what you said doesn’t matter to him as much as it does. “good.”

“do i get a gold star?”

he finally smiles, small but genuine. “i’ll bring stickers next time.”

you grin. “i’m holding you to that.”

he’s not sure if you mean it. but he will.

you stretch your arms above your head, spine arching just slightly, a soft groan escaping your throat. jungkook looks away so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.

“we’ve been at this for too long,” you say, voice light, dragging your hands through your hair before letting them fall into your lap. “my brain’s starting to leak out of my ears.”

he huffs a laugh, flipping your notebook closed. “sure. break time.”

“thank god,” you sigh, slumping dramatically against the back of the booth. “i was two problems away from crying.”

“you’ve cried over chemistry before?”

“once,” you say, lifting your fingers to make a tiny gap between your thumb and forefinger. “just a little. like a respectable amount.”

he grins. “respectable tears?”

“very academic,” you nod solemnly. “phd-level sobbing.”

you’re joking, but your smile is tired in a way that makes his chest tug. he wonders how much sleep you’ve been getting. how often you let yourself take breaks when he’s not the one insisting. he doesn’t ask.

instead, he pushes the textbooks aside. “what do you usually do during breaks?” he asks, half teasing, half genuinely curious.

you blink at him, clearly not expecting him to ask. “usually?” you say. “scroll. draw. steal other people’s snacks. the essentials.”

jungkook hums, amused. “should i be worried?”

“only if you brought anything worth stealing.”

he reaches into his bag, pulls out a granola bar, and slides it across the table.

you gasp. “an offering?”

“a peace treaty,” he says. “in case you cry again.”

you laugh, peeling back the wrapper, and something in his chest unwinds. “this’ll buy you fifteen more minutes of tutoring,” you say through a mouthful of granola. “maybe twenty if you pretend i’m doing better than i am.”

“you’re doing fine,” he says before he can stop himself.

you glance up at him. blink once. then you smile, and it’s not playful—not teasing or smug or exaggerated. it’s quiet. sincere. “thanks,” you say softly. “i’ve been trying.”

jungkook swallows. nods. looks down at his hands just so he doesn’t have to look at you.

you chew slowly, shoulders relaxing against the booth.

“i kind of like studying with you,” you say after a minute, not even realizing what you’re doing to him.

his throat is suddenly too dry. “yeah?”

you nod. “you’re patient. and you explain things better than my professors do. and you always bring snacks.”

“only brought one.”

“you’ve brought others before.”

he snorts under his breath. “you keep track?”

you shrug. “when you’ve got as many things on your mind as i do, it’s nice when something’s consistent.”

and god, he wants to say something. to tell you he’d bring you granola bars every day for the rest of the semester. to ask if he’s allowed to be one of the things you count on. but instead, he picks at the edge of his textbook and says, “i’ll bring two next time.”

you grin. “spoiling me.”

he shrugs, pretending it’s casual. “you deserve it.”

you look at him for a second—really look at him, eyes soft, head tilted just slightly, trying to figure him out. then, just as quickly, the moment shifts. you smile again, all light and teasing. “if you keep saying stuff like that, i’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

you say it like a joke, like it’s nothing. like it’s funny.

and maybe it is to you. maybe you’re just playing around. maybe you don’t see the way his hands curl into fists in his lap, or how he forgets how to breathe for half a second.

he laughs. too late, too forced.

“yeah, well,” he says, eyes fixed on a scratch in the table. “can’t have that.”

you don’t respond right away. you just pick at the corner of your granola bar wrapper, folding it neatly in half.

“mm,” you say finally, like you’ve filed that away somewhere. “would ruin the academic integrity of this tutoring relationship.”

he nods. “exactly.”

another beat passes. you lean your cheek against your hand, watching him with something unreadable in your expression. “guess i’ll just have to keep wondering, then.”

and before he can figure out what that means, or if you meant anything at all, you’re reaching for your notes again.

“alright, professor,” you say lightly. “break’s over. teach me something.”

jungkook picks up his pen with shaking fingers. he doesn’t say a word.

you’re already flipped to a fresh page, pen tapping against the paper as you glance at him, waiting. expecting. jungkook clears his throat and tries to focus. tries to remember what you were working on before you smiled at him in a way that made it hard to breathe.

"okay," he says eventually, voice quieter than usual. “uh. equilibrium constants.”

you nod, jotting down the title at the top of the page.

his hands are still shaking. he doesn’t think you notice. you lean in a little, not quite touching, but close enough to make his skin prickle. "so," you murmur, pen at the ready, "what’s the deal with k?”

and god.

you’re doing it on purpose. or maybe you’re not. maybe this is just how you are—curious, warm, bright in a way that doesn’t burn but still somehow sets him on fire.

he exhales slowly through his nose.

"it’s a ratio," he starts, keeping his eyes on your notebook instead of your face. "products over reactants. a way to measure if a reaction favors the left or the right.”

you hum under your breath. “and what if it favors neither?”

he lets himself glance at you then, just briefly. “then it’s balanced,” he says.

you meet his gaze, smile tugging at your lips. “sounds ideal.”

jungkook looks away. he’s never wanted anything more than he wants to kiss you right now. he doesn’t let the thought linger. it’s dangerous—too loud, too close to the surface. he presses the tip of his pen to your notebook instead, draws a quick diagram, lets the movement steady his hands.

"see how the concentrations shift?" he says, voice even, like his pulse isn’t hammering in his throat.

you lean forward again, shoulder brushing his just barely.

"so when k is greater than one..." you murmur.

"it means the products are favored."

you nod, scribbling it down, brow furrowed in concentration.

and jungkook clings to that. your focus, your curiosity, the way you chew your lip when you're thinking hard. if he lets himself look at you for too long, he knows he won’t be able to look away.

and if he lets himself feel everything he’s feeling, really feel it, he might never stop.

he watches you write, lets the silence stretch just long enough to steady himself. then “okay,” he says softly. “your turn.”

you glance up, pen pausing mid-stroke.

“what does it mean when a reaction is at equilibrium?”

your brow furrows, eyes flicking between his face and the sketch of the reaction chart on your page. he waits.

you tap the end of your pen against the paper, thoughtful. “it means… the rate of the forward reaction equals the rate of the reverse?”

when he nods, you continue, voice more confident now. “that the concentrations stop changing. not because the reaction stops, but because everything’s happening at the same time, in both directions.”

he smiles, and it’s small, but it’s real. “exactly.”

you grin, wide and a little proud, and his heart goes stupid in his chest.

“see?” you say, nudging his elbow with yours. “i am learning.”

“you’re a model student,” he says, just to hear you laugh again.

you do. soft and sudden. the kind of sound that makes him feel weightless.

you go back to your notes, but jungkook doesn’t move right away. he keeps his eyes on the margin of your page, watching your pen move.

equilibrium.

forward and reverse, happening at once. equal effort. equal weight. it sounds simple in theory.

he wishes it were. he wishes he was brave enough to just be honest with you about how he feels, to say it plainly. without stumbling, without second-guessing, without hiding behind chemistry terms and granola bars and excuses that sound a lot like maybe next time.

he wants to tell you that he thinks about you more than he should. that every time you smile at him, it takes him a second too long to recover. but instead he points to the next problem in your textbook. “you wanna try this one on your own?”

you glance at it, then at him, then back at your notes.

“sure,” you say, and your voice is casual, but the corners of your mouth curve just enough to undo him all over again.

you start working through the equation, mumbling under your breath, pen tapping as you go, and jungkook watches. he doesn’t say what he wants to. he doesn’t risk it. not yet.

you furrow your brow at the middle of the problem, chewing on your pen cap while your eyes scan the numbers. “wait,” you mutter, pointing to the molar ratio. “isn’t it supposed to be three to two here?”

“yeah,” he says, quiet. “good catch.”

you grin, triumphant, scribbling something onto the page. he looks away again, smile threatening the edges of his mouth.

god. he’s so gone.

completely, utterly, irreversibly.

you don’t even know. you’re just here, sharing your notebook, offering up pieces of yourself so easily it’s like you don’t think twice. he wishes he could match you in that. be just as open, just as brave.

“what?” you ask suddenly, glancing over at him. “you’re staring.”

“no, i’m not,” he says, and it’s instant, reflexive.

you raise a brow. “you kinda were.”

he clears his throat. “i was just… surprised. you’re getting good at this.”

you smile, a little bashful. “guess i’ve got a decent tutor.”

jungkook looks at your face, the way you’re trying to hide how proud you are. he wants to reach out.

he doesn’t.

“you’re not so bad yourself,” he says instead, voice low.

your eyes linger on him a beat too long. and then you look down again, flipping to a new page.

his heart doesn’t slow down for the rest of the hour.

jungkook winces as jimin dabs at his cheek with a sting-soaked cotton pad.

"jesus," jimin mutters under his breath, voice tight with irritation. "you need to stop letting public transit rearrange your face."

“i’m fine,” jungkook grits out, though the words come slower than he means for them to. his head’s still spinning, just a little. he blinks hard, trying to clear it.

jimin pulls back, eyes narrowing. “uh-huh. and i’m the queen of england.” he swipes at a dried streak of blood along jungkook’s jaw, a little less gently this time.

jungkook flinches, shoulders curling in. “i don’t have a concussion.”

“right.” jimin scoffs, tossing the cotton pad into the trash. “because when a ten-ton hunk of steel smacks you into a goddamn billboard, the first thing you think is thank god my brain’s still in one piece.”

jungkook sighs, leaning back against the couch, one hand dragging down his face. he hates this part, the aftermath. when the adrenaline’s gone and everything hurts and the city’s quiet again and jimin’s looking at him like he’s one bad landing away from being a memory.

“you should’ve gone to the ER,” jimin mutters, disinfectant in one hand, gauze in the other.

“they ask too many questions.”

“they ask questions so you don’t die, genius.”

“you’re patching me up anyway,” jungkook mumbles, gesturing vaguely to the half-open first aid kit on the coffee table. jimin doesn’t answer right away. just presses the gauze to the cut on his temple a little more firmly than necessary.

jungkook hisses.

“you’re an idiot,” jimin says, quiet.

“i know.”

he does. he knows.

jungkook closes his eyes for a second, lets the pressure of jimin’s hand ground him. the sting, the scent of antiseptic, the soft buzz of a heater kicking on somewhere in the apartment.

he’d thought about going to you. when he was dragging himself out of the alley, ribs screaming, blood sticky down the side of his face, your apartment flashed across his mind. a quiet thought, tucked into the corner of the chaos.

she’d open the door.

she’d help.

she always does.

even in his addled state, he knew it was a bad idea. stupid. selfish even.

as much as he’d enjoyed it last time—being there, letting you fuss over him, hearing your voice up close, feeling your fingers skim his cheek like he was something fragile—it wasn’t something he could get used to.

not when you didn’t know who he was. not really.

“you zoning out on me?” jimin asks, tone clipped.

jungkook blinks his eyes open again. “no.”

jimin doesn’t buy it. he never does.

“you sure? ‘cause your pupils look two different sizes and you haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.”

jungkook exhales a dry laugh. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” jimin mutters, tossing the bloodied gauze aside and grabbing clean bandages. “next time, don’t think. just duck.”

“tried.”

“try harder.”

he doesn’t mean to sound harsh. jimin never does, not really, but there’s a tremble underneath it. fear, maybe. and jungkook doesn’t have the heart to brush that off. not tonight. not after the way his own legs gave out two blocks from the fight, not after the taste of copper and pavement still lingers in his mouth.

so he just nods and lets jimin tape him back together again in silence.

jimin’s quiet for a while after that. he works the way he always does when he’s trying not to feel something. quick, precise, hands steady even when his breathing isn’t. jungkook watches the ceiling, eyes unfocused. the room spins a little when he turns his head, so he doesn’t.

“you’ve gotta slow down,” jimin says eventually, voice low.

jungkook hums. “can’t.”

jimin’s fingers still against the side of his face.

“why not?”

jungkook doesn’t answer right away. he could say it’s the city. the people who need help. the guilt that chews at his ribs when he thinks about what would happen if he just stopped.

but none of that is what comes out.

“she was there,” he says quietly.

jimin freezes. “when?”

“before the fight,” jungkook mumbles. “at her mural. painting.” he swallows. “she didn’t see me. i didn’t stay.”

jimin sighs, sits back on his heels, eyeing him carefully. “you shouldn’t keep doing this.”

jungkook blinks. “doing what?”

“using the mask as an excuse to orbit her,” jimin says flatly. “you’re not doing her any favors. and you’re definitely not doing you any favors either.”

jungkook looks away, jaw tight. “i’m not trying to mess with her,” he says. “i just… i don’t know. i miss her.”

“you see her,” jimin says. “you tutor her. you sit across from her in cafes and make a fool of yourself in front of her every week.”

“it’s not the same,” jungkook mutters.

“no,” jimin agrees. “because at least when you’re you, you’re not lying to her face.”

the silence that follows is heavier than anything else.

jimin doesn’t push. just leans back against the couch, pulls his knees up, and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh that sounds way too tired for how young they are. the room is quiet again, save for the low hum of traffic outside and the soft groan of jimin’s air conditioner in the background.

jimin exhales through his nose, slow and tired. he presses the last strip of tape to jungkook’s temple, then drops the empty wrapper onto the table with a quiet crinkle.

“you’re lucky you didn’t black out,” he says. “again.”

jungkook doesn’t respond. just leans back into the couch, arm slung over his eyes. he’s so tired. not just in his body. not just the bruises, or the cuts, or the ache in his shoulder that still hasn’t gone away from last week’s rooftop landing. it’s in his chest.

the constant push and pull of being two people. the version of him who makes you laugh across tables, and the one who swings past your apartment in the middle of the night just to see if your lights are on.

the one you know.

the one you don’t.

“you should tell her,” jimin says eventually. “before it gets worse.”

jungkook drops his arm, looks at him with tired eyes. “tell her what, hyung? hey, i’m your tutor and the idiot who bled on your furniture that one time. surprise?”

jimin just shrugs. “sounds about right.”

“she’ll hate me.”

“she might.” jimin doesn’t sugarcoat it. “but she also might not.”

jungkook swallows hard.

he’s thought about it. a hundred different ways. a thousand different outcomes. and in every one, you look at him differently after. sometimes with betrayal. sometimes with disbelief. sometimes you don’t look at him at all, and that’s the part that scares him most.

he scrubs a hand down his face and groans. “i can’t. not yet.”

jimin watches him for a beat, then nods.

“then don’t wait too long,” he says. “because if she finds out on her own, it’s gonna hurt worse.”

jungkook doesn’t say anything, because deep down, he knows jimin’s right. that’s what scares him second most.

you stare down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

here early, grabbed a table near the back x

sent fifteen minutes ago.

you sigh and lock your phone, flipping it face down on the table.

the cafe is warm. quieter than usual, save for the low hum of an indie playlist and the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter. your untouched drink sits beside your notebook, still steaming. you haven’t taken a sip.

you know jungkook’s probably caught in traffic. or maybe the bus was late. maybe something came up. maybe he’s just having one of those days. but your brain doesn’t care about reason. it cares that he was the one who asked to move the session earlier this week. said he couldn’t do the weekend.

so you cleared your schedule. shifted your plans. you told taehyung no, you told yourself it was fine, you told yourself you weren’t too excited when he sent the text.

and now here you are.

alone in a corner booth with your highlighters lined up in color order and your thoughts spiraling at full speed.

you try not to take it personally, and you fail. your mind jumps straight to that place you hate—what if he forgot? what if he bailed? what if he’s slowly realizing he doesn’t actually like being around you at all? you exhale, sharp and quiet.

then the bell above the door jingles, and jungkook stumbles in, breathless and disheveled, hoodie askew and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. his hair is a mess, and his backpack looks half-zipped, and there’s a coffee stain on the cuff of his sleeve.

he spots you instantly and his shoulders sag in relief. “hey…” he pants as he approaches, breath visible in the air behind him, “sorry. i’m so sorry.”

you blink, and despite every insecure thought you were stewing in two seconds ago, your chest loosens just a little.

“…you okay?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean for it to be.

he nods quickly, dropping his bag onto the seat across from you. “yeah. yeah. just—” he pulls his hood back, raking a hand through his hair, “—bit of a mess getting here. totally my fault. i should’ve texted.”

you shake your head, forcing a small smile. “you’re here now.”

he meets your eyes, sheepish.

“still,” he says, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, “thanks for waiting.”

you shrug, flipping open your notebook. “you owe me a sticker for it.”

he exhales a laugh. “i brought two sheets.”

you lean back in your seat, watching him dig through his bag, fingers fumbling for his notes or maybe a pen or maybe just something to distract from how flustered he is. he finally pulls out his notebook, slaps it onto the table, and exhales like he’s just run a marathon.

“you didn’t have to sprint here,” you murmur, reaching for your drink at last. “i would’ve waited.”

he smiles, boyish, still a little breathless.

“i did make you wait,” he says. “felt bad.”

you’re about to wave it off when you notice just the faintest smudge. barely there, high on the edge of his nostril, a smear of red that’s mostly faded but not invisible. your brows draw together.

“hey.”

he looks up. “hm?”

you reach into your pocket for a tissue and slide it across the table. “you’ve got—” you motion to your own nose, eyes narrowing. “what happened?”

he falters just for a second. his hand lifts instinctively, brushing at the spot with the back of his knuckle before glancing at the tissue and taking it.

“oh. must’ve been from earlier.”

you stare. “earlier?”

“yeah, it’s nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly. “i get nosebleeds sometimes. weather shift, i guess.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says it. just dabs once, then folds the tissue and tucks it under his notebook like it never existed. you don’t believe him, but you don’t push, either. “…you sure?”

he nods. “promise.”

and it sounds certain enough that you don’t press, even as something unsettles deep in your stomach. instead, you flip open your own notes and reach for a pen.

“fine,” you say softly. “but if you pass out mid-equation, i’m not catching you.”

he huffs a laugh, and it sounds a little more real this time. “deal.”

you pretend to scan your notes, pen tapping idly, but your eyes drift. jungkook’s hunched forward, elbows on the table, scribbling something in the corner of his page. his hair’s a mess, long and black and tangled from either wind or movement or both, curling at the ends where it brushes his hoodie. there’s a little patch that won’t fall the right way, hanging stubbornly across his forehead.

and then there’s the glasses.

you haven’t seen him wear them before. they sit low on his nose, slipping a little every time he shifts, catching the light and reflecting it just enough to make you pause. you don’t mean to stare, but you do until he looks up and catches your gaze head-on.

“…do i have something else on my face?” he asks, cautious.

you blink. hard.

“what? no.” you shake your head, a little too fast. “no. i was just… thinking.”

his brow lifts slightly. “about what?”

you scramble for anything but you look really good like this and i can’t stop looking at you.

you flick your pen toward the table. “i was wondering why we met here instead of the library.”

he blinks, then ducks his head, pushing his glasses up with his knuckle, suddenly shy. “oh. um. the café’s closer to where i live.”

you nod slowly, biting back a smile. “huh.” you tilt your head. “so you dragged me across town for your own convenience?”

“not dragged,” he says, a little defensively. “i picked a place with good coffee.”

you raise your brow and he shrinks just slightly in his seat.

“and you said you didn’t mind,” he adds, quieter.

you don’t. you really don’t. but you’re not about to let him off that easy.

“mm. you’re lucky the coffee is good.”

he grins, soft and crooked.

“i am lucky.”

he doesn’t know what he’s saying. what it’s doing to you.

you don’t trust your voice enough to respond, so you flip to the next page of your notes and hope he can’t hear your heartbeat from across the table.

he, for his part, doesn’t say anything else. just ducks his head again, hair falling even further into his face as he pushes up his glasses with one finger. your eyes follow the movement before you can stop yourself.

it’s almost unfair. how soft he looks like this.

you draw a slow breath, steadying yourself before you speak.

“alright, professor,” you murmur, aiming for light. “you’ve got me at a café. impress me.”

he huffs a laugh, head still bowed.

“no pressure or anything,” he mumbles, flipping to a page of problem sets.

you lean your chin into your hand, elbow propped against the table. “you’re the one who insisted on the earlier session.”

“and i stand by it,” he says, voice warming again. “even if i almost died trying to get here.”

“do you always get nosebleeds when you're rushing to meet girls?”

he pauses mid-scribble. you see the smile tug at the corner of his mouth before he tries to hide it.

“only the pretty ones,” he says, barely above a whisper.

your breath catches. just for a second, just long enough to feel it, sharp and hot in your chest. you glance down at your notebook, heart thudding.

you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.

your fingers freeze over the spiral of your notebook, eyes trained on a random line of notes that suddenly means nothing to you.

across from you, jungkook goes still, turning red. not just a faint dusting across his cheeks. full-on, unmistakable, spreading fast across his face and up to the tips of his ears. he ducks his head, hiding behind the curtain of his hair like he’s trying to disappear into it, lips pressing together in a tight, horrified line.

you’re not sure either of you can believe he just said that.

he thinks you’re pretty, he thinks you’re pretty, he thinks you’re pretty. it plays on loop in your brain, each echo a little more dizzying than the last. your heart skips and stumbles all over itself, half stuck on the words and half on the fact that he meant them. he must’ve meant them.

jungkook coughs into his hand, trying to recover. “i.. uh. sorry,” he mutters, still not looking up. “that was—i was joking.”

“bad joke,” you say quietly, eyes still on your page.

he exhales a shaky breath. “yeah.”

neither of you look up. neither of you move.

the silence stretches. not awkward. not exactly. just charged.

you pretend to read your notes, pen tapping against the margin, heartbeat thudding loud enough that it might as well be on the table between you. jungkook still hasn’t looked up.

you steal a glance at him.

his hair’s fallen further into his face, half hiding the flush that still stains his cheeks. his fingers are clenched around his pen, knuckles pale, foot bouncing under the table in a restless rhythm.

he’s panicking*.*

not outwardly—he’s too quiet for that. too soft. but it’s there. in the way his eyes stay fixed on the same spot in his notebook, in the way his throat moves when he swallows. and for some reason, the realization makes your chest squeeze.

you almost tell him it’s okay. almost say, you don’t have to be sorry. i didn’t mind it. i’m still thinking about it.

but then he shifts, shoulders squaring, and finally meets your eyes.

“can we pretend i didn’t say that?” he asks, voice low. he says it with a forced little smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

and maybe that’s what makes your decision for you. you look at him for a second longer, then nod once. “sure,” you say, and it comes out smoother than you expect. “you didn’t say anything.”

jungkook exhales through his nose, relief barely veiling the disappointment that flickers across his face.

you both go back to your notes, but neither of you turn the page.

the apartment is quiet when jungkook gets in. the door clicks shut behind him, soft in the silence, but it still makes him flinch. he toes off his shoes, drops his bag by the door, jacket halfway off before he even makes it to the couch. when he does he sinks down hard, palms dragging over his face.

“fuck,” he mutters into his hands.

he’s still rattled.

still replaying the way you looked at him right after—head tilted, eyes wide, something unreadable passing over your face like you were trying to decide if you’d actually heard him right.

only the pretty ones.

the words hit like a sucker punch even now.

he hadn’t meant to say it. hadn’t planned to. hadn’t even realized it was hovering on the tip of his tongue until it was already out there between you, hanging in the air, sticky and impossible to ignore.

you went quiet. you let him backpedal. let him pretend it was a joke, let him erase it even though he wanted nothing more for you to know how pretty you are to him. he leans back into the couch, head tipping against the cushions, and he closes his eyes.

the quiet is louder than it should be.

no city noise, no music, no jimin yelling at him to put ice on something or to stop being so obvious whenever your name comes up. just the echo of that one second. that one look.

you didn’t smile, didn’t tease. you looked stunned. and jungkook can’t decide what’s worse; the fact that he said it, or the fact that some part of him wants to say it again and again until you believe it, until you say something back.

he exhales, long and shaky, and scrubs a hand through his hair. he’s so far in it he doesn’t know how to claw his way out.

he’s not even sure he wants to.

you’re supposed to be paying attention.

there’s something about classical conditioning echoing through the lecture hall speakers. something about pavlov, about dogs and bells and salivating, but your pen is too busy trailing along the edge of your notebook, filling the margins with half-formed flowers and a lopsided spider.

you try to focus. really, you do. you nod when the professor emphasizes a point, scribble a keyword or two, underline extinction twice. but then your eyes drift. out the window, across the aisle, down to the corner of your desk where you’ve already drawn the same sleepy-looking face three different times.

and somehow, every version of it ends up looking a little like him.

you bite the inside of your cheek and shake your head, as if that’ll snap you out of it.

it’s just been happening more often lately—this thing where your thoughts spiral without warning. one second you’re zoning out mid-lecture, and the next you’re remembering the way his fingers brushed yours last week at least three different times.

your professor clicks to the next slide, and the class collectively shifts to pretend they’re still with him.

you sigh, resting your chin on your hand. you don’t mean to get so distracted. but it’s hard not to, when every other thought seems to circle back to the same person.

stupid.

you draw another web in the corner of the page. smaller this time. neater. you don’t know what you’re waiting for. but something in your chest keeps tugging like you’re supposed to be paying attention to something else entirely.

you tap your pen against the edge of your desk. once, twice. again.

“focus,” you mumble to yourself, but it’s useless.

your mind’s already gone, drifting somewhere else entirely—back to the café, which shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, where jungkook stumbled in late, glasses slipping down his nose, hair a mess, breathless and apologetic and still unfairly handsome. back to the night even further back when spider-man nearly collapsed onto your living room floor.

you press the pen harder.

jungkook, spider-man.

one sitting next to you with messy hair and nervous hands, the other bleeding on your couch with too much weight on your shoulder. neither of them probably thinking about you right now.

you don’t even know why that stings.

you’re not dating jungkook. spider-man’s not your friend. you’re just someone who needs help in chemistry. someone who opened her door because someone looked like they were going to fall apart.

you sigh, draw another line across the page. your flowers are losing their shape.

maybe it’d be easier if your chest didn’t feel so tight every time you thought about either of them. you wonder what that says about you. you wonder what that says about them.

your professor says something about freud. you hear someone snicker near the back. you don’t laugh. you just stare down at the little spider in the corner of your page, and trace the thread it’s dangling from. the line stretches up toward the edge of the page, thin and a little shaky.

your pen pauses. you wonder if you’re doing the same thing—hanging off something delicate and invisible, waiting for it to pull or snap or hold.

your professor’s voice drones on, something about repression now. the subconscious. emotional imprinting.

you huff under your breath. “great timing.”

the girl in front of you glances back, but you don’t bother explaining.

your hand shifts again, pen back to work. you draw another figure next to the spider. smaller. a blur of curls and oversized sleeves. he’d probably laugh if he saw it. or tilt his head in that curious way he does when you’re speaking and he wants to say something but doesn’t.

jungkook’s always holding something back. you wonder how much of it is hiding, and how much of it is habit. you shake the thought away before it can settle too deep, scribble a lazy border around your newest doodle to distract yourself.

you’re being emotional. a tad dramatic. maybe it’s just the weather. or the exhaustion. or the fact that every time jungkook smiles at you, it feels like your ribs are curling in on themselves.

you press your pen down until the tip almost snaps. whatever it is, it needs to stop. you’re not built for this kind of uncertainty. you never have been.

you don’t remember the last ten minutes of lecture.

the lights flick on, and the room starts moving before your brain catches up. notebooks close, zippers hum, someone’s already halfway down the stairs before the professor even says have a good weekend.

you sigh, stuff your notes into your bag, ignore the half-page of doodles that somehow ended with a cracked spiderweb and a boy curled up at the center of it. your legs ache as you shuffle out into the hallway, pulled along by the current of students flooding toward the exits.

taehyung finds you near the vending machines, all slouched posture and too-long sleeves.

“there she is,” he says, popping a piece of gum into his mouth without offering you any. “my favorite academically struggling genius.”

you shoot him a look. “what’s with the weird greeting?”

“you’ve got your crisis face on,” he says, tapping his temple. “it’s very i’m thinking too hard about boys again, so i figured i’d meet you halfway.”

you scoff. “i’m not thinking about boys.”

taehyung squints. “okay, so which boy, then?”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

he lifts his brows, smug. “that’s what i thought.”

you push open the building doors and step out into the cold, the wind catching your sleeves and snapping at your legs. “it’s not like that,” you mutter.

“you always say that when it’s exactly like that.”

you glare at him. “are you going to walk me to my next class or just psychoanalyze me until i melt into the sidewalk?”

“i can multitask,” taehyung grins, pulling his hood up as he falls into step beside you. “so, is it the covalent cutie or your friendly neighborhood rebound?”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“nothing.” he stretches his arms behind his head, all faux innocence. “just wondering how many men you’re collecting this semester.” you bump your shoulder into his, harder than necessary, and taehyung wheezes and laughs. “god, you’re so defensive when you’re in denial.”

you don’t respond. mostly because he’s right.

taehyung shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, lips pursed in mock thought. “so, there’s gonna be a party friday,” he says casually.

you glance at him, unimpressed. “cool. have fun.”

he snorts. “you’re not even gonna pretend to consider it?”

“nope.”

“rude.”

“you invited me like you were ordering takeout,” you say, stepping over a crack in the pavement. “not exactly persuasive.”

“fine.” he sighs dramatically. “you, my beloved friend, are cordially invited to a moderately chaotic social gathering where someone’s bound to cry in the bathtub, and no less than three people will make out in the kitchen.”

you lift an eyebrow. “tempting.”

“right? i’m selling this.”

“still no.”

he pouts. “why not?”

you shrug. “i’ve got stuff to do.”

“you always have stuff to do.”

you don’t respond right away. you just keep walking, eyes fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, the wind pulling at the hem of your shirt. taehyung sighs again, quieter this time.

“you know,” he says, bumping your arm lightly with his. “you’re allowed to take a break. have a drink. forget about whatever mess is chewing you up for a couple hours.”

you chew on the inside of your cheek.

you know he’s right. you just don’t know how to say it doesn’t really help when the mess comes with a charming smile and really cute doe eyes and the prettiest lips you’ve ever seen.

so you shrug again. “maybe next time.” taehyung groans dramatically, flopping his head back as you both walk. “you are so stubborn.”

“thanks.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

you snort. “sure it wasn’t.”

he glances sideways at you, lips pursed. plotting. calculating.

“okay,” he says finally. “what if i told you it’s not just any party?”

you raise a brow. “is this where you tell me it’s a secret underground masquerade with a five-star buffet?”

“no,” he says, deadpan. “but there will be snacks. and possibly jello shots. and—” he pauses for effect, wagging his eyebrows, “your chemistry tutor might be there.”

you blink. “jungkook?”

taehyung shrugs, faking nonchalance. “could be. dunno. hoseok’s throwing it, and i know they’re tight. might swing by.”

your stomach does something stupid. you look away before taehyung can see it. “that’s not a reason to go.”

“oh, it’s definitely a reason.”

“tae—”

“look,” he says, gentler this time. “you’ve been tense for weeks. you deserve, like, two hours of being normal. you don’t have to dance on the table or hook up with anyone. just show up. breathe. hang out.”

you slow your steps. you hate that he’s making sense. you hate that the idea of maybe running into jungkook makes your chest tighten in a way you refuse to examine too closely.

you sigh. “fine.”

taehyung beams. “yes*.* victory.”

“don’t make it weird.”

“no promises.”

you shake your head, but you’re smiling when he throws an arm around your shoulders, loud and smug and already gloating. you pretend to be annoyed.

you pretend it’s not already the only thing you’re going to think about for the rest of the day.

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