#anyways hate him can't wait to never see him ever again

[jamglii]

❀ live a little — bnha

incl / kirishima + a quiet reader

warn / oblivious!reader

note / hii im lonely okay bye

krishima is such a sweet guy, plays football but isn't douchey like most of them. waves with a glowing smile to his friends, and good in school.

if your being totally and completely honest he's more than your type, he's exactly what you would date in a man, it's just to bad because with his personality comes other people.

he's magnetic im that way you can't help but want to be around him, overly positive in an enverading way, his many many friends are evidence of it.

which is why you could never get close to him or his clique, the playingfeild was just on two completely different levels.

or so you thought.

"[Naaaame]...!" a light feminine voice sang to you, is was Mina, the only person in your AP World Geography class that talked to you.

"hey Mina." you replied, eyes dancing over her new pink hair.

"so," she sat down, amber eyes watching you intensely. "theres this party tonight..."

and you immediately groaned, it was your seinor year of highschool and you had yet to attend any of the parties Mina or any kid threw, maybe that was your problem.

"oh don't be like that, you never show up to my parties and we always me you..."

you paused, "we?"

Mina sputters, you'd never seen the girl so confident in your life blush and fumble to hard before. "me i meant me, and anyways it's senior year! why not now, just live a little, you'll never know where is takes you..."

you sighed. maybe she was right. maybe all your studying and isolation wasn't worth it, this was highschool, you should at least try to make soming fun of it, right?

❀ ❀ ❀

kirishima was on fire, his nerves were shot with minas words ever since she'd said them.

"Y/N said she'd be here tonight, look who just gotten you a date."

you, the quietes girl kirishima had met, or yet to meet was coming to a party. probably in a dress, maybe with your legs exposed.

"shit." he mumbled to himself coming over his hair again, hoping the exorbiant amounts of gel he used on his hair would keep everything in place.

he was pretty sure you hated him. or simply didn't care for him, the one time he's tried to talk to you his loud and especially annoying friends strolled in and when he looked back, you and your things. were gone.

you'd obviously taken that as a que to leave and he was hoping he could get you alone somewhere at this party and slip his number into your pocket.

it was almost 7, fuck he was nervous.

"red are you ready? you're gonna make us late." it was bakugou driving him there tonight, he for sure as fuck wasn't going but he liked to think katsuki cared about him enough to at least watch him inside the building.

"yeah..m' ready, sorry."

he sat in the car in silence, playing with his nails and much to quiet for the regular kirishima should be on the way to a party.

"what up with you?" bakugou askrd gruffly.

kirishima flinched as he spoke. "[Name], is supposed to be here tonight..."

"who?"

"fuck bakugou, the girl i've been crushing on for god knows how long--"

"i'm fuckin' with you, i know her. friends with deku."

kirishima stays silent.

"wait, are you nervous...?" katsuki asks, but kirishima could tell he was teasing. "is my little red seriously scared of a girl! no way, no fuckin way!"

kirishima groans into his palms as they pull up to the front of minas house, by the looks of it there already started, "fuckk."

bakugou laughs, "don't worry man, you'll be fine. and make sure you see her face to face, none of that slip a note pussy shit."

kirishima looked at the car one final time, then he walked in.

❀ ❀ ❀

you didn't arrive untill 10, debating on weather or now you should show up in the first place, you finally decided ( and with a little help from a friend) that you should go and if you hated it you would never have to go again.

kirishima was annoyed and losing hope, he's been here for what felt like hours, anticipating and waiting for your arrival only for denki sero and a lot of B-1 kids he didnt recognize to show up in your place.

he thought when you did finally show up he's be too bored to even try going for you, which he found was completely and utterly wrong.

when you walked through the door, dress short but not too short. jewelry one, a but more makeup than he'd ever seen you with at school he ran and hid in the bathroom for a solid 2 minutes.

fuck you looked good. he refixed his hair and clothes, and alowly creaked the door back open.

you were no where to be found and he didnt't know if that waa a good or bad thing.

them he saw you, surounded by what looked like to be his friends and ones he didn't want you to meet just yet.

"hello, brochachos what's happening." kirishima internally cringed, he's never saud the word brochacho in his life.

denki smirked, "nothin'...brochacho..just making conversation."

kirishima fought not to blush, "right, you having any fun?" he addressed you now, you were even prettier up close.

you blinked, a sudden wave of anxiety washing over you. why was he talking to you? why were any of them talking to you? when his friends had strolled over and introduced themselves you'd been confused on how they knew your name already, you thought they were going to try and humiliate you but they'd only nodded and smiled when you explained Mina was the one who'd invited you. "yeah, uhm it's nice." you mumbled, feeling surrounded by the sudden onslaught of people. "great." denki suddenly yelled "in that case me and my buddies are gonna do body shots, were in the basement if you wanna join." and he yanked sero's body away, leaving you and kirishima to face each other. "you're not gonna go with them...?" you asked you eyes shiny through the lenses. kirishima's heart almost exploded from his chest. "no, i'd rather stay here. if you don't mind." you were silent for a moment. "no, i guess I don't"

masterlist

[x-prettyboy-x]

Stranger at 24B

Decided to give into the brainrot and write this prompt🫶🏻 a few of you seemed to want it as well, so enjoy. Special love to @tjwritesfanfics for helping with the title����

Pairing: Alex Taylor x Trans!Male Reader

Contents: so so much fluff. Alex is the sweetest boy and I tried so hard to portray that.

Warnings: Mentions of transphobia if you really squint

Wc; 1.5k

Masterlist

You've occupied the locker next to Alex all school year. You always watched him quietly when he came to put away some of his books between classes, took note of how organized his locker was. But you never spoke to him.

Not by choice, not really anyway.

You'd came out as trans in your freshman year, and of course, word spread quickly. But not to Alex. Alex had been homeschooled most of his life, and he'd only started public school last year. And by then, your transition was old news. The only time anyone talked about it now was to tease you or make the usual rude comments you'd learned to block out.

You weren't exactly sure why you cared so much about what Alex thought of you. Really, you had no reason to. But every time you see that sweet smile, those pretty blue eyes, you can't imagine the look of confusion or possible disgust he'd give when he heard your voice. The voice that didnt match the name.

Alex couldn't judge based on your looks, of course. That was a blessing in disguise some days. He couldn't look at you and see the slight bump of your chest under your shirt that your binder couldn't quite hide. He couldn't see your feminine bone structure. He just knew your name, the name you'd given yourself.

So, you watched him from afar. Not.. in a creepy way, obviously. Just in passing.

When you'd pass him and Julie at their table during lunch, or when he'd walk past you in the hallway. A part of you looked forward to those moments between classes when you both went to your lockers. That was the closest you ever got to him, and though you'd never speak to him, you cherished those moments.

"Have I.. done something to make you not like me?"

Shit.

His voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly closed your locker, slamming it a bit too harshly. He still had that soft smile while he waited for your response, ever so patient, his head turned slightly in your direction.

This was what you wanted to avoid. Now you were backed into a corner, and you had a choice to make. Speak, and risk it. Or ignore him and let him think you hated him.

Neither choice was ideal.

You shook your head and cleared your throat softly, leaning against your locker and looking down at your hands to nervously pick at the chipped nail polish on your fingernails.

He must have noticed the long beat of silence, or maybe he could hear your nervous fidgeting. Either way, he spoke up again.

"I'm sorry if I have. We've been around each other at least 3 times a day for the whole year, and you've never spoken to me. I don't bite, promise. No matter what Julie tells you." You could've melted at the soft laugh that escaped his lips.

You couldn't let him think you hated him. Not after that.

"No, you haven't.. not at all." You glanced at him as you spoke, holding your breath as you watched the look on his face.

And of course, there it was. The slight tilt of his head, the way his brows furrowed in slight confusion. The way he fumbled over his words ever so slightly and asked your name, his confusion only worsened when you confirmed you were who he was thinking of.

"I'm sorry, I assumed with a name like that you were-"

"I am. You assumed right." You couldn't let him finish that sentence.

You watched his face, watched the confusion fade. Watched him nod and that soft smile return to his face.

"Alright. Well, it's nice to finally meet the stranger at 24B."

"You're not like.. uncomfortable?"

"Why would I be? I mean.. I had an idea. I heard rumors, but I never listened to things like that. I asked Julie about you, and she told me a few things, but " He shrugged his shoulders, "It's not really my business. If that's who you are, and that's how you wanna live, it doesn't matter what I think."

You suddenly felt beyond stupid and embarrassed. You'd wasted nearly an entire year avoiding him over nothing.

-

The two of you couldn't stop talking after that. Maybe you both felt the need to make up for wasted time.

By the end of the year, you were eating lunch with him and Julie and going with them to Alex's cross country events and his practices. You'd met his parents and spent a lot of time with him, whether it was at school, his house, Julie's house, or Brad's house.

You leaned forward in your seat as you watched Alex swing back and forth on the rope swing in Brad's backyard, a small smile on your face. Brad had gone inside to get drinks for the three of you, leaving you and Alex alone.

"Hey uh.. would you mind if I touched your face?"

You laughed softly, "Feeling lonely, Alex?"

"I just really wanna know what you look like.."

You hummed and carefully got up, walking over to stand in front of him,

"I mean.. you'll be disappointed, but go ahead."

"I doubt that.."

You watched intently as he trailed the pads of his fingers along every detail of your face, tracing down your eyebrows to your eyes, then your nose and your cheekbones, and he spent maybe a little more time than necessary on your lips before he smiled and pulled away.

"Not at all disappointed. You're a very pretty boy."

Now, if anyone else has said that to you. You may have been offended, livid even. But seeing the look in eyes, the smile on his face. He genuinely meant it.

"Yeah? You're not so bad yourself."

-

The two of you only got closer over the summer, Brad and Julie quickly taking notice of the unspoken shift in the relationship the two of you had. But they gave you two space to figure it out on your own terms, at your own pace. But they still subtly tried to push the two of you together.

Like today. The 4 of you were supposed to spend some time at the park, but Brad and Julie suddenly came up with an excuse and canceled, leaving you two alone yet again.

You'd volunteered to take Alex for a quick run, even though you hated running. And you damn sure couldn't run at the pace Alex liked.

You practically collapsed onto the bench beside Alex once he'd safely sat down, a small laugh leaving his lips as he heard your labored breathing.

"Don't go dying on me."

You scoffed softly, hand over your chest as you struggled to catch your breath, "I don't plan on it. Sorry I can't keep up with you the way Brad does."

"That doesn't matter. I'm just happy you wanted to run with me, I like spending time with you."

You glanced over at him, opening your mouth to speak, but every time you tried, your words failed you. You took a deep breath and just forced the words out of your mouth.

The worst he could say was no.

"Hey, Alex?"

"Hm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

A beat of silence. Then another. And another.

Until finally,

"Please."

You were slow and careful as you leaned forward to gently press your lips against his own, letting him take the lead and set the pace. The kiss wasn't rushed, wasn't heated. It was careful and soft, just like him.

When the two of you finally pulled apart, you took in the state of him. The light redness in his cheeks, the way his breathing was a little heavier than before.

You never wanted to forget the way he looked right now.

"Don't go dying on me." You teased, moving your hand to lace your fingers with his on the bench.

"Oh shut up." He laughed, shaking his head and squeezing your hand softly, "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"I have an idea, but I never actually asked. Why exactly did you avoid talking to me for so long?"

You hummed, sighing lightly under your breath.

"When I first came out, everyone started looking at me like I was some.. circus attraction, you know? Some people avoided me altogether, and others started getting mean, to say the least. I've been called more names than you could imagine. But you.. you weren't there for that. All you knew was my name. You can't see what everyone else does. You can't judge the book by its cover, you know? And I thought talking to you, letting you hear my voice would shatter that illusion. And I just couldn't bear to have you looking at me the way everyone else does."

Alex listened to you intently, hanging on to every word like a lifeline.

"I never would've looked at you differently. I was a little confused, sure. But only because I was afraid to offend you if I assumed one way or the other. But it was never out of discomfort or.. disgust. I understand more than most how people treat you when you're a little different."

"I'm really glad you talked to me, 23B." You smiled, watching the smile that came to his lips as well.

"You too, 24B."

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[fromdove]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁞ what is wrong with me?

word count: ~4025 words

pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader

warnings: no warnings!! just damian wayne in agony (in-love)

content: damian wayne can't stop sketching you or thinking about you

dove's notes: this has been sitting in my drafts, waiting, begging to be released. also i was listening to artic monkeys when i was editing this. also this is my longest work yet .. lord.. enjoy!!

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Damian Wayne has officially lost his mind. (Or—at least, that’s what it feels like, which is almost worse than it being true.)

It doesn’t come on all at once. It’s not loud like breaking a door down a flash of gunfire. no, it creeps in slowly. subtly. It starts with the nausea, the quiet kind, not the kind that doubles you over or makes you rush to the bathroom. not food poisoning. not a training injury. nothing that can be pinned down to anything practical.

It's just this low, burning discomfort that curls in his gut and stretches upward, making a home beneath his ribs, curling around his spine. the kind of unease that originates from something deeper, something more inconvenient. something more emotional.

He can’t stand it.

His palms are sweating, and that alone is enough to make him scowl. his shirt sticks just a little too tightly at the collar, suffocating in a way it never has before. there's a feverish heat crawling up the back of his neck, winding behind his ears, and it makes his skin itch with irritation.

he’s already scanned himself for symptoms. checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility in his head. besides the nausea, he’s not actually sick. his pulse is as steady as it can be. reflexes are sharp. no bruises he’s missed, no toxins in his system. nothing out of the ordinary. on paper, he’s fine. perfectly functional. but something’s still off.

because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about you.

your face has apparently decided to move in and take up residence in his mind. your face has staked a claim on his sanity. It keeps showing up, again, again, and again. relentlessly. a ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.

there you are, when he closes his eyes. when he blinks. when he spaces out for a single second.

the image of you burns at the backs of his eyelids with a persistence that borders on cruel. It’s not just your laugh, though that’s bad enough. It’s the details, the things he shouldn’t have noticed. the things he has no business remembering.

The way you hold a pencil, balanced so precisely between your fingers like it grew out of your hand. the way you bite your bottom lip when you're focused, completely unaware of the way it softens your whole face. the furrow between your brows when you’re reading something the teacher assigned. the exaggerated eye-roll you give him when he’s being, as you so kindly put it, “uptight.”

he hated the word. he still does. but the memory of you saying it loops in his mind anyway. the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. the way you exist, so thoroughly and vividly, in every god forsaken part of his head.

He clenches his fists and holds them there, knuckles white and aching, like if he grips hard enough, he can force the thoughts out of him by sheer will.

Enough.

A breath hisses through his teeth, tight and thin and far more emotional than he’d ever allow himself to sound out loud. he throws himself onto the old leather chair shoved into the corner of his bedroom.

The thing groans beneath him like it’s just as exasperated with him as he is. It’s been his brooding chair since he was ten. It’s seen everything: blood, bruises, silence. tonight, it sees a kind of ache it's never seen before.

Rain drizzles down the windows in a soft, half-hearted rhythm. It’s the gotham kind of rain. but this time it's not the angry kind, not storming kind either. just tired. persistent. the sky outside is a smear of cold, colorless gray. he doesn't need to check the time. not again. he already has multiple times, it's 2:00 am.

Wayne Manor at night is its own sort of living thing. It breathes in silence and exhales memory. every hallway feels too long. every portrait watches too closely. the air seems too still. you can hear a clock ticking from three rooms away. even the shadows feel old. and when the house is this quiet, his thoughts get loud. they expand. echo. and right now, his thoughts are the last damn thing he wants amplified.

His sketchbook rests open on his desk. The page stares back at him-blank. waiting. taunting. page number... who knows. It doesn’t matter. he’s filled hundreds of these pages by now. but somehow this one feels heavier. more expectant. like it already knows what he’s going to draw. and like it’s laughing at him for trying to fight it.

It’s mocking him.

the blank page. the pencil in his hand. the silence of the room. all of it. mocking.

he would say it aloud-confess that he can hear it laughing at him. that would sound insane. and Damian Wayne doesn’t do insane. at least not the kind that makes you talk to paper. but sounding crazy isn’t even what’s bothering him right now. that’s how far gone he is. that’s how bad this is. right now, everything else seems like a minor inconvenience.

he’s not worried about sleep or the exam he has tomorrow in a class with the worlds most insufferable teacher. what’s getting under his skin is the idea that his own brain has decided this piece of paper knows him better than he does. and the fact that tonight you've followed your own yellow brick road right into his head and made yourself at home.

To be honest, quietly, bitterly honest, this isn’t the first time you’ve found your way into his head.

It started the day he met you. he doesn’t know why. you weren’t the loudest voice in the room. you didn’t chase the spotlight or try to charm everyone like the people he’s seen at his father’s galas. their perfect smiles and polished words. that kind of performance never worked on him anyway.

You didn’t demand attention the way those people did. didn’t perform for the room or try to catch anyone’s eye. but by some divine intervention, you slipped past his guard like it was nothing. beat the odds of staying in his head, like the kind of odds and luck people win the lottery with. only, he wouldn’t call it luck. it's not lucky for him though. If it were luck, you wouldn’t be there all the time. you wouldn't be there constantly, threaded through his thoughts, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind when he’s supposed to be focusing on literally anything else.

you showed up, a director to his brain, and announced action and his brain has been following your lead ever since.

you’ve been showing up in his dreams. in quiet moments between drills. between breaths. between the pages of books he doesn’t finish anymore because he ends up thinking about how you’d probably like them. he’s tried everything to push you out. he meditated until his limbs went numb. that didn’t work. tried ignoring you which lasted two days before he cracked and said something cold and clipped just so he could break the silence, he trained until his hands were shaking from exhaustion. that didn’t work either.

he also can’t talk to anyone about it. he has to deal with this on his own, despite having no experiences with feelings like this.

not grayson, who would tease and then say something ridiculous like “it's just a crush, it's okay to feel like this yada yada.” because it wasn't okay. and this obviously was way worse than just a crush.

he couldn't ask father, who would raise an eyebrow and say something vaguely wise and completely unhelpful. not todd or drake. and definitely not his mother. she’d sneer. call it weakness. maybe it is. maybe she’s right. maybe he agrees with her.

what kind of warrior gets undone by a girl?

the thought of therapy crossed his mind once. he’s heard of it. read enough reports to understand how it’s supposed to work. talk. process. heal. whatever. but it’s not for him. he’s Damian Wayne. he doesn’t talk about feelings to some stranger in a white coat. he gets through. he survives. therapy was never for someone like him. and even if he did try, what the hell would he say?

that there’s a girl stuck in his head and it’s annoying? that it gets under his skin in ways he doesn’t have names for? that some days, it feels like your voice echoes louder than his own thoughts, and no amount of training, of silence, of bruised knuckles can push it out?

he would never say that some part of him, some small, treacherous part, would give up the fight, the league, all of it, just to sit across from you in peace, to live a life where he never has to say the words “assassin” or “bloodline” again. nope. he will also never say that your absence leaves a sharper ache than any blade he's ever taken to the ribs.

It sounds weak. soft. pathetic, even.

something he would’ve scoffed at not long ago. something he might’ve called pitiful in someone else.

but it’s so very real.

because he’s been shot. stabbed. left in the dirt with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the sting of his own failures. he’s taken hits that shattered bone. fought through pain so sharp it made the edges of the world go white and still, none of it ever made him feel this exposed.

this unguarded. like someone cracked open his chest and left everything on display. every nerve, every feeling he never wanted to name. It’s not physical pain that unsettles him. he can handle pain. he can't handle the fact that you matter though.

somewhere along the way of all those thoughts, the pencil made its way into his hand. he doesn’t remember reaching for it. doesn’t remember curling his fingers around it. but it’s there now, resting lightly between calloused fingers, like it always does. he’s on autopilot. which is already a bad sign.

he tells himself to get it together. to sketch something practical. a bird’s wingspan. a new gauntlet modification. the layout of a building if he has to. something tactical. something with purpose.

but when the pencil meets the paper, it doesn’t obey. his hand moves on its own. long, confident strokes, trained muscle memory. a familiar line forms. then another. the slope of a jaw. the curve of a mouth. the arch of an eyebrow that always seems to rise whenever you’re being particularly annoying. and then, worst of all, the eyes. not just generic ones. yours. the ones that squint when you’re holding back a laugh. and the ones that widen when you taste something you really love, so much so that you’d swear it’s life-changing.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s already done.

he scowls, swears under his breath in arabic, and slams the sketchbook shut. the sound is loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, which seems to speed up at the thought of you. he tosses the pencil down with too much force. it rolls across the desk, hits the edge, falls. he lets it.

damian leans back in the chair and stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands pressed together. His arms are stiff. His spine aches. His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside him clawing to be let out.

he tells himself- no, commands himself to draw something else. anything else. a skyline. a katana. the curve of a rooftop edge, the silhouette of a bat against the moon, the outline of a fucking grapefruit. this time he doesn't care about drawing something tactical or practical. he just needs to get you out of his mind, or try to.

he should draw something safe. neutral. objective. Something that proves he is in control of himself and his brain and his hands. something that proves he is not thinking about you.

but.

of course.

you’re already in his head.

you’ve moved in and brought noise with you.

not actual noise. not your voice. he knows that much. he hasn’t quite crossed the line into hearing things that aren’t there. at least, not yet. but with how things are going, he wouldn’t be surprised if that happened soon.

you’re probably asleep right now, tucked away somewhere on the other side of the city, curled under a blanket with half your face smashed into a pillow. the same pillow you shamelessly drool on, though you’d deny it if anyone called you out.

he knows how you sleep and how you sprawl. it's in the way that looks like your limbs forgot they belonged to one body. arms flung this way, legs tangled that way, taking up every inch of the bed.

he’s seen it.

on movie nights you insisted on. when your eyes got heavy halfway through some old black-and-white film you were adamant on watching. you’d knock out leaning against him. mouth open, breathing slow, completely unaware of what you were doing to him. and he let you. sat there like a statue, an idiot statue. but letting you rest against him was a test he refused to fail. he could’ve nudged you off. could’ve cleared his throat, shifted away.

but he didn’t.

not once.

he told himself he didn’t care.

he told himself it meant nothing.

but that was a lie.

and he hasn’t stopped lying since.

back to the sketch. or the lack thereof. he's starting over.

he doesn’t bother picking up the pencil that rolled off the desk. just lets it stay there on the floor, like it’s exiled. maybe it deserved it for betraying him by drawing you in the first place.

instead, he grabs another.

the graphite scratches quiet across the page.

the first line is nothing. a curve, shapeless and vague. could be the edge of a rooftop. the arc of a blade. the bend of a cat’s back mid-pounce. it doesn’t matter. he keeps going. another line. then another. his hand moves on instinct, not intention.

It should be nothing. just muscle memory. just form and technique.

but it’s not. he knows where this is heading.

his wrist keeps moving. thoughtlessly. confidently. it seems his fingers have a map his mind hasn’t seen yet. and by the time he registers what he’s doing and really, truly looks down, it’s too late.

there’s your jawline.

crisp and familiar.

Your cheekbones begin to form, graceful and sloped in that way he won't admit he’s spent time analyzing. the bridge of your nose is there now, and worse, his hand has already started filling in the curve of your lips. he’s not even halfway done and his body has betrayed him once more. his heart beating fast and loud and infuriatingly alive.

no. no, no, no.

this is not happening. he’s not doing this. he cannot be doing this.

and yet, he is. he is doing this.

his grip tightens around the new pencil. of course, this one ends up turning on him too.

his stomach twists, it’s punishing him for something he hasn’t come to terms with yet. His shoulders lock out of habit, discipline digging in where softness tries to get through.

it’s really annoying.

his body already made a decision his mind hasn’t agreed to. he's feeling like every hour he spent learning control, precision, resistance-- every scar, every strike, every silence, meant nothing the second he laid eyes on you.

He shuts the cover of the sketchbook gently before he even finishes the drawing. the lines are still half-formed, the image incomplete, but he can’t bring himself to keep going. his hand stills, hovering for a moment like maybe he’ll change his mind and re-open the book, but he doesn’t. the pencil drops beside his sketchbook with a soft, final sort of sound.

he sits there thinking about how there’s something unkind about it. about what's happening to him. about what he's feeling. that even now, even with everything he knows about control, about restraint, about keeping his distance, his hands still choose you despite him not wanting them too.

maybe it’s karma. he wouldn’t be surprised. that would make sense, wouldn’t it? he’s not naive enough to think he’s owed peace, or grace, or anything soft. he can admit he’s made mistakes, though even that word feels too gentle, too forgiving.

“mistake” sounds like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. he wouldn't consider what he's done as "mistakes". they’re not mistakes. they’re choices. intentional. calculated. final. blood on his hands that no amount of training, time, or water can wash off. every decision, every action, feels etched into him in a way that no word can fully capture.

and then there’s the thought. an ugly, persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that won’t shut up: what would you think if you knew everything? If you knew the full measure of his deeds, the cold precision with which he carried out his orders, the blood and ruin left in his wake and also the way he’s thinking about you right now.

would you recoil in horror? Would you look at him with disgust, seeing in him a monster too far gone to be redeemed? the idea gnaws at him, twisting his insides until it feels like his stomach has tied itself in knots.

Why is he terrified of what you’d think? why would he care if you see him as a monster? Why is it that, at the same time, he thinks about the fact that you make him forget all of it? even if it’s just for a second. the way his mind turns to you, even when he knows he has no right to feel this way.

the guilt presses down hard, suffocating. But what hurts more is the disgust. the way he can’t stand the idea that he’s even capable of feeling this about you.

he tells himself he deserves every ounce of this self-reproach. he’s not innocent, not in the slightest. but despite all the harsh logic and unyielding discipline he’s clung to, there’s a softness in his heart that makes him long for redemption, or perhaps even forgiveness. every heartbeat is a reminder of his past, echoing the silent question: Could you ever see beyond the sins of his past to something different?

Would you? He knows you. or at least he thinks he does.

He knows the softness of your expressions. the curve of your smile. the light in your eyes when you’re teasing him. the exact tilt of your head when you laugh, and the way your eyes crease at the corners. he remembers everything.

and all of it has bled onto the pages of his sketchbook. line by stupid line.

there’s a dull throb behind his eyes. he blinks, finally, and swallows hard around nothing.

What the hell is happening to him? deep down he knows, but he won't accept it. so for now, he'll play the fool.

his body feels wrong. slow. off-balance. his thoughts are moving faster than his skin can keep up with. It's like he’s chasing something in a dream and keeps waking up just before he catches it.

And you are the center of that dissonance.

he shouldn't crave any of this. not for warmth that asks nothing of him. not for feelings that arrive uninvited. quiet, persistent things that slip beneath his guard in the dead of night and make a home out of the places he swore were impenetrable.

they settle in his chest like they’ve always belonged. but they can’t. because Damian Wayne doesn’t fall apart. he doesn’t lose focus. he can't afford to. he can't want something just because it makes him feel good.

He was trained before he knew what it meant to choose anything for himself. before he had a chance to want anything. and yet here he is, wanting. but at the same time not wanting to want. and it’s unbearable. he's so very conflicted.

there’s no margin for any of that in his bloodline. no one trained him to sit still with his feelings. no one handed him the cure for this kind of ache. there were no lessons on vulnerability. only on how to strike first, how to read a threat before it made itself known, how to shut every door that made him human. he was taught to break bones, not fall in love. he certainly wasn't taught how to navigate the tremble in his hands when he sees your name on his phone screen.

this thing he's experiencing takes up too much room inside him. this ache in his chest that spikes every time he sees you talking to someone else. this frustration that coils in his stomach when he can’t seem to find the right words to say to you.

no one gave him a blueprint for this.

and he never asked for one.

but now he thinks maybe he should’ve. despite whatever answer he would've gotten.

because whatever this is, this thing with your face tangled in every corner, this thing with your name written all over it, is not fading. not blurring. not leaving like it should. it’s staying.

He's angry. at you. at himself. at whatever cruel, laughing god decided this was his fate. why the hell is he here. sitting in the dark with a sketchbook on his desk that he closed after whatever just happened and your face living in every corner of his skull?

he forces his eyes shut. breathes in through his nose, slow and deliberate, he wants to believe discipline alone might save him from whatever the hell this is. He sits motionless for a beat, jaw tight, spine stiff, a soldier awaiting orders. maybe if he holds still enough, it’ll all fall away.

because he is not some moonstruck teenager. He does not sit around sighing at ceilings like an idiot with a crush in some poorly written teen drama.

his childhood was silence where there should’ve been comfort, order where there should’ve been chaos, expectation where there should’ve been choice. He was built to survive, not to feel. everything he’s ever felt, he’s learned to hide. emotions are weaknesses. vulnerabilities. and he’s always kept his locked away, sealed tight like volatile gas behind reinforced glass. out of reach. out of sight. contained.

he tells himself once more that he shouldn’t be feeling any of this.

He hates how much he does.

this entire spiral feels beneath him. It’s inefficient. irrational. weak. there is no function to this emotion. It doesn’t sharpen his aim. It doesn’t enhance his reflexes. It clutters his thoughts, derails his focus. and he prides himself on focus. discipline. efficiency. his brain has always been a fortress. impenetrable. calculated. he trains harder, pushes longer, endures more than anyone around him. because he has to. because he always has.

His breathing stumbles, uneven, shallow. and it disgusts him. he presses his fingertips to his temple like he could physically push the thoughts out of his skull. his other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails digging into his palm. he can feel the pulse in his jaw. fast. reluctant. he’s getting a headache, and he can’t even sketch his way out of it this time.

he tips his head back, eyes open now, staring at the ornate ceiling of his room like it might offer some sort of answer. It doesn’t. It never has. the silence in Wayne Manor is heavy and constant, stretching through the halls like a second atmosphere. He’s used to it. but tonight, it feels suffocating.

there’s no solution in the ceiling. no clarity in the walls. only this feeling. this wild, rising pressure inside him that he doesn’t have the words for.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and ragged.

He lets the question hang in the silence. no answers come, only the steady pulse of his own breath and the distant city sounds bleeding through the windows.

[bitters-n-sweets]

seize the moment — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader When a recurring patient returns to the ER after a medical scare, Robby is given another chance to finally ask her to stop running from what they yearned for

warnings: reader has a recurring illness that is unpredictable—i'm thinking epilepsy, but i have no history in medicine to fully dive in and accurately portray that in the fic, again, everything is googled. angst with happy ending. a/n: idk why writing robby is a challenge for me :)))) masterlist

[flashback]

"We can't do this, Robby," you say, "I can't do this to you."

"You're not doing anything, okay? I want to be here. With you."

"You don't know what you want!" You yell, "You have no idea, Robby. This will eat you alive—the anxiety, the worry, the helplessness—it will break you down, and you’ll hate me for it."

"And label me selfish," You bite back a sob, "but I really don't want you to hate me that way. Anyone but you. I'm sorry."

Robby didn't get a chance to say anything, you'd left him.

[present day]

Robby sighs, eyes dragging over the whiteboard. Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but something feels off. The air’s heavy. His skin itches with a bad feeling he can’t shake.

Then the doors slam open.

"We’ve got a known seizure patient!" the EMT calls. "Post-ictal when we found her—had another in transit, two minutes, generalized. She’s still unconscious."

Robby’s head snaps up. He jogs toward the gurney—and stops cold.

"Fuck," he mutters, already moving again. "Trauma Five."

Dana catches sight of her. "Is it—?"

"Yeah," Robby breathes. "It’s her."

It's been four months since Robby last saw you. That last time, you’d had another episode, but he was buried in patients and never made it to your bedside before you were discharged. He knows you’ve been avoiding him — ever since you decided it was better to end things before either of you got in too deep.

Robby’s known you since his early years of residency. It was your first episode, and though he wasn’t the one to take your case, he sat beside you anyway — waited until you woke up, and offered you hospital pudding, the only decent food in the place. He didn’t know why he stayed, not really, but when your eyes finally opened and he saw how scared you were, unsure of where you were or what had happened, he was glad he had. And so were you.

You're stable. Vitals steady. There's nothing to worry about now — you just have to wake up. And Robby's been at your side the whole time, not moving an inch. He’s making sure you don’t slip away this time. Not again.

Robby sighs, his hand wrapped gently around yours. He remembers when the two of you first started flirting — how you used to call him the handsome doctor with sad eyes, and how he’d call you sweetheart. Because you were. Still are, at least to him.

There were moments when he nearly broke — when the weight of it all pressed too hard, when he couldn’t see the point, couldn’t see the light. He was ready to quit, ready to fuck all, walk out of this hellhole and never look back. But then he'd go to see you. And somehow, you were always there—willing to listen, to take in all his mess, his flaws.

Even with everything you were going through, you still smiled. Still lit up the room. You were his light. You still are.

Then Robby finally worked up the nerve to ask you out. Years later. You were—unfortunately—hospitalized again, but the silver lining was that it gave him the chance to ask if you’d be his girlfriend. You said yes, gleefully.

The two of you went on a few dates, sweet and slowly getting to know each other. But after a few months, reality started to sink in. You realized Robby couldn’t have a normal relationship with you. Your condition wouldn’t allow it — no roller coasters, no jump-scare horror movies, no late-night parties that bled into sunrise. None of the reckless, youthful things a guy his age was supposed to enjoy.

And Robby said he didn’t care. Said he didn’t mind missing out. But you’d heard him turn down one too many party invitations, brush off plans with friends like they were nothing.

You told him to go, insisted you were fine on your own. But he always chose you instead. Always.

You were grateful, truly. But the guilt sat heavy in your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder if one day, he’d start to resent you for it.

That's when you broke up with him.

Robby lifts his head when he feels the faint twitch of your fingers. You’re stirring, slowly adjusting to the harsh hospital lighting as a groan escapes your throat.

"Hey," Robby calls out gently, "How are you feeling?"

You shift and can finally see who's hovering above you. The earthy, woody smell lets you know it's Robby right away. "Hey Robby."

"Hey sweetheart."

You want to scold him for calling you that, but you're still tired to do so.

"I'm here." He whispers.

And you look at him—really look at him—and wonder why he’s still doing this. Why he won’t let himself be happy. There are plenty of women out there who could give him everything he deserves. A simple life, a normal one. The kind that doesn’t come with unnecessary emergency room visits and fear tucked beneath every smile.

But he’s here. Still choosing you.

"You've been avoiding me."

"That, I have." You smile, guilty.

"And I'm still here for you. Always will."

"Robby—"

"Rest." He kisses your temple. "You're still recovering. We'll talk about this later."

You sigh as he steps out.

You're dischared a few hours later, and you try to sneak out without Robby catching you, but of course that's impossible.

As soon as you’re done changing and ease the door open, you bump right into a solid chest, and you hold your breath, knowing it's Robby. You don’t even have to look up to know his arms are crossed.

"Just gonna leave again?" He asks, visibly upset.

You wince and glance up at him, already forming some half-hearted excuse. "I didn’t want to make a scene."

"This isn’t a scene," he says. "This is me trying to talk to you. Something you’ve been avoiding for months."

You sigh and glance away, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. "Robby, don’t—"

"No. You don’t get to do that again," he cuts in, softer than you expect, but firm. "You don’t get to almost die, make me sit here all night thinking I’m going to lose you, and then walk out like none of it happened."

Your throat tightens. "It’s not fair to you."

"And you think just standing back, watching you go through this alone, not being able to hold you after—it’s somehow better?" His voice cracks. "You’re the reason I lose sleep, and the only thing that makes any of this feel worth it. That’s what you are to me."

You swallow hard, your gaze locked with his.

"Why won't you let yourself be happy?" Robby asks, and it hits you like a gut punch—for a second, you almost laugh at the irony.

You let out a breath. A long, shaky thing that trembles in your chest.

"It’s not that I don’t want to be happy," you say quietly. "I just… I don’t want you to end up hating me."

Robby flinches like the words hit harder than he expected.

You press on, voice barely holding steady. "People don’t stay. They try, at first. They say it doesn’t matter. That they can handle it. But then it gets hard—too hard. And they leave. And I get it, I really do. But I can’t watch you do that. I don’t think I’d survive it."

He’s silent for a moment, taking in everything you've said.

"I’m not them," he says. "I’ve seen what this looks like. The good days, the terrifying ones. I’ve been here for all of it. And I didn’t stay out of pity, or because I felt obligated—I stayed because I wanted to. Because I care about you in a way that doesn’t vanish when things get hard."

"So let me take care of you, okay?" His forehead nearly touches yours. "Let me be the one who’s there after nights like this. The one who holds you when it’s hard. I’m not here for the easy parts. I’m here for all of it."

"Are you sure?" Your eyes blur with tears, but you don’t look away. "Because I really don't want you to regret this—"

"Oh my god—"

Robby can't take it anymore and pulls you to him. The kiss is slow, making up for years of aching and near-misses. His hand cradles the back of your neck like you might vanish if he lets go, and you press closer, grounding yourself in him.

When you finally part, you're both a little breathless, foreheads touching.

"I’d rather fight for you than ever wonder what it would’ve been like to love you all the way."

[girthgrudgefear]

pope with stripper!reader that baz paid to give him a private dance one time and he sits through it, the entire routine with his hands balled into fists and resting against his thighs. and even though he had a tick in his jaw, gave off the impression like he'd rather be anywhere else, he couldn't help but think about how intoxicating her perfume was, how her skin looked so soft underneath her cute little dancer outfit. of course it helped that her nails were painted the prettiest, shiniest red in her clear pleasers.

the dance is over and as she's picking up her outfit, shed two minutes into the fifteen minute session. he's fishing into his wallet. he approaches her as she presses the top portion of her two-piece over her breasts, hands out the bill for her to take.

"oh, no, that's okay." she says, "baz already paid me- oh." he presses the money into her palm anyway and hesitantly she closes her fingers around it.

"you're sweet. thank you."

she watches him as he goes with a small smile on her face. at least baz told her about the silence and the staring. but all in all, he wasn't the most unsettling customer she's ever had.

~

she never expected to see him again but he comes in the following week, alone. had his hands in his pockets as he ambled through the dimly-lit neon walkways of the club.

she found him near the stage, looking past the dancer twirling next to the pole atop the scuffed-surface when she approaches.

"you're back!" she says with a type of warmth and excitement that he isn't used to hearing, not about him. her hand closes around his forearm (and he can feel her rubbing them slightly, admiring his form) and she's pulling him along, leading him back to one of the rooms.

again, two minutes in and her clothes are on the floor, a pretty one piece made up of elaborate lace and string.

and she says, 'touch me.' not 'you can touch me,' which is something way different than what pope is used to, a command rather than a light suggestion. so he does, keeps it kosher at first, and she laughs at him, tells him he's cute. then she puts her hands on his wrists, guides them to her waist, and he feels like a teenager again the way his interest stirs.

they don't get far. pope knows the rules; heavy petting allowed, a handjob or blowjob allowed, penetration if he pays for a private suite but it's at the discretion of the dancer. and she does try, her hand on the belt of his jeans, but he stops her. she redirects her attention elsewhere, straddles his lap and rolls her hips at the rhythm of the song, smooths her hands down his arms and back.

"i'm sorry if i was too pushy..." she says afterward, trying to fix the strings that make up her outfit before she steps back into it. pope shakes his head.

"it's not that." he says. "i just didn't think we had enough time." he's so matter-of-fact that she can't help but giggle.

and again he slides her the money plus the tip, but she knows just from looking at the roll of bills that it's way too much. she tries to stop him, he presses the money into her palm, and he waits for her to get dressed before he leaves.

~

the third time happens in a similar fashion, but it's the fourth time that something changes.

"you just missed her." one of the girls, misty, one of craig's favorites, told him as he made his way towards the stage. "probably still waiting for her ride." she suggests helpfully, but pope is annoyed, wondering in the back of his head if she makes a habit of telling all of your customers your whereabouts.

and true to her word, he finds her waiting near the alley next to the club, which he also hates.

"you don't have a car?" he asks, noting the uber app open on her phone.

"oh! hey!" she greets him, even though he appeared behind her so suddenly she damn near jumped out of her skin hearing his voice. "um, no. i just never got around to getting one when i moved out here, and i live so close sometimes that i usually just walk, but... my feet hurt and it's kind of late." she says.

"cancel it. i can give you a ride." he leaves no room for argument, already walking towards his truck. and she's quick to do what he asks, slides into the passenger seat from the door he's holding open for her.

the drive to her house is ten minutes, which means she definitely should not be walking these distances alone at night. nor should she be standing outside of the club at night waiting for a rideshare, either.

so before he's thinking, before the car fully stops outside of her townhouse, he's telling her to take his number down, send him her schedule so that he can pick her up and drop her off when she's finished.

again, he leaves no room for argument. asks when she works next, and she damn near whispers it when she says, 'um, tomorrow starting at 7. i'll be off at 3.'

"i'll come get you at 6:30."

he watches her enter her house, waits for it to close behind her before he pulls off.

~

he takes her to and from work wordlessly, but before she leaves his car at night, she asks him to come inside with her.

and there's less than five minutes in between when they walk into her house and when they're on the couch making out.

and she's on top of him, again, straddling his lap, telling him in that raspy voice of her's, "touch me." she grabs him by his wrists, squeezes just slightly as she puts one on her hip, the other over the tank top she's wearing with no bra.

five minutes later and they both have their hands in each other's pants, hers covered in spit, using that and the combined slick of his pre-cum to stroke him off. he has two fingers inside of her, buried between the lace of her thong and her pussy lips. their arousal builds off of each other, plays between them on a feedback loop.

and it takes them no time to cum together, panting into each other's mouths, her high-pitched moans meeting his quiet grunts.

so, yeah. anyway, pope's favorite dancer turns into his girl.

this includes pope's girl asking him once every week or two what color she should paint his nails, and at first he always says 'red' because she looks so fucking good in red. until he figures out she looks good in every color and sometimes he throws in black, blue, even purple.

pope being pleased every time she takes his suggestion (which is every time), and staring for a long time at her matching toes. (yes, he is a foot man. yes, he does fuck her every time she gets a fresh set!)

pope's girl showing pope all of her new outfits for work. pope tracing his fingers over the lace, the strings, marvelling at how her body fills out each two-piece and onesie perfectly. and yes, he fucks her in each one too.

pope realizing how much dedication goes into being a dancer; taking note of her workout routines, diet, even her water intake all aiding her in maintaining her physique for work.

pope dropping her to and from work or leaving his car for her whenever he won't be available to do so. pope subtly trying to probe her about getting a car; asking her if she'd want a little one or a big one, a fast one... until she catches on and shuts him down, saying, 'why would i need a car when i have yours?' and he can't argue with that logic, the way she knows he'll always be there to take care of her, can he?

pope learning to come early enough that there's no possibility of her having to stand outside of the club and wait after he catches a few man lingering near her one day where she stood next to the alley, openly leering at her in her sweatpants and tank top. pope having to break a bone or two that day and nearly getting himself trespassed until she pleads her case to the bouncers.

and a bonus being that none of the cody boys, not baz, hell, not even smurf herself, can tell him shit about being in love with a stripper. especially once they get to know her and realize she's one of the coolest people pope could have ended up with. that she's fun at parties, knows how to mind her business, and can drink craig under the table. and she's smart as hell, especially at math.

oh, and pope stomped out craig so badly before he could even finish saying the word 'stripper,' that they're all afraid that ever happening again.

[likeumeanit9497]

metal | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: y/n got a few new piercings, and when her best friend matt asks to see them, she can't say no

warnings: smut; unprotected p in v (bad); oral (fem receiving); masturbation (m/f); phone sex; dirty talk; 18+

notes: hiii guys. i feel like tumblr's flakiest writer ever coming back on here every few weeks with a one-shot and telling u all im gonna be more consistent but then just not being consistent at all. i just started a new college program and it is taking up so (!!!!) much of my time, so ive been barely able to put any time towards writing for funsies. soooo it might take me a couple weeks to put out one shots (sad) while im in this program, but i swear im doing the best i can. i appreciate u all so so so so much, but matt girls this one is for u <33

With a sigh of relief, I crawled into bed. It was late, and I was exhausted after a long day of dealing with family shit. The only thing that got me through my day listening to my dead-beat father come up with yet another excuse on why he no-showed at my birthday dinner was the promise that, at the end of the day, I would be able to curl up in bed and forget all of my problems. Now that time had come, and I couldn’t wait to turn on some trashy reality TV show and lose myself in their cushioned world for a little while.

Just as I started the show, I felt my phone vibrate beside me. For just a moment I was filled with dread — thinking that I would be once again pulled back into the drama that was my father — but once I saw the name at the top of my screen, I felt my body relax. Matt was calling.

Matt was my best friend, and he had been for years. Him and I met on the first day of school freshman year, and immediately became inseparable. He was the only person in my life who I ever felt comfortable around enough to truly open up to about my problems. There really wasn’t much in my life that he didn’t know, so of course I had told him last night that I was going to see my father, and of course that was why he was calling. Annoyingly, I felt a smile creep up on my face. I hated that I loved how involved he got with my problems; as if they were his own. I would never admit this to anyone, but it really helped because it made me feel less alone.

“Hey you.” I greeted him after accepting the call. “Hey Y/n.” His voice sounded familiar in my ear, and already it calmed the sea of bad thoughts crashing in my mind. “How did today go?” He asked, keeping his tone light. I knew though that if I could see his face, there would be faint lines of concern etched in his forehead. I sighed. “Exactly like I knew it would. He gave me an insincere apology and weak excuse the way he always does.” Matt stayed silent on the other side of the call, allowing me the time to tell him as much as I wanted. His soft breathing through the speaker, however, comforted me and let me know that he was listening.

“He smelled like a distillery and couldn’t stop slurring his words, yet he was still trying to tell me that he hadn’t drank all week.” I heard my voice weaken, and I hated that I felt a lump forming in my throat over the situation. I hated that I cared, and I definitely didn’t want anyone to know that I did; even Matt. But of course, he knew anyways. I heard an empathetic sigh through the phone. “I’m sorry, Y/n.” I rolled my eyes, doing everything I could to keep the tears from falling. “It’s whatever. It’s not like I’m really losing much, but I did tell him that I’m done for good.” I forced my words to come out smooth, like I didn’t care. And I didn’t, not really.

“That must have been really hard, Y/n. I’m really sorry.” Matt’s words were sincere, and they caused the lump in my throat to grow even bigger. I forced out a laugh to keep my other emotions at bay. “Don’t be sorry. It’s better this way. Maybe now I can finally have peace in my crazy life.” There was silence on the line, and I knew it was because Matt wanted me to go deeper about my feelings, but I couldn’t handle much more tonight.

“Anyways,” I started, blinking away my tears and plastering a corny smile on my face as if Matt could even see it, “How have you been? We haven’t talked much over the past week.” At the change of subject, Matt picked up on my disinterest in the topic of my father, and like the best friend he is, transitioned into our new topic smoothly. “I’ve been good, been working a lot but it’s been on exciting things. What have you been up to? You know, besides today?” I chuckled softly.

“Honestly not much besides work. My boss has been really stressed out since the end of last quarter so I’ve been coming into the office early and staying well past five every day.” I paused, staring up at my ceiling trying to think if there was anything exciting I could tell Matt. Suddenly, I remembered that there actually was something that I had done that was more interesting than just working late all week. “Oh! I also got some new piercings last week.” It was Matt’s turn to chuckle.

“Y/n, how the fuck did you fit more piercings on your body?” I laughed. He was right, both of my ears were filled with every piercing imaginable, and I also had my nose, tongue, and belly button pierced. I had already told him that I would never get anymore facial piercings, and I certainly didn’t have much room on my ears to get more, so I understood his confusion entirely. “Do you want to guess where they are?” I teased, feeling relieved to have something to talk about that didn’t make be absolutely miserable for once. “Sure,” I heard what sounded like a blanket rubbing against the speaker, and I assumed that Matt was now getting comfortable in bed, also seemingly enjoying the light-hearted conversation, “But can I get some hints?”

“Sure,” I replied, “You can ask me three questions.” I heard him smile through the phone. “Okay…” There was a pause as he came up with his first question. “How many did you get?” Without hesitation, I was able to respond. “I got three.” There was another pause, and then. “Are two of them a part of a pair?” I laughed at Matt’s not-so-subtle guess. I had told him months ago that I had been wanting to get a certain pair of piercings for a while, and I knew he was thinking of that exact conversation. “Yes they are.” I replied, and there was a dramatic gasp on the line. “Ouch, you actually got your nipples pierced?” His voice was laced with playful concern, and something else. Intrigue?

“Okay okay, you got two out of the three. One more question left.” I encouraged him. If he was shocked about my nipple piercings, I couldn’t wait to hear his reaction to the third. He was silent again for a moment, surely confused by the third piercing. Nipple piercings weren’t that outlandish for me, and he knew that, but this last one is sure to blow his mind. “Oh god, I don’t know. Is it another body piercing?” His tone sounded so helpless, and I knew he really didn’t have a clue. “It is, yes.” I did my best to contain my laughter at this point, not wanting to give it away.

“Is it a second belly button piercing?” The guess was weak, and by the tone of his voice he knew it. “Nope.” I replied, biting my nails in anticipation. He was once again silent on the phone, and I knew he was officially running out of ideas. After a moment, I decided to give him one last hint. “Think lower.”

A new silence poured from the phone. Before, there was the silence of deep thought. Now, there was a heavier silence that let me know he finally put it together in his head. Below your belly button, there aren’t many places you can get pierced. He knew that just as much as I did. But I didn’t know if his silence meant he was just shocked, or if he was genuinely disappointed in me. For the first time since becoming friends with Matt, I felt nervous that maybe I had gone too far.

“You’re serious?” He asked, finally breaking his silence, and I couldn’t help but release a short, nervous laugh. “Yeah. Why? Did I just delve too far into the daddy-issues stereotype?” I tried to keep my tone humorous, but inside I was actually worried that was true. Did he think I was weird now? Or did the fact that I had a piece of metal pierced atop my bundle of nerves immediately turn me into some dirty whore in his eyes?

“No! Jesus, no Y/n.” His rushed words put a pause on my spiralling thoughts, and I felt myself relax slightly. “It’s just,” In that moment, I wished that I could see his face. At least then I would have better odds of being able to read him instead of just waiting helplessly on the other side of the phone. He was struggling to find the words he wanted to say, and in my mind that meant he was getting ready to give me some sort of lecture. It wasn’t something that he was in the habit of doing, but I had also never done anything as shocking as this before. I began to prepare myself for this lecture, and come up with explanations and excuses for what I had done, when his hesitant words stopped me in my tracks.

“Can I see them?”

I stared at my phone for a second, unsure if I was just hearing things. “You want to see them?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, for clarification’s sake. I was shocked. Even with how close Matt and I are, we had never ever seen each other naked. In fact, there had been no physical intimacy between us other than platonic cuddles every once in a while. I would be lying, though, if I denied ever having moments of weakness. There had been times, when we would have sleepovers after tough days and the heat of Matt’s comforting body pressed against me, where I had wanted to throw all logic aside and press my lips to his. But I never would have done it. Matt wasn’t exactly known for his boldness, and I feared that my bad habit of being spontaneous would absolutely destroy our friendship. But now, he had me questioning all of that.

“I’m curious.” He replied, his tone nonchalant. I still couldn’t tell if he was being serious, and I felt like a deer in headlights. Just as I was about to tell him to stop fucking around, my screen lit up with a Facetime call from Matt. My stomach did a flip. “You gonna pick up?” His voice made me jump, but I cleared my throat and hit accept.

Suddenly, Matt’s face filled my screen. He was in his bed, the only light in his room seeming to come from a faint source; likely his computer screen. His face was so familiar, and the smile he sent me so comforting, that I immediately felt more at ease than I felt before. “Hey.” He said gently, and I laughed at the ridiculousness of this moment. “Hey” I replied before shifting my position in bed nervously. “So you were serious?” I asked awkwardly, and he nodded. “If you’re okay with it, obviously.” I took a deep breath. I was okay with it, of course, but it was just so out of the norm for us that I felt shell shocked.

“I’ll show you nipples first.” I said, sitting up in my bed before grabbing the bottom hem of my oversized t-shirt. I positioned my phone in front of my still-clothed chest, and watched his face on the screen. He laid naturally in bed, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but the way his dilated blue eyes were glued to the screen I could tell that he was feeling the same kind of anticipation that I was. Slowly, I finally lifted my shirt up over my chest; allowing him a full view of my new piercings.

I intentionally left the shirt up to block my own vision, because I couldn’t handle watching him stare at my tits for the first time. In the dark, all I heard was silence for what felt like forever, and I got worried that I had somehow lost him. Cautiously, I pulled my t-shirt away from my eyes, and glanced at him on the screen. He was staring intently; I could see his eyes move from one tit to the other every few seconds, and there was a slight grin across his face. “Wow.” He said finally, still taking them in. “Those are sick piercings.” I stifled a laugh at the fact that he was still trying to act like it was all just about the piercings, and that there weren’t two tits attached to the metal. “Thanks.” I replied, a small chuckle still evident in my voice.

I allowed him a few more seconds of shameless staring before speaking again. “You ready for the third?” I watched as he blinked a few times and took a deep breath. “I can’t wait.” He replied, causing my stomach to do another flip. I brought the phone back up to my face as I laid back down, smiling at him nervously as I pulled my comforter off my lower body. I was only wearing a pair of panties, so I already felt shy when I positioned my phone in between my legs. I used the front camera still, hoping that it would allow him a better view, but hated that you could still see the lower part of my face.

Matt hadn’t moved in his bed since I looked at him last. In fact, it almost looked like his image was frozen. His eyes were still glued to the screen, and he seemed to be barely blinking; as if he was scared that if he did, he would miss it entirely. “Okay, ready?” I asked, using the hand that wasn’t holding the phone steady to grab onto the side of my panties. Even in the almost-dark of his room, I could see him gulp before nodding his head. “Ready.” He replied.

Slowly, I hooked a finger under my panties, and pulled them to the side. In the blink of an eye, all of me had been revealed to Matt through a screen inches away from my core. My eyes veered back and forth from myself in the phone and Matt’s expression. I could see the shiny metal glitter against my pink clit, and watched as Matt visibly struggled to keep his composure. Neither of us spoke for a moment, and I felt myself begin to tremble under his shameless stare. I grew nervous, then, that my body would begin to give away how suddenly aroused I became under his eyes. My core was flooding with heat, and I knew that I was beginning to grow slick with my wetness.

“Does it hurt?” He finally spoke, but his voice had changed drastically since I had last heard it. It had dropped nearly a whole octave, and there was a sort of breathlessness to it that was foreign to me. It was the voice of arousal, and that knowledge was enough to drive me crazy. “N-no, it doesn’t,” I replied, using all the strength in me to not squeeze my legs together to relieve some of the pressure flooding my core. “It’s been a week, and these sorts of piercings heal really quick surprisingly. I can touch it and everything.” My last sentence fell from my mouth thoughtlessly, and I immediately felt my cheeks grow hot at my accidental boldness. That didn’t last long, though, because Matt’s next words pulled all that heat right back to where it was before.

“So touch it then.”

It was like all the sense was knocked out of me from his words. I would have thought that my instinct would have been to laugh and roll my eyes before telling Matt to knock it off, but the seriousness of his tone, the sharp blue of his piercing eyes, and gruffness of his voice caused my brain to shut off. Immediately, my hand traveled to my bud, where I began to slowly play with the metal. Although I had been telling the truth when I told Matt that it was fully healed, I hadn’t yet touched myself in this way since getting it pierced, and the new sensation immediately sent pleasurable shock waves through my body. As I began to slowly rub my clit, the metal added a new level of pressure to the nerves that — combined with the adrenaline that came from doing this in front of my best friend for the first time — caused me to throw my head back against my pillows.

“Tell me how it feels.” Matt’s deep voice filled the space around me in a way that made me feel even more erotic, and I released a soft moan. “I-It feels good.” I replied breathlessly, my fingers beginning to move quicker as I squeezed my eyes shut in pleasure. “Better than before?” His question came out slightly choppy, and through the phone speaker I heard the rhythmic shuffling of his comforter. “Y-yes. Much better.” I managed to reply, the thought of what he was doing to himself on the other side of the screen pushing me closer to the edge.

“Look at me.” He commanded, and without hesitation I lifted my head up; looking at him through the screen. He could only see the lower half of my face, but I could see all of his. As I continued toying with myself, I watched him through fluttering eyelashes. Although his face had not changed much — besides the darkening of his pupils and the faint accumulation of sweat on his brow — the repetitive movement of his bicep at the corner of the screen told me everything that I needed to know. “You look so good.” He complimented me, his voice low and gravelly. I moaned in response, rolling my hips slowly as I began to grow antsy with a need that I knew I couldn’t fulfill myself.

The pleasure was growing like a balloon deep inside of me, but my own fingers weren’t enough to reach it. Not now; not when I have a beautiful man that I trust more than anyone else watching me with that dangerously erotic gaze. Just like Matt knows everything about me, I know everything about him. And so I know that, in this moment, he wants the same thing that I do. That’s why I didn’t feel any unease or hesitation when I drew my fingers away from my clit, ran them achingly slow along the rest of my heat, and spoke.

“Please come over Matt.”

It was a request that I had made to him countless times. Those times I was usually close to tears after a long day of dealing with the shitty cards I had been handed in the family department. I needed him then, like I need him now. In those times he never ever hesitated, and this time was no different. In one swift motion, I watched through the screen as Matt lifted himself out of his bed, threw on a t-shirt, and grabbed his keys off the bedside table. “I’ll be there in ten.” Just like my request, his response was the same as always. As I told him to drive safe before hanging up the call, I felt my body vibrate in a way it never had before. I pulled my hand out of my panties and waited in desperate anticipation for the familiar sound of his car pulling into my driveway.

𓆩☆𓆪

Matt arrived at my place in eight minutes, and as soon as I saw his headlights through my window, I sprung out of bed and raced to the door. There was no nervousness, no reluctancy, no questioning whether or not we were making a big mistake; all I knew was that I needed his hands on my burning skin desperately.

I flung the door open before he even had a chance to knock, but Matt didn’t hesitate before pulling me into him and engulfing my mouth with his own. Although we had never kissed before, it wasn’t shock that I felt in that moment; it was the melting satisfaction of familiarity. I practically collapsed in his arms as his mouth moved against mine as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, and relished in the feeling of his hands travelling wildly across my aching body at last.

As he held me gently against the wall, I felt his hardened member press against my core, and I shuddered in pleasurable frustration. In that moment, I could have lost all self control — pulled his pants and boxers down in one movement and slipped his cock into my aching core right then and there — if he hadn’t grabbed onto my ass and lifted me off of the ground. Without removing his lips from mine, he carried me past my entrance way and all the way into my dark bedroom as if he had memorized every square inch of my place.

As he continued to kiss me with hungry desire, he paradoxically draped my body gently against my bed. Leaning over me, his mouth refused to leave mine and his tongue begged me for entrance. I obliged, and our tongues swirled together with comfort; as if they were old friends. The sound of our heavy breathing filled my head, and I ran my hands along his body; allowing myself to feel him in a way I never had before. Each part of him felt familiar — his back, his arms, his stomach — but each new part of him I touched set off sparks of electricity under my fingertips. This was real, and this was good.

It was only after I began toying with the waistband of his pants, and he the hem of my shirt, that our lips separated and we really looked at each other since the moment he arrived. Both of our chests were heaving as we tried to catch our breath, and I gazed up at his darkened eyes for what felt like forever, until a soft smile crept onto his swollen lips. “Hi.” He said, and I released a short laugh realizing that this was the first word either one of us had said to the other since hanging up the Facetime call. “Hey.” I replied, a smile matching his now etched onto my face.

“Can I take this off?” He tugged on the bottom of my t-shirt, and I nodded. “Please.” I replied, feeling no shame in my clear desperation. Matt obliged, pulling the shirt up over my head and exposing the tits he had seen on Facetime not long before. There was a pause, and for the first time since we started all this I felt briefly insecure. That is, until I looked up to his face and saw his jaw physically dropped in awe. He looked like he had fallen into some sort of trance, and mindlessly brought his two gentle hands toward my hardened, pierced nipples. He ran a soft thumb against each piercing, and I hissed at the deliciously taunting sensation.

“Do these ones hurt at all?” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but his eyes never left my chest. “These ones do a little, yeah.” I replied, to which his eyes finally fluttered up to my face with slight concern. “But it’s really not that bad.” I added, reassuring him out of fear that he might suddenly not want to continue. This seemed to help, as his eyes made their way back to my chest before his body suddenly began tilting forward. He leaned above my chest, really only centimetres away, and I watched as he placed two small, unbelievably gentle kisses against each hardened nipple. The ecstasy I felt in that moment caused me to release a soft moan, and goosebumps spread across my skin like wildfire, and I suddenly realized that I needed him more than ever.

As if reading my mind, his mouth then began moving slowly down my writhing body. He took his time on my sternum, then the skin below my belly button, then my hip bones, and I felt like I could explode. My hands flew to his hair and I subconsciously tugged at its base in decadent frustration. And then slowly, so, so, slowly, Matt began dragging my soaked panties down my legs. I felt like I could crumble under his gaze, but his eyes never left my newly exposed core. Blinking ever so slowly, he dropped to his knees and grabbed my shaky legs to part them. Once he did, I watched as he groaned softly at what he saw.

I knew without having to look that I was literally dripping from arousal, and that hunch was confirmed when Matt took one finger and dragged it along my slit; collecting the overabundance of fluid. He didn’t even take his eyes off of my centre, he just brought his wet finger to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it; so transfixed by what he saw in front of him that he didn’t even care to make a scene of tasting me for the first time. I had never felt more glorious than I did in that moment, and it was so overwhelming that I could have came just from sight alone.

Slowly, Matt’s mouth inched closer and closer to my clit, before he carefully wrapped his lips around it. Upon the first contact of his warm tongue playing with the cool metal of my piercing, I was hit with a powerful wave of pleasure that shook my whole body. As he picked up speed, swirling and sucking my bundle of nerves, I couldn’t control the sounds that fell from my lips. Moans of pleasure, pain, and anticipation filled the room, and they only seemed to draw similar ones from Matt.

Matt slid two fingers into me with ease, and began pumping them in and out in rhythm with the movements of his tongue. His fingers were curled up to just the place I needed them to be, and I felt what was left of my sanity begin to crumble as I approached an orgasm. The orgasm that I had been desperately needing since our Facetime call. It’s impending presence had taken control of my mind for what felt like forever, and now it was finally threatening to take control of my entire body. Yet, still, I needed more.

Quickly, before the first waves could crash, I pulled Matt’s face away. Immediately, his blissed-out expression quickly changed to one of concern, but before he had the chance to speak, my desperate voice filled the room. “Please Matt, I want to cum with you.” His features softened before understanding flashed in his eyes. Without saying a word, he stood up and began unzipping his pants. I waited in anticipation, watching with hungry eyes as his painfully hard member sprung free from his boxers. Once he had fully discarded his clothes, he leaned down and kissed me so deeply that I saw stars. His mouth tasted like me, and I couldn’t help but slip my tongue past his lips; intoxicated by the combination of me and him on my tastebuds.

I felt his naked member press against my core and I shuddered from pure lust. I was so engulfed in the intensity that I was afraid I would fall into pieces as soon as he slid into me. Breaking the kiss, Matt straightened himself out and grabbed my legs before placing them on either side of his waist. The two pieces of us that needed each other the most right now were just inches from one another. My eyes fell between my legs, and I watched in euphoric awe as Matt grabbed his swollen member, lined it up with my centre, and slowly pushed into me. His movements were so torturously, deliciously slow, my eyes rolled and my head fell back onto the mattress.

On each slow roll of his hips, his cock slammed into my g-spot and made my vision go spotty. I held onto his flexed shoulders like I was drowning and they were my life raft, and I released harsh guttural moans each time my walls stretched; welcoming him graciously. “Fuck, you feel so good.” Matt’s raspy voice fluttered my stomach, and I opened my eyes to come face-to-face with him. He was staring down at my contorted face with a look filled with nothing but pleasure and adoration. His flushed cheeks and dark pink lips gave him a look that bordered on innocent, but there was a certain hint of hard focus in the depths of his ocean eyes that told me he was feeling as good as I was.

Each time he thrusted into me, the soft crest of his pelvis brushed ever so lightly against my new piercing; granting me a new form of pleasure that I had never experienced before. I had been told by other people that the piercing can be intense during sex, but I had underestimated just how intense it would be. I had no sense of control as Matt’s cock continued to drive into me, and I couldn’t help but vocalize how he was making me feel.

“J-just like that Matt, fuck!”

“Your c-cock fills me s-so go-od!”

“H-harder, please baby!”

At my last statement, Matt showed he was listening by suddenly slamming into me harder and faster than I had ever felt before. He grabbed my legs and wrapped them tightly around his waist, and as I arched my back in pleasure he draped one of his arms around it and used the other to hold my jaw; brushing it lightly with his thumb to ensure me that his gentleness had not completely disappeared. His breathing quickly grew more and more rapid, and deep grunts fell from his mouth every few seconds.

I was hit with shockwaves of pleasure upon each of his thrusts, and I knew that my orgasm was closer than ever. I dug my nails into his back and tightened my legs around him in a desperate and subconscious attempt at getting as close as possible to him, and it was clear that there was no stopping the orgasm that was bubbling inside of me. “G-gonna cum Matt.” I squeaked out, rolling my hips up slightly deepen his thrusts even more. “Good girl, want me to cum with you?” His words were in my ear, and even the dampness that his mouth made against my skin added to my unraveling euphoria. Beyond the point of being able to speak correctly, I simply nodded my head frantically.

As I did, Matt released the deep moan that pushed me over the edge. My orgasm took control of every cell in my body, and I cried out in overwhelming pleasure as it tore me to shreds. I felt my body stiffen so much that I was practically lifting off of the bed, and my walls pulsed intensely as I squirted violently all over Matt. Just then, I felt Matt’s body stiffen above me, and his movements became a whisper as he cursed into my ear. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” His moans rang in my ear with each of his weak thrusts, and I felt his twitching cock paint my walls white as he came undone in unison with me.

Eventually, his body stilled completely, and he rested above me as we both caught our breaths and came down from our highs. His cock slipped out of me, and I immediately felt cold and empty in its absence. After a few moments, Matt lifted his head from my shoulder and gazed at me with a soft smile on his face.

“Damn.”

“I know.”

”I mean, that was-”

“I know.”

We continued to stare at each other, both with matching smiles on our faces, until I dissolved into childish giggles.

“What?” Matt asked, unable to keep himself from laughing as well. “What?” He asked again, nudging my shoulder gently as I giggled. “I mean come on,” I continued to laugh, “That was crazy. Don’t you think it was crazy?” I looked at him, starting to feel the first hints of regret now that it was over and we had to go back to being friends. “I don’t think it was crazy.” He replied simply, before bringing his lips back to mine. This kiss was different than the other ones we shared tonight, though. There was no hunger, no lust. There was just love.

He pulled away after only a few moments, and I looked back at him with what I was sure was confusion all over my face. “I have never felt less crazy in my life than I’ve felt tonight.” Matt continued, and I felt my stomach flutter, “Tonight, everything finally feels right.” I felt a bashful smile form on my lips. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel the exact same way. “So,” I started, unsure of how to maneuver this, “What now?” Matt got up.

“Well,” He began, grabbing his discarded t-shirt and using it to gently clean me up, “It’s late and you’ve had a long day, so I think we should get some sleep.” I propped myself up on my shoulders and watched as he began to clean himself next. “And then when we wake up tomorrow, we’ll go get some breakfast and talk about what we both want.” He walked into my adjacent bathroom and started the shower, the way he has done a thousand times before, before walking back to where I was and helping me off the bed.

Once I was on my feet, he placed another gentle kiss against my lips, and I felt my insides melt at the comfort of his touch. “But if I’m being completely honest, which you know I always am, I think we both already know we want the same thing.” I looked up at him through nervous eyelashes, and had to chew my bottom lip to stifle the massive smile that was threatening to take over my mouth. Matt had no problem showing his huge smile, and he tilted his head quizzically in my silence. “Am I right?” He asked, and instead of responding with words, I leaned up and placed a kiss of my own on his lips.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[erwinsvow]

you can tell when your boyfriend's had a long day because before you even hear the door open, you hear a sigh from the other side. a deep, lung-emptying, filled with burdens you cannot imagine kind of sigh.

it's only going to get worse when he comes in and realizes you fell asleep on the couch again (waiting for him, which he hates, wishes you would sleep in the bed and not strain yourself for him, thinks he doesn't deserve that. he also thinks he doesn't deserve you, but you are very keen on making him stop thinking that way. it'll start working soon, you're sure of it.)

back to the couch. the romance book you'd been reading abandoned on the coffee table, your favorite of jack's blankets spread across your feet, and wearing one of his army green shirts, faded and soft and distinctly smelling like him no matter how many times it's been washed. when he comes in, your eyes are still shut, half-asleep, listening for any signs of a continued sigh—trying to assess in your tired state just how bad the shift had been tonight.

there's light pouring in from the curtains in the living room, though you know the bedroom is pitch-black right now, just like he prefers. and when he sets his backpack down on the counter and sighs again, you don't need to open your eyes to see it in front of you—a tired jack, rubbing his temples and his hair messy from how many times he'd probably run a hand through it after whatever stressful event had plagued his night.

you sometimes wish you could do something to make his job easier—though you can't, and never will.

you open your eyes anyways. sitting up, taking some of the blanket with you, you blink sleepily at his tense form, walking from the kitchen back to you. he does this thing when he comes home, running his hand over your hair and kissing your forehead. it's the only thing you like about when he leaves, knowing that you'll get this when he comes back.

he pulls away from you and holds your head in his hands.

"will you ever start listening to me?" jack, not angry, not upset, just tired and gentle, just like how he always is.

you shake your head, wondering if you'll get a smile, a little bit sad that you didn't. he comes over and sits next to you, and you lean in happily to his touch, face smushed into his chest as he finally relaxes, stretching his back and sinking into the couch.

you used to ask him questions—how was your day? was it bad today? are you okay? but now you've learned you don't need so many words to figure out what's going on with him, that there's tell-tale signs in other things. the sigh is one, the lack of his smile is another. he keeps rubbing your back but he doesn't open his eyes, which is another.

you tilt your head up and press a kiss to his cheek, before resting your head back on his shoulder.

"do you want breakfast?" you ask quietly, but jack shakes his head. you stay there in silence for a few minutes, and then he opens his eyes and takes a look at you for the first time since he's walked in through the door—takes a real look at you. your mussed up hair and his shirt hanging off your shoulder, and if he had to guess, no sleep-shorts under. you usually abstained when you were waiting for him.

socks—because the living room gets cold and despite how much he pays—and however much he would pay, everything he made if that's what it took—to keep his bedroom warm and comfortable for you, you still take to sleeping on the couch every time you're waiting.

staring at your sleepy eyes, and then remembering how his home is littered with signs of you everywhere, from the book and the almost-empty cup of tea on the table, to your water bottle on the kitchen counter and your shoes by the door, he remembers something you had told him once. that you'd sleep on the couch every night if you had to, to be able to say hi to him right when he comes home.

you take an idle hand to his hair, running your fingers through his curls, scratching in that way that you do, the way that makes his eyes shut and muscles relax right away. it's hard to resist—your touch is entrancing. and then for a split second, he thinks about it too much, thinks about you too hard, how you wait for him on the couch and text him goodnight even when you know he can't reply, offer to make him breakfast even when you're half asleep yourself.

you take care of him, without being asked, in the ways that he didn't even realize he needed. and then you curl up next to him and stroke his hair like it's nothing to you, like it's just another day. not realizing how this nothing had quickly turned into his everything, that if he opened his eyes right now, you'd be staring at him with so much love in your eyes that he feels...

you lean in closer, pressing a hand against his chest and then a chaste kiss to the skin in the fold of his neck. he can feel your laugh before he can hear it, vibrating against his skin.

"not too tired for that, huh?" you say the words so casually, and jack is confused for about half a second until he realizes that this is why he can't go on his phone during his shift—his wallpaper is a picture of you in his favorite dress and the way you text him makes him nauseous with the realization that there's someone waiting for him at home who loves him in the way that you do, and usually when he starts thinking about that, his mind wanders to other things and then—

jack starts saying something, but you don't let him finish.

"that's okay," you hum, moving though he wishes you wouldn't—he likes how warm you feel slotted against him. you get down on your knees in front of him, though he tries to stop you.

(try being the operative word—he grabs your wrist and you wrangle out of his touch easily, much too easily considering he knows just how strong he can be, knows how little strength it takes to pin you down when you try to run away from it, how you thrash when you finish and he has to use a little bit more to keep you in place so he can keep taking you through it because he just really loves how you sound when—and that's not helping. fuck.)

and when he opens his tightly shut eyes, you've already undone the tie on his pants, taken him out of his boxers and stroking with your hand while your eyes flit up to meet his quickly. and you smile up at him, like there's nothing you'd rather be doing and nowhere you'd rather be, and then you lick a wet strip with the flat of your tongue up the entire length of his shaft and he thinks he's blacked out.

he wants to shut his eyes again but he wouldn't dare—not when he knows what's coming. you drop a dollop of spit on his tip, using both hands to stroke him now, incredibly concentrated. jack thinks it's cute for another five seconds, and then you take as much as you can fit into your mouth and he loses all train of thought. you bob your head up and down, and he's not sure when, but his hand ends up woven through your hair, resting on the top of your head. he's not pushing—not yet, anyways—but taking what you give. his head thuds against the couch when he feels your tongue swirl around the tip, suctioning while your hands keep stroking.

his apartment is quiet in the morning, and right now it's filled with the noise of the squelch of your mouth, how when you take him too far into your mouth, down your throat, you choke and gag and keep him there for as long as you can before letting go and breathing. just for a second though, and then your cheeks are hollow again, mouth filled again, and he bites down on his lip to stop from moaning loud enough to wake up his neighbors.

and he doesn't know how you do it—how do you always know what he needs? his hips buck up, and you put on wet palm on his thigh, over his scrub bottoms, trying to keep yourself steady while you focus on him like it's the most important thing in the world.

jack knows better than to stop you when you get like this. but he still does, using the hand on your head to pull you off briefly, because he thinks he'll die if he can't see what you look like right now. your eyes glassy and wet, lips smeared with his pre-cum and your spit, your mouth and chin shiny too. and you keep stroking him while he looks, resting your head against his thigh while you do it, smiling up at him.

and then you go right back—and you can tell your boyfriend's about to finish. something in your stomach and lower begins to flutter at the realization that your smile is what does it for jack everytime—so you take him into your throat and hollow your cheeks out and then you hear it before you see it.

jack's broken moans. the way he lifts his hips up, bucking into your mouth, how hard he's breathing as he does it. and then the tell-tale fuck, fuck, fuck and the groan that tells you game over. you feel his cum rush into your mouth, covering your tongue, and you keep going, sucking on his tip gently, swallowing it as it comes.

you keep stroking softly, resting your head against his thigh again, staring up at your boyfriend, whose eyes are finally staring down at yours.

"do you want breakfast now?" you ask quietly, hand a little tired and realizing there's spit all over your mouth now. jack doesn't seem to mind, helping you up and onto his lap, leaning in for a kiss that lasts too long.

"no," he says, staring at you with a look that is very familiar. and you smile so he smiles, and you feel a lot better once he does. "got my breakfast right here. your turn."

[racew1nn3rs]

─ 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘷. (𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴) 🐅

⤷ summary: spain and canada. lando's rizz is negative, mission is failed. plus, mclaren pr is about to fuck shit up 🗣️

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liked by ynusername, zbrownceo, and 42,908 others

mclaren spain you were forgettable at best 😔 on to the next one

18,980 others

user1 y/n don't insult your team on the team account challenge

mclaren is it really an insult if it's true

user2 we got a lando photo but at what cost

user3 lando fans can never win here

mclaren why you would ever choose to be a lando fan to begin with is beyond me

user2 you're so right queen i'm sorry

landonorris DON'T APOLOGIZE WTF

user2 fuck both of y'all honestly

user4 at least mclaren fans can always count on content, even if we can't expect results 😭

user5 lando and y/n in their friendship era, how the fuck did we get here

landonorris you're posting me now? oh you want me so bad 🥴

mclaren sending this to hr immediately

ynusername YOU'RE FIREEEDDDDDDD

user6 damn she logged into both accounts just to make sure he heard her ass 💀 double homicide

user7 oscar fans i can't even tell if we won or lost

user8 we didn't get a face pic but... we didn't get whatever the fuck the 3rd slide is

landonorris guys pLEASE

landonorris i won't post it she says... it's just for me she says

user9 LMAOOOO AND YOU BELIEVED HER???? 🤣 🫵

landonorris going dark, no one call me

user9 was anyone going to anyways 💀

user10 LET HIM GET UPPPP

oscarpiastri i'll pay you 20 dollars if you don't ever do this to me

mclaren 🤝

mclaren i mean you were never the target but now you will be if i don't get my money!!!!

oscarpiastri oh ok

lilyzneimer i have pictures you can you use if you need bb <3

oscarpiastri WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON

zbrownceo Very funny Y/n! Keep up the good work 👍

mclaren Thanks boss! (:

landonorris ZAK WHY

user11 zak is so supportive now, wait until he sees her comments 💀

zbrownceo I have seen her comments! Very funny! 👍

user11 blink twice zak, we can help you

maxverstappen1 This is the highlight of my week, thank you Y/n!

mclaren hey max verstappen of redbull racing! not sure if you heard but you did win the grand prix this weekend

maxverstappen1 No i know, this is just definitely better.

ynusername where's my photo credits 🫵

mclaren my bad bbg 😍

user12 nurse she got out again

oscarpiastri we'll win next time!!

mclaren who told you that 🤨

oscarpiastri the voices in my head

logansargeant you hold on bro, we'll find your meds soon

user13 i think moto moto likes you ahh image

user14 i need to shrink him and put him in my pocket and keep him there

user15 which one?

user14 lando

landonorris nuh uh, pick again

maxfewtrell you can't post pictures without consent mate

mclaren i didn't??

landonorris i didn't consent.

mclaren who are you gonna believe max? me? or the solid concrete evidence in front of you

user16 he looks like he can do some crazy tricks on a trampoline

landonorris this is the only comment about myself that hasnt made me viscerally angry

oscarpiastri unfortunately i feel the opposite

user17 lany/n at it again

user18 literally what the fuck do you mean

user17 if you dont get it, i can't explain it to you

user18 okay cryptic ass, fuck you 🙄

user19 they're in love guys, just wait and see

user20 yall just love saying stupid shit on this page huh

user19 i hate getting accused of some shit i actually do 😡 like yeah i do love that but who told you

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user20 op be so fr right now

user21 everytime one of these illiterate f1 drivers pulls one of the hottest women on earth a fairty dies

user21 *fairy

user22 fairty

user21 you shut the fuck up 🫵

user23 people when coworkers are seen together at their place of work

user24 do you hug your coworkers and follow them like a lost puppy when you could be on a break

user23 wtf no

user24 EXACTLY MF, THIS IS NOT COWORKERS BEING COWORKERS

user25 history will say they were just colleagues 😔

opeightywon this shit is a national tragedy

user26 every time i see a post like this i think about the fact that she has probably seen this and i shiver

user27 honestly praying on their downfall

opeightywon wtf

user28 lando fans be normal challenge

user27 idgaf about that white man, she's just too hot for him 😕

opeightywon oh yeah real

user29 i need another youtube video where they stare at each other longingly again asap or i fear i may start having withdrawal symptoms

user30 another hot girl lost to an average white man's swagless looks and cringe fail personality i feel sick

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liked by landonorris, lilyzneimer, and 44,786 others

mclaren not our best results in canada but we improved i guess 🙄 but on a much better, more exciting note: NEW MCLAREN YOUTUBE CHALLENGE OUT GO GO GO GO

17,998 comments

user31 my crops are watered, my skin is clear, my funds are tripled

mclaren all me 😮‍💨

user32 "yay challenge video" we all cry in unison

user33 OSCAR FANS IS IT REAL??? HAS IT COME TRUE??? IS THAT A FACE PIC I SEE

user34 and it's good quality too 🤩 what did we do to deserve this

mclaren you don't, but oscar bought me coffee all weekend

oscarpiastri yes i bribed her, i feel no shame

user35 lando's back in the dog house bro, he's back to no face pics

user36 but look at his beautiful brown eyes

mclaren babe they're greenish blue with the TINIEST bit of brown 💀

user37 how long you gotta stare at a man's eyes to know the exact paint blend 🫵

user38 DOWN HORRENDOUSSSSSS

lilyzneimer insert comical heart eyes here

mclaren flirting with your man 🤢 on MY cellular device

lilyzneimer my bad bb, he doesn't mean anything to me anyways 🥴

oscarpiastri ok what the fuck

danielricciardo DROP THE CAMERA SETTINGS AND MY LIFE IS YOURS

mclaren check dms 🤲

danielricciardo thanks love you're the best

landonorris LOVE??? LMAOOOO

user39 bro is losing the dgaf war MISERABLY

user40 the way lando is staring at her the whole time she's behind the camera 😫 oh he's not even down bad, bro's down under

landonorris can i get the camera settings

mclaren has anyone ever told you how good you are at photography?? i'm not saying that, i'm just asking 😀

landonorris oKAY fuck you.

user41 the way she doesn't even pretend to care about the results

landonorris i know 🙄

mclaren i know p13 is nawttt talking back to me right now

user41 OHHH SHE ATE YOU UP HUH

landonorris y'all are some fake ass fans fr

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8:57 PM.

Y/n stared at the flashing numbers on the digital clock in the boardroom and huffed quietly. The table in front of her was covered in a mix of shredded mozzarella cheese and vibrant, red pizza sauce. Flour with evidence of handprints and bits of pizza dough decorated the wood and the woman internally sighed at the thought of clean up. Eventually she would have to get back to work.

Lando was on his phone across the table from her, and she fought the urge to stare at him. Oscar had left a while ago, having an earlier flight than them out of Canada. Lando and her had made the executive decision to stay and finish the pizza the two men had made during the "not my hands" YouTube challenge. It was messy, and didn't fully resemble a proper pizza, but it tasted good enough if not a little bit burnt. The two had been sitting in a comfortable silence for the time being while they ate.

In the time Y/n had gotten to know the British man, both on and off the track, she found herself warming up to him considerably. He was kinder than she gave him credit for at the beginning of the season, and far funnier. She could see now that more often than not he spoke without thinking or having any consideration, and maybe he was more than a little bit arrogant, but he also felt things deeply and cared passionately.

Before she could think about what she was doing, Lando's eyes met hers and he smirked. Y/n's face burned but she rolled her eyes at him and took another bite of their burnt pizza. Her ears caught the sound of him placing his phone on the table, and when she looked up again he was leaning his body across the table and toward her instead.

"What are you staring at? Hm?" He teased and she scoffed.

"You," she started and took another bite of her pizza, "have pizza sauce all over your face, you idiot. And I'm just thinking, not sure if you're familiar with the concept." He grabbed a napkin quickly and began wiping rapidly at his chin and mouth, and even his nose. She couldn't help but laugh loudly. There was nothing on his face. He was perfect actually. Unfortunately.

"Did I get it? Why didn't you tell me sooner, traitor!" She doubled over but nodded anyways.

"What are you thinking about?" he questioned as he settled back down.

"Just the season, you and Oscar," she muttered.

"Me? Thinking of little ol' me when I'm right here in front of you," she rolled her eyes with a groan.

"You have selective hearing Lando," he laughed and nodded.

"Well what have you thought about it? The season I mean. And myself of course, don't care much what you think about Osc," he leaned on his hand and stared at her intently. Y/n couldn't help that being stared at by Lando felt a little bit like being ocean, being pulled and pushed by the moon's gravity. Her brain didn't work properly around him.

Or maybe I'm just really dramatic and he's just hot, she thought miserably, Probably the latter.

"I just think maybe you and me got off on the wrong foot," she said as she fumbled with the lid of her water bottle, "and I think that maybe I enjoy this job a lot more than I thought I would." The comments seemed to sober Lando's mood up slightly.

Maybe I shouldn't have been truthful. Maybe it shouldn't have been that serious.

"What did you think of me?" He asked quietly. "When you met me I mean."

"Do you want me to be honest?" He looked at her quizzically.

"Of course I want you to be honest Y/n, or I wouldn't have asked."

"I thought you were kind of an asshole," she whispered and he laughed.

"So the beef was real for you," he smiled slightly and she let her face fall gently into her hands.

"Yeah," she breathed out a laugh, "yeah maybe a little."

"Doesn't seem like a little," he goaded and she shot him a glare.

"Okay Lord Lando, maybe more than a little," he pointed at her triumphantly.

"AHA! So it was the instagram comment. I thought you knew I was kidding," A loud groan filled the room as she smacked her head on the table. Lando's giggling could probably be heard down the hall but Y/n found she didn't care all that much anymore.

"It wasn't just the instagram comment," she defended weakly. There was a brief silence as Lando stared into space and shook his head.

"Wow... I can't believe you were actually mad at me and I just didn't know."

"It wasn't that big of a deal I guess, I just felt like you didn't really take me seriously."

"Well I mean you're not a very serious person," Y/n's heart fell to her stomach.

"What?" She asked, staring at him. She couldn't have heard him right.

"Well it's just that you're not very serious are you? Like since I met you, it's never felt like you were a serious sort of person." He added as if that was some sort of defense.

As if that isn't more hurtful.

"You're not like Zak or Andrea, or really anyone else here you know? You're just you, you're different. It was hard to be serious with you here because that's just who you are." He continued.

God just shut up, please for the love of God just shut up.

"This is my place of work Lando," she muttered bitterly. "I mean do you hear yourself." His eyes widened and he put his hands out placatingly. Like she was some sort of rabid animal he needed to calm down.

"No no no," he muttered quickly and stood up to round the table, "that's not what I meant Y/n, you know that."

"Stop Lando, just stop," she said as she began to clear off the table.

Why did she expect him to be different. What made her think he could've changed.

"You made it perfectly clear what you mean. What you think of me and of my work, my career" she spit out, swiping everything on the table into the trash. They hadn't finished eating the pizza and now it was in the bin, but Lando didn't deserve to eat the pizza she helped him make. He didn't deserve to be here at all. He wasn't her friend, he was her coworker and nothing else. It was better she accept that now.

"You misunderstood what I said," he grabbed her arm to stop her from cleaning and she whipped it out of his grasp.

"Stop Lando," she said raising her voice. She knew her eyes were teary but she didn't care. She knew her face was red with embarrassment and her hands were shaking with the force of her humiliation but she didn't care. Lando Norris could go fuck himself.

He looked at her in shock and winced as he saw her face. She steeled herself. She had never cried over a man before, why would she do it now.

"You need to leave, you have a flight in the morning," she said emotionlessly. "And I have to clean so I can go home." He tried to speak and she put her hand up, stepping away from him.

"Get out please, you're in my way," she said and his brows scrunched. He was angry? Good, so was she.

"I'm in your way?" He asked incredulously, as if she didn't have any reason to be upset. "You're not even going to hear me out?" He scoffed.

"No Lando, I don't have time for this. I have a job to do and you're in my way," she said emphasizing the words as if speaking to a child. His face fell. He looked angry.

"Whatever Y/n. What fucking ever," he muttered, grabbing his bag and storming out. Y/n waited. Footsteps in the hallways continued until a far off door slammed.

Y/n wilted like an unwatered plant as tears began to fall.

So much for friends.

She knew deep down she was hurt about much more than just friendship.

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this is the second to last chapter of part one! i hope you enjoy! please feel free to comment and send requests, i'm excited to hear your thoughts <3

-

𝙩𝙖𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

@lemon-lav @slutforpopculture @m4rt10ne @urfavsgf @sadsierra2 @96jnie @sltwins @poppyflower-22 @alliumiae @livelovesports @liberty-barnes @the-holy-trinity-l @iliwyss @awritingtree @redpool @elliotts1one @velentine @chaoticmessneutralplease @5sospenguinqueen @charizznorizz @2pagenumb @mxdi0 @cwiphswmwasohmm @tremendousstarlighttragedy @lnspipedrm @itseightbeats @tinycoffeeroom @woozarts @personwhoisther @a-beaverhausen @love-simon @annabellelee @ravisinghs-wife @chezmardybum @greantii @weekendlusting @monserelates @sapphiccloud @halleest @deamus-liv @gigigreens @morenofilm @laneyspaulding19 @lanireadss @dear-fifi @moldyshorts1997 @oliviarodrigostan13 @eugene-emt-roe @ilivbullyingjeongin @im-a-ghost666

[mangio-formaggio]

spuffy in s4 are actually so special to me. the petty jealousy in The Harsh Light Of The Day, borderlinling with weird familiarity of knowing about each other's previous lovers, the raw playful necessity to poke fingers in open wounds. and then reluctant compromising in Pangs, bruised egos have been shoved aside, cause okay it's the truce and we done it like one and half time before. what the worst can happen? and then it's the beginning of Something Blue and they've been in a close proximity and at each other's throats longer than ever before. but the spell hits and oh, we gonna keep arguing actually. we gonna keep bringing up our exes and making fun at each other's names. no pink glasses here, actually. but also what if we suck faces a little and that will successfully end any conflict we face during that night? what if all that cravings of a good fight is in our tongues now? wouldn't that be a good alternative to punches and kickings? what if nothing changes except hate is love and violence is sex? wait, the spell is over? yeah it wasn't nice at all. not like we both ever thought it could possibly be nice. oh, a cookie.

and then they're trying so hard not show that things changed for the rest of the season, just to fail miserably. he's always in the corner of the room with the rest of the group, rarely talks to her personally as if cautious, but is marginally pulling her hair with words as much as he can. my nemesis wants to stake himself? idk go ahead, babe. not so much keen to do the job myself, I guess. so my nemesis won't come to see me move into a new cool crypt? rude. Giles needs help in New Man , Spike will help, but never crosses paths with Buffy who's actively seeking Giles at the same time. Anya brings Spike to a party, Buffy is trapped in an endless sex dream upstairs. oh well, he wants to help her? oh wait, he doesn't care. really, he doesn't. he's just being a little shit, look at him not caring like a pro, laughing off a nobility nobody believes in a first place. he meets Buffy at the club and she acts horny and provocative. weird I guess, but actually that what she always does, isn't she just a sodding tease? someday, we gonna have a confrontation. the Jonathan's spell covered the town, but those two worsties will be totally normal about each other. his hands in her hair, on her cheek, her chest. she will allow it. maybe lean to it a little. something is deeply wrong with the world tonight, so glad to let you know that we still gonna have a confrontation one day. a comfronting thought. a sensual grounding touch of an enemy. he can't fucking wait. will make an alliance with a psychotic Frankenstein monster build by a military organization that castrated him. the world (that he actually quite likes) can burn, but he will get the chip out of his head and kick Buffy's ass. maybe she will ride him till she breaks him at first. it's negotiable. meanwhile Buffy looks at his traitorous face and once again chooses not to stake him. cause whatever. it's just Spike. his plans never works. not on her. not like he caused a lot of damage, more like provoked a friend group therapy session. not like he put his heart into this scheme. he can annoy her a little longer. she got used to it anyways.

they start season with The Harsh Light Of The Day and by the end of it, in a harsh light of the day, in front of other people, they're kids at the playground. but whenever they're in shadows, more or less alone, they're two tigers circling around each other, knowing now that they both too unpredictable for the fight not take some truly wild turns.

[thbbie]

༄ nerd!choso x f!reader (uni/college au)

nerd gojo is cocky and loud and honestly? a little mean. nerd choso on the other hand is the nerd poster child. a fumbling stuttering mess. nervous and shy and he can never look anyone in the eye. need choso who's glasses always slip down his nose at the most inconvenient times pushing them back up with a shaky finger.

he's just so easy.

so eager too. like the word no doesn't exist to him, ever the people pleaser choso just want to do well and never inconvenience anyone no matter what. that was you're impression of him at least.

what ends up catching you off guard is when the shy stuttering demeanour disappears like the flick of a wrist.

the two of you had been assigned a project together, and god were you happy about that. you moved to go sit next to him and before you could even say anything he told you not to worry about the project not making eye contact at all.

oh. maybe he just didn't like you. i mean, not wanting your help at all? that's rude, sure you aren't the smartest but you aren't an idiot either.

he invites you to join him when he plans on work on it —sometimes the library sometimes a cafe; still not letting you do much though so what was the point?

the projects due in a few days so he called you out again, texting you that it's all done and just needed to go over it with you so you know what your talking about during the presentation.

you sit across from each other at the little table, knees nearly touching beneath it. he's wearing a band tee that's maybe meant for someone ten times his size, swimming in the fabric practically, his dark hair falling over his eyes and down his neck instead of his cute signature pigtails. choso pushes the bulky frames up the bridge of his nose every once in a while in between his aggressive typing.

no promised run through in sight.

bored, and feeling terribly useless you get up to order yourself something else; it's been hours and the end doesn't feel any closer, a great way to be spending your saturday evening.

once you've placed your order, about to pull your wallet out to pay, someone beats you to it; handing the barista the cash of your shoulder before smoothly adding his own drink to the order.

he puts his card back in his wallet when the order is paid and offers you a handsome grin when you turn to look at him in question raising your brows at the content smile on his lips. before either of you could get a word out you're interrupted by a hand sliding around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.

choso.

you can't see his face but you imagine there's a scowl on his pretty face, the other man (who's name you are yet to receive) is still all smiles but it's tense. menacing. you are so confused

the awkward tension with you stick in the middle goes on until the superhero in disguise of a barista swoops in to save you, "umm, your drinks," as she slides the three of them over the counter flashing you a reassuring smile when you give her a sheepish look of thanks.

you free yourself from chosos hold to hand the man his, a smug smile shot choso way, lifting the cup slightly as of to say cheers.

you then grab your own and hand choso the one you ordered for him; sure he didn't ask but you guys were doing a project together. the last thing you need is for him to hate you and end up telling the prof you hadn't pulled your weight (which would be his fault anyway)

"thank you baby" wait what? who? he whispers it close to your ear, the sound sending a shiver right through you. "let's go baby we've wasted enough time here already" huh

yes one could assume that choso doesn't get much ver often (at all) but calling you baby after buying him one (1) drink? it cannot be that bad.

the stranger looks unfazed, offering you a small wave and a wink as you walk away with choso. smiling when you respond with your own polite wave.

choso and you leave, rounding the corner of the coffee shop, still confused you ask "choso what the fuck was that? baby?? i thought you didn't like- mph"

he presses you into the cool brick wall of the cafe, his slips crashing against your own, fervent and needy. your drinks fall to the ground, contents spilled and forgotten,"mmph- do-hahh- don't like you? what do you think all those dates were?" "dates? mmmhn~ what, are you-" is that why he'd only ever want to work on the project on the weekends? outside of school hours? he thought of them as dates? is that.. his idea of being romantic?

you push him back by his shoulders, panting a little "you never said they were dates!" "did i have to spell it out? i though it was obvious! i even asked if you were seeing someone before. now shut up i wanna keep kissing you.

..i can keep kissing you right?"

unbelievable. "yea, cho. you can keep kissing m- not here!"

and he listened, he took your hand and led you back into the cafe, making a beeline for the bathroom and locking the door behind you both. his lips are back on your without a moments notice, still just as needy as they were a moment earlier.

your hands wrap around his neck as you melt in the kiss, using his shirt and hair as leverage. chosos hands start to wander slipping beneath your shirt and teasing the band on your pants, his fingers slipping beneath it to smooth over the soft skin.

his hand descends and moans in your mouth when you tug at the ink locks further, touching more of you until your pants won't allow him further access. cursing under his breath as he impatiently tugs them down, a little paper falling out of the pocket to the ground with them.

curious, choso leans down to pick it up; a set of numbers written on it. a phone number. "hah! what's this? the guy from earlier?"

he runs to fingers over your wet folds, collecting the slick to push them both in at once. leaning down to middle your moans with his mouth. "maybe we should call him, hmm? what do you say pretty? lets show the stranger you liked so much hm how slutty you are for me hmm?"

he dials the number in his phone while speeding up the two fingers inside you. it rings once, twice, thrice before the other man picks up "hello?"

choso pulls his fingers out of you, quickly replacing them with his cock and brings the phone closer to you "come on pretty, say thank you for the drinks that we spilled on the pavement. so thoughtful of him wasn't it?"

"mmph- choo~ sttop i-it's ahhh"

"hm, i guess not, sorry man she doesn't sound all that thankful" and choso doesn't sound remorseful at all. he speaks through gritted teeth and repressed moans, shit you're gripping him so tight.

he drills into you faster, holding you body up against the tiled wall of the bathroom. it's actually quite pretty, clean and well lit, you might've been able to admire it better if choso wasn't fucking you like he hates you, his hips slamming against you repeatedly, after he's just told you he didn't. he liked you. a lot by the looks of it.

you'd completely forgotten the guy on the phone until he finally speaks up, chuckling into the line as he says "well, the pretty girl might not be thankful i certainly am. so thoughtful of you to call me, sharing her pretty sounds with me. you're so thoughtful cho~" his voice is unserious and teasing, but low — like he's somewhere crowded and wants his words to be heard only by you and choso.

"nghh~ fuck [name] 'm close- s-shit hold the phone" handing it to you to free up his hand and rub angry little circles on you clit.

"awhh is that because of me cho~ am i getting you close?"

choso twitches inside you. his glasses low on his nose but both of his hands are too busy to push them up, preoccupied with more important thing.

"shut up dumbass"

you're completely delirious, your head thrown back in bliss, loud squelching sounds coming from where the two of you meet. you clench around him, tight. sweet wet cunt squeezing his high out of him, he pulls out just enough to release on your folds and inner thighs, biting your shoulders to ground himself.

everything stills for a moment while you both catch your breaths, flushed and sweating. "the phone" you both say at the same time only to discover the screens gone dark. you hung up, it must've been sometime between when choso handed you the phone and when you both came.

regardless of when it was, good riddance is all choso can think as he straighten his glasses and cleans you up with toilet paper and cool water from the sink.

[artbiter]

wolf in sheep's clothing

art donaldson/reader nsfw summary: art falls for you first yet patrick gets the fortune of having you. what else is art supposed to do but play dirty? tags: stanford!art, stanford reader too, art is a borderline homewrecker, art donaldson is a SNAKE, patrick gets cucked right under his nose </3, oral, slight body worship, TBH idk note: hi this is my first time writing ff since .. 2021 .. and this is definitely a diff style from the ao3-approach i usually take to writing but please enjoy i really like art donaldson i really like challengers and i really like art taking what he wants (and i really like mike faist in blonde curls)

art donaldson is not a homewrecker, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't waiting for his chance with you.

he first meets you at one of his games, eyes flitting over the crowd and panting hard after a rather close singles win, before his gaze is magnetically drawn to your pretty face in the bleachers. smiling with your friends, you look so happy to just be watching this game, and when you make eye contact with art you wave excitedly like he's a celebrity, and whisper to your friends after he salutes back with a grin, trying to catch the breath your gorgeous smile has knocked out of him.

he wants to find you so bad after, and so he does. your friends are tennis groupies, hanging behind to flirt with any guy with a racket in hand, but you're just there for moral support. he chases after you just before you leave, just to say hi. an innocuous greeting and thanks for your support. and he sees how jealous your friends are that you tag along once with them and immediately get picked up by art freaking donaldson, but you seem to be oblivious, beaming at him and clasping your hands to your chest. you tell him he was great out there, that you've never "gotten" tennis but that you can feel he's a pro anyway. you part ways and he can't stop thinking about you.

when he tells patrick that he's met the prettiest girl he's ever seen at one of his matches, patrick thinks it's endearing and the epitome of dumb puppy love.

"did you even get her name? or were you just drooling over her?"

"nah, that would've been weird... right? oh shit, should i have? i was trying to be normal about it, i don't know." art beats himself up for not even picking up on your name in conversation, and resolves to seek out your identity and ask you out.

so when he finally has the fortune of seeing you again at a party, he's heartbroken when you smile and wave to patrick in tow.

"patrick!" you laugh and bound up to the pair. "didn't take you as a stanford party type of guy."

"i'm a plus one tonight. lucky i ran into you, huh?" patrick is eye-fucking you and doesn't even try to hide it, and art feels like doubling over in pure grief.

patrick notices but says nothing, only introducing you to art. "yeah, i'm here with my buddy art." he slaps art on the back lightly and art finds out that you and patrick met at another party before this. he remembers you from patrick's anecdotes over lunch, where patrick wouldn't shut up about the hottest chick he's ever seen who wouldn't go home with him, but has been texting ever since.

some other girl, presumably one of your friends, attaches herself to art's arm for the rest of the night, but he can't bring himself to notice or care when patrick kisses you and you lean into it.

patrick got to you first, and art hates himself for it. he won't admit it, but he feels the resentment festering inside of him as soon as patrick announces it's official.

the next best course of action for art is to play the best friend role, obviously. except like the unassuming snake art is, he's going to be your best friend, too.

he's your puppy, waiting on your beck and call — whatever you need, he's got it. your bio homework is impossible? sure, you can copy his. you got no sleep last night? he has your regular order from your favorite café committed to memory. patrick's being such a bad boyfriend? oh, tell him all about it.

"he's so inconsiderate," you whine, slumping over your pillow. "can you believe he forgot our six months? and when i brought it up, he didn't even say sorry. he was just, like, 'i didn't know we were still in high school.' i wanted to die, art, really."

art clicks his tongue in sympathy, criss-crossed on your dorm floor and nodding along to your laments. "no, he's definitely wrong here. i'm sorry he forgot something so important." for good measure, he adds in, "guys should be looking out for their girlfriends all the time. i'd be celebrating monthly anniversaries if i had a girl."

"ugh, right? i thought so, too." you flop back onto your bed, turning your head to gaze at art. he thinks you're so beautiful like this, clad in a t-shirt and shorts, bare faced with tears tinging your eyes. "you're a good guy. i don't know why you don't just date."

he doesn't want to date anyone if it isn't you, but he doesn't say this.

art watches you and patrick continue for another few rocky months, marked by arguments spawned from patrick's chronic nonchalance and your sensitivity to his perceived lack of care. and art gets the full report from both sides; patrick tells him all the time about how he's really trying to make you happy and support you, but he doesn't see why you value such small things. and you cry to art, sobbing that patrick never takes you out anymore if it isn't to fuck, that patrick is too friendly to other girls. art thinks to himself that patrick doesn't deserve you, but he rubs small circles on your back and reassures you that you need to do what's right for yourself.

(he's elated when you don't remove yourself from his touch.)

when you finally break it off with patrick, he hears it from his best friend first.

"dude, she dumped me." patrick's voice buzzes over the phone. "not gonna lie, i saw this one coming. but i thought i was doing good, seriously. fuck, what am i gonna do?"

"i'm sorry, man," art sympathizes before he hears a knock on his door. "yeah, it really does suck. take a breather for a few days. i'm sorry, but i really have to go right now." he peeks into the peephole and sees you standing outside. "let's talk more later?"

patrick is still rambling on the other end, but art hangs up and opens the door for you to immediately come spilling.

"art, i broke up with him. i really couldn't do it anymore." you tell art more things he already knows, like that you liked patrick a lot but you were just uncompatible in the end, and that you wished he listened. as always, art feeds into you, agreeing with your every word. something deep inside art tells him it's wrong to coax his best friend's girlfriend into breaking up with him, and that he's messed up for offering you his support when patrick technically should come first. but when you look up at art through wet eyelashes, sniffling and yearning for comfort, who is he to deny you?

art cups your face gently and presses his lips to yours. he doesn't miss how your eyes widen, but you don't jerk away. his heart pounds in his chest as he holds the small of your back with one hand while the other caresses your cheek. you smell so clean and warm, and your lips are so soft art wonders how patrick could ever give you up without a fight. it solidifies art's need for you, that if patrick won't make you happy, he will.

when you pull away from him, you're breathless, voice barely above a whisper. "art, i don't think we should—"

he can't contain himself from kissing your neck, relishing the soft, smooth expanse, inhaling your scent so deep into his lungs he finds it oxygen. "tell me you don't want this." he laps at your jaw, sucking light bruises onto the sides of your throat. "tell me you don't want me to treat you the way you should be, and i'll stop."

you moan his name involuntarily, and art takes it as the green light to carry you to his bed and kisses back up to your lips. "i'm sorry," he murmurs into your skin. "i'm sorry. i want you so bad."

"then show me," you sigh softly, hands rooting themselves into his blonde curls as his tongue probes your mouth.

like you even had to ask.

tugging down your sweatpants and feeling like coming just as the sight of your underwear, art immediately tears it off of you. he latches himself to your cunt, already weeping, and he looks up at you through hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. "already so wet for me, baby?"

"mmf..." your fingers, still tangled in his hair, tighten their grip as you push his head forward, and he obliges.

he licks wide stripes, feeling you convulse and twitch every time his tongue comes in contact with your clit. his dick throbs in his pants just from eating you out.

"you taste so sweet. fuck, you're delicious," he pants, making out with your pussy like it's your lips. "don't know how i survived this long without you."

you buck your hips up into his mouth, mewling and spasming as he suckles and licks at just the right places. your cunt is soaked, but neither of you can tell whether it's from your arousal or how much art is slobbering over your pussy. "right there," you squeak out, a hot wave washing over your body as you cum on art's face.

and fuck, art almosts busts on the spot with you. his mouth doesn't cease, swirling patterns all over your vulva, grazing over your clit, dipping his tongue inside of you as you lock your legs around his head desperately.

"too much, too much!" you feebly try to pull his head up from your cunt, but he's so addicted to your taste he barely notices how sensitive you are now, how your clit twitches and aches for a break.

art can only laugh softly as he pulls himself back up to you, kissing you gently as his hands roam underneath your shirt and to your bra clasp.

"mm, you're so good," you gasp into art's mouth as his kiss becomes sloppier. "so good to me, art."

"it's what you deserve," he mumbles back, unhooking your bra and clumsily pulling your shirt off so your tits spill free. and even art is admired by his own self-restraint, just staring at your perfect body on display for him. he's been dreaming of this day for months now, jerking himself off late at night to thoughts of you sucking his cock, to pictures of you smiling on his phone, to the memory of your voice the day he met you. it's so wrong of him to fuck his best friend's ex fresh after the split, but why do you feel so right beneath him? "i've been waiting for this," he whispers into your neck. "been wanting to show you how much i want you. want to make you feel good. want to treat you so much better."

"fuck me, art, please," you beg him, relenting and palming at his boxers. you're so fucking easy, letting him touch you like this and being compliant as he undresses you, kisses you all over, shrugs his boxers off as you help him position his cock right at your entrance. it's not your fault that art has been nothing but kind and gentle to you. it's not your fault that he's been flirting with you since day 1, and now all his desires have culminated into head of a lifetime. and art finally has what he wants now: you.

and even when he barely pushes the tip in, he wants to cum inside of you so badly he feels dizzy. "so fucking tight, i'm gonna cum, gonna cum right now," he gasps in your ear as he unsheathes himself, stretching your warm, tight hole. "so perfect, holy shit. fucking made for me, baby, you feel so—" he can't stop himself from rutting into you, and he just about comes undone when he hears his name tumble from your lips in pained moans. it takes all the self-control in the world for art to not pour himself into your wet heat right now.

"slow down, art, fuck, you're so big," you sob, clawing at his back. he wishes he could fuck you nice and slow, the way he always envisioned his first time with you would be. he'd fantasized about nights with you full of languid strokes, making you scream his name with calculated, intentional thrusts straight to the spongy patch buried within you. but art is just a humble man, and when your walls, silky and warm, are choking his dick, he can't resist fucking into you like a jackhammer. you cry, moaning uncontrollably as your hands clutch tightly at him, letting his cock ruin you.

art's head goes fuzzy, and all he knows now is your pussy trying to milk him dry and that he can't say anything coherent besides strings of guttural moans telling you how warm, how tight, how good you feel on his dick, how your sweet cunt was made for him, how beautiful you look and sound at his mercy, how he wants you to be his so bad and that he'll do anything for you to be his. that his only regret is not claiming you first.

you keep crooning in his ear, honeyed moans that intoxicate him dizzier and dizzier as you tell him that he can have you. with a few more stutters of his hips, and a convulsing squeeze from your walls onto his cock, his head falls into the crook of your neck as he pulls out and shoots ropes all over your stomach, right as you cry out his name uncontrllably, heaving beneath him. a low, resounding grunt rips from his throat while his seed paints your abdomen, and he feels you shiver upon the warmth touching your skin.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes again like the gentleman he is. his breath still heaves at an uneven rhythm, staggering as he attempts to regain his composure, but every time his eyes fall upon you it feels like he wants to go for round 2. "i'll clean you up, pretty girl. you were so perfect." he presses his forehead to yours, sweaty and damp, and whispers, "you were made for me."

some sick sense of pride fills art from head to toe as your body trembles in an attempt to catch your breath, your hair disheveled and lips puffy, patches of skin blooming pink and red from art essentially making out with every inch of your body. and you blush when you catch him staring, covering your face and murmuring for him to come back to bed.

he did this to you. he made you such a picturesque image of ruined perfection, splayed out on his bed and stained with his cum, pleading for his embrace.

patrick would have to pry you from his cold, dead hands.

[jiminrings]

PRESIDENT RINGS your m&ms... emmy nems... ANYWAY YOUR HIGHNESS PLEASE . i am begging for higher power sneak peek PLEASE PELASE i will ask once and twice until we get it and nothing more

higher power aka brother's best friend n Yearning fic sneak peek :D

waiting for jungkook to love again doesn't guarantee you a permanent romantic spot in his life, even if you've been in love with him the longest.

alternatively, you promised yourself to keep confessing to jungkook, your brother's best friend, every year until you turn twenty-eight.

Jungkook has a habit of coming over unannounced.

In between all your parents' insisting that your house is also his for him to run to anytime, to your brother realizing that being friends with Jungkook meant having to see him in unhealthy doses because he has no other choice, Jungkook effectively integrated himself to the quilt of your life.

He's a lived-in, well-loved shirt that's cut up and fashioned into a granny square, along with a hundred other versions of him that you've had the privilege of seeing; it's actually ironic because Jungkook's left a lot of his items, of himself, both in your childhood house and your shared apartment with your brother, and he's never batted an eye once about their whereabouts.

Jungkook doesn't question why your parents posted a picture of your old beloved dog wearing a shirt of his from elementary to Facebook, but he does save the picture immediately and make it his wallpaper.

He doesn't question either why Yoongi's cap collection is growing and why he keeps insisting that he bought it himself (even if Jungkook can still place the faint smell of his shampoo on it), but he does make sure every now and then to actually gift him one in exchange for the uncountable favors your brother's done for him.

Most importantly, Jungkook doesn't question you either when he sees his hairtie on your wrist when you open the door for him.

He knows not to bring up anything about your crush over him (not unless it's you starting the conversation about Your Feelings For Him, which practically happens only once a year), or how he really hates it when his hairties go missing. Even Yoongi isn't spared from his annoyance, because in Jungkook's defense, your brother's too rich to go steal from the godsend, usually-expensive ten-pack that he managed to buy on sale.

Jungkook doesn't point out the red elastic on your wrist. He ignores the starry-gazed look you only have for him, except now, your eyes are only narrowed and hollow over his sudden appearance.

That's the only thing he can't shake off.

"Is your brother home?" he asks his original intention for his visit, shifting his weight from one foot to another because of the lackluster, blank gaze you have on that keeps piercing him. "You okay?"

"Won't be home for another hour."

Jungkook laughs at your curt reply, eyes widening in sarcasm as he shakes his head, the snort that leaves him catching him off-guard too. He can’t place why he’s annoyed over the possibility of you being any less than delighted to see him, and truly, he’s trying not to sound like a narcissist; he’s only ever really cared about his image when you were concerned.

"That was a lot of attitude."

You and Jungkook don't really fight. You don't fight with each other because there's barely anything that you disagree about, but when you do fight with him (not if), it's unlike any of the fights you have with Yoongi.

You don't fight with Jungkook as if he's your brother, because he's not.

You don't fight with him either as if he's only your brother's friend, because you don't want him to be.

With Jungkook, there's guilt that settles in your bones when you don't reconcile before you go to sleep. There's an unspeakable force that actually makes you doubt yourself, when usually, you'd know to your gut that you were in the right every single time you fought with Yoongi.

With Jungkook, you don't get an unspoken promise that you'll just forget about whatever happened.

It's him, after all.

"Hey, woah. What's wrong with you?" Jungkook reacts with a frown when you refuse to grace him with a reply, following you into the apartment with a firm grasp on your forearm.

It's not the first time you've ever turned your back on because you didn't want to talk, and it's not the first time either that he's had to physically chase after you. Jungkook's been through this before: he's been through it as the occasional referee between you and Yoongi on your heated fights growing up. He knows how quickly you could shut yourself off, but he didn't know it would feel this weird being at the receiving end of it.

He didn't know it would feel this jarring.

"Nothing. Let me go," you mutter, jerking your arm away from him that only makes Jungkook huff.

He's supposed to be understanding, that much he knows. He's supposed to be the older, mature one between you both, but there's just something about you being short with him that makes Jungkook feel rewired, for better and for worse.

"So something is wrong with you," he insists, rolling his eyes when he follows you even into the kitchen, the two of you knowing well that you're just passively opening the fridge (and a hundred other cupboards) so you could lose him.

"Can you leave me alone?"

"You opened the door for me, sweetheart," Jungkook sarcastically hums, the smile on his face even more insufferable than your furrowed brows that have not loosened even once since seeing him.

"Because you're clearly here for Yoongi," you remind, the edge of your voice slamming harder than the last drawer against its base. Jungkook would wince about it if only he hadn’t spent the better part of your entire interaction loathing the way you talk to him, making his ears ring.

"Can't I be here for you too?" he offers, the sincerity coming across as half-baked pity into your system.

Jungkook didn't even look sure with his own question.

The roll of your eyes makes Jungkook even more annoyed, his irritation bordering on anger that he can't even place. He didn't even get this worked up over his fights with your brother, and the two of them have even went so close as to getting physical multiple times.

"What was that for?"

"You're clearly lying," you mutter, settling for folding your clothes angrily right in front of him. You’re not even fazed that you’re just three sleep shirts away from folding your own underwear in front of him because it’s the least of your concerns.

Now, the only thing you can think about is how Jungkook’s beyond clueless. For all you know, he doesn’t even care about why you’re acting the way you were because simply (and realistically, in your case) put, Jungkook just wants you to remain the same. He just wants you to remain as the mainstay, familiar figure everywhere he goes who makes him feel better just by giving him a default, love-sick glance and nothing less.

You’re not a dog waiting around for him by the front door.

You think you’re more of a mutt waiting to be seen at the porch when nobody else inside wants to do his tricks.

"What are we even talking about right now?" Jungkook nudges the laundry basket away with his foot, the scowl you give him making him shrink momentarily. "You're the one who's starting something and I literally just got here."

"I'm not starting anything."

"Then why won't you tell me what's wrong, huh?"

The simple and seemingly mundane question makes you dart up, unceremoniously dropping the same shirt you’ve been pretending to fold in the neatest, tightest rectangle as possible.

You should be relieved at the prompt because it meant you didn’t have to bring it up out of nowhere. You should be happy at the cue because whatever you’ll answer, it would mean that Jungkook asked for it.

You should be anything but the way you’re feeling now with the words scratching your throat from the inside, because with your feelings out in the open (even more than what you’ve already given time and time again), you feel even more tense.

"Why didn't you tell me you and Sora were back together?"

Jungkook expected everything but the simple, one-dimension question. He didn’t anticipate for you to ask something that he could give you an answer to but refuse to. He just sits beside you, eerily still with the dumbest look on his face that keeps pleading you to just drop this even if you barely even started, his wide eyes blinking with confusion.

"I didn't-..." he clears his throat, looking down on his lap briefly because looking at you the whole time, as he composes his words, would mean his defeat. He didn’t know exactly why or how he’d be losing by looking at you directly as he professes the truth, but all he knows for sure is that however he does it, you’d never be the winner. “I didn't think I had to tell you, Y/N," he laughs uneasily. "I know you're not exactly the biggest fan of her."

"Neither is Yoongi, but he still got to know," you chuckle dryly, the shrug of your shoulder being far too lax that it convinces neither of you that you were really okay with it.

"Because he's my best friend," Jungkook exasperates, the tired sigh that leaves his lips making you buckle by the knees despite being seated.

You never wanted to disappoint him. You never wanted to be looked down upon, most especially by Jungkook, because every little detail adds up into your head like an overtired piggy bank you don’t ever want to let go of, even if keeping it close to you means it would lose its value.

You’re keeping score, even if Jungkook never did. You’re more wired than he’ll ever be, and just the slightest slip of his attitude (even the tiniest upset sigh from his lips or a clench of his jaw) makes it known to you that he wouldn’t understand how it feels to be pathetically reliant over the slightest chance at love.

"Am I not?" you snap. "Will I just be Yoongi's little sister to you forever?"

"Stop putting words in my mouth. You know that's not what I meant," he spits defensively, brows knitting in genuine disdain because he can’t even think how a vile thought has ever crossed your mind.

"Then finish the sentence, Jungkook," you goad. “If I'm not your best friend, and if I'm not your best friend's sister either, what exactly am I?"

Jungkook sharply sucks in a breath, screwing his eyes shut as you mess with every last bit of his inhibition. He never liked fighting with you, and whenever you actually did, he’d be ridden with guilt even before said fight is concluded. He doesn’t like hurting you that way because Jungkook knows, truly, that he’d be more capable of inflicting it on you than you ever could for him.

Or so he thinks.

He knows he does it every time (even if he shoves the fact deep to the back of his memory) that he comes around. He knows he does every time he gives you either a carefree laugh or a sorry hand on the small of your back every time you confess.

He even knows he’s hurting you now.

"I didn't tell you because I know you would disapprove."

"When has that ever stopped you?" you scoff, the soft, lived-in quality of the hairtie on your person suddenly making your wrist itch. ”If I never saw her story, that's just it then? If I never asked Yoongi, you wouldn't tell me?"

"Why's it such a big deal?" Jungkook throws his head back in disbelief, briefly recalling the way he looked happy, content, in the picture Sora shared from last night. “Why does it matter so badly to you whether I get back with Sora or not?"

"Because you matter badly to me!" you exclaim, digging your nails into the palms of your hands to stop them from flailing and finding their way to Jungkook’s arms to hold him still, not because he’s thinking about leaving, but because you don’t want to leave and you want to be reminded of it. ”Are we not best friends, Jungkook? A-are we— are we just people who see each other practically everyday?" you swallow the lump in your throat. “When I see you, I tell you about how my day went. I tell you about what I'm thinking. I... I've never withheld anything from you.”

There was never a time you’ve hidden anything from Jungkook. He’d been the witness of everything, both significant and pointless, in your life. He’s your best friend. He’s your Jungkook, whether or not in the way you want him to be.

The only thing is that Jungkook can’t say the same for you.

.

.

.

heh... this has been living in my drafts since december of last year n i'm beyond glad to finally get this out, meaning i could Finally scratch the itch in my brain n get back to regular programming (aka putting out big fics atleast once a month) :D

to get ahead of questions, YES this is a general fic, meaning it will be posted here on tumblr this april 21st, 12 am kst 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ but if u wanna read it now, along with a couple hundred exclusive pieces (get to know here), then head to my patreon :D

[greyskyflowers]

I like to think about Charles really understanding what Edwin went through in hell. I really wished we'd seen more of that in the show. 😫

Like... how many times do you think Edwin got torn apart down there? How many times could he die and start over in an hour? A day? A year?

How many times did the demon mess him up just enough so that he couldn't run? Stuck sitting there just waiting to either bleed out or for the final strike before starting again?

Anyway ~ I'm feral for hurt/comfort and burn the world for you relationships so here we go ~

🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜

Sometimes Edwin has what they've been calling, for lack of better word, episodes. He had some prior to his second trip in hell but nothing like what he has now.

Charles can't decide if it's easier or harder to witness them now that he knows more about what happened all those years in hell.

Thankfully, most of the time, these episodes happen when they're home. Usually after a particularly rough day and often coinciding with times when Charles is briefly out doing something.

He always knows right away, steps through the mirror to a dark and quiet room. There's a brief but consuming feeling of panic every time he steps out and doesn't immediately see Edwin, but he doesn't think that will ever go away.

There's a few places Edwin tucks himself into when he has an episode, all of them small and dark.

Edwin claims it's muscle memory from all the years in hell he ran and hide.

Personally, Charles thinks Edwin finally has places to hide and takes full advantage of it. He doesn't remember seeing too many places to hide in those terrible, endless hallways of hell.

Charles hates these episodes.

He's trying to be better with his anger but everytime they go through this, everytime Edwin gets a certain look in his eye, or tries to nonchalantly get closer to Charles when something sets off memories, it reminds him that Edwin was taken away from him numerous times and was hurt over and over again.

It makes the rage simmer in his belly and he thinks no one would really hold it against him if he ever gets his hands anyone who's hurt Edwin and let's the rage take over for a minute... or a few minutes. He really wouldn't need more than that with all the anger that seems to burn under his skin.

He's quiet as he walks to the desk, eyeing the chair pulled out and shoved away to make room, before carefully peering around the edge to look under it and Edwin looks back at him with awful, terrified eyes.

He knows how this goes by now, almost the same every time. What a terrible thing to be familiar with.

He quietly sinks to the floor by Edwin and starts trying to squeeze himself under the desk with him. The space is not meant for two people, or even one, but like hell he's going to pull Edwin out of today's chosen hiding place so they can get resettled easier.

He'd done that at the beginning. Tried to remind Edwin where he was and that he was safe, had spoken softly but not as soft as he had in hell, and tried to pull Edwin out. It was a mistake. The look of terror and betrayal on Edwin's face had made sure he never tried that approach again.

It was easier this way, to play along.

He puts a hand on the back of Edwin's head because he always smacks it off the underside of the desk when they hide here, and while it might not hurt him like it would a living being, it still makes a painful sound that has Charles clenching his jaw.

Edwin ends up on his lap, really the only way they both fit, and thankfully he's usually too distracted to realize that Charles has his legs sticking out from under the desk and that their hiding spot isn't really a good spot for two people.

He trembles, even though he's stiff like he's trying desperately not to shake. He clings, hands grasping at Charles's shirt and burying his face in his neck like everything will go away if he can't see it.

Sometimes, it sends Charles spiraling down a rabbit hole, wondering how Edwin held himself up long enough to run in hell when he always shakes so hard during these episodes. His legs wouldn't carry his weight right now if they stood up, he'd go right back down.

It's not something he likes to think too much about, especially when Edwin needs him to hold it together.

Sometimes Edwin cries. Sometimes he begs. Sometimes the only noise is a frantic wheezing.

Charles pulls his legs up more and wraps his arms around Edwin tighter, curling around him as much as he can. He urges him to keep his face tucked away, pets at his hair, and strokes his thumb over his arm. He presses his lips agaist any skin close enough, and starts talking. Soft, and hardly even audible but it always helps.

He talks about everything and anything he can think off. Stories, memories, comforts, praises.

He tells Edwin that he's been absolutely brills to handle this alone before Charles got back, but he's here now and if Edwin needs to just hide away for a little bit, that was fine. Charles has him. Nothing is going to get him.

He's glad Edwin doesn't remember much from these episodes, panic making everything too hazy to understand when he tries. He just knows how they end, usually with the two of them tangled up somewhere, because Charles refuses to let Edwin go until he's completely back to himself but that's as far as he can usually recall.

Charles would crack open his ribcage and let Edwin hide in there if it'd keep him safe.

🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜🌜

Frantically scribbled this down during work so please forgive any errors. Got lots of ideas hanging around my head and little time to type them out 🤔

Gotta love all that trau~ma!

[churipu]

THE MOMENT THEY REALIZE THEY'RE IN LOVE ִ ࣪𖤐

featuring. gojo satoru, sukuna ryomen, itadori yuuji, toji fushiguro x reader

warnings. cursing, college! au, toji being a single father during his second term of uni (i searched that most japanese college uses 2 terms or trimester system / 3 terms, 1 term of uni in japan is around 15 weeks apparently) -> please tell me if i get this wrong.

note. omg, for the anons who have sent in requests to me, i apologize if these came out before your requests did, i'm trying to empty out my drafts :( but pls note that i am not ignoring your requests at all, it will be written, i promise <;33

GOJO SATORU

when he finds himself checking his phone countless of times, waiting for your message

i promise you, you both started out as work partners in one of your lectures. the two of you were complete strangers to each other — he doesn't know you, and you don't know him. but, either way, the two of you had to get to know each other because this was a crucial grade to pass this lecture.

gojo never thought about having feelings towards you, his work partner. he thought to himself, he'd just get this work done, pass this lecture, and never see you again.

but fate is a funny thing.

the way you made him feel like he wasn't just special because of his face, but his heart too. whereas most people in campus would consider him the pretty boy who could go head-to-head with the hottest celebrities — they just think of him as a pretty boy. and gojo would just go along with them, he gets used to it.

but you? you didn't consider him special at all. although, you did make him feel special the way other people can't.

gojo deep down, knows he was fucked up the moment he finds himself checking his phone to see if you'd reply to his messages, and when you do, he gets so happy. gojo was never a fast responder to everyone — because he practically receives the same kind of messages, "gojo hang out with us", "gojo go out with me", "gojo i like you".

but with you? he won't waste a second at all. even if sometimes you didn't reply as fast as he does, because you are a busy person in campus. you'll work on that after you both started dating, i promise.

SUKUNA RYOMEN

when you stood up for him when nobody would.

sukuna, how do i say this? not everyone is fond of him, people are scared of him — they talk shit behind his back, and don't dare to approach him. people dreaded when they have to be in the same group with him, despite the fact that he actually works; they still think he's a bad person.

"you guys are talking shit to a person who's in our group, if you want to say something to him, have the balls to say it to his face. and while he's here, why don't you tell him about it?" you tell the two people who were sitting beside you, who had been talking in whispers about how they were unlucky to be grouped up with sukuna.

and sukuna? he could honestly care less, he'd gotten used to those kind of things anyway. but when you actually stood up for him, he could only look at you with an amused smile.

he's definitely curious about you after that day — he has pride. and he'd never admit that he's actually pretty thankful that you, the first person to stand up for him, actually did what you did. because now people are a little terrified of being told off by you.

sukuna finally sucks it up at the end of the semester and tries to talk to you. yes, it took him the whole semester to talk to you, asking you for your number, and then thanking you for what you did because nobody has ever done that before to him.

ITADORI YUUJI

when you went all out to tutor him so he'd pass his lectures, teaching him patiently when he doesn't understand something.

yuuji hates studying. and when his lecturer asked you to tutor him, he feels extremely bad for you — he feels that he'd just going to waste your time tutoring him, when he knows that he's going to fail this one subject.

but when you reassured him, and encouraged him. saying that you will do anything to teach him so that he could pass, he gets a little emotional at the thought. you both were just mere classmates, and he barely knows you, vice versa.

when he doesn't understand a topic, he gets so frustrated at himself for not being able to understand it. but you, you were very patient with the male, reassuring him that you had the time to teach him over so that he will be able to understand the said topic.

and when he does finally understand, he gets so happy. he started looking forwards to your tutoring sessions, and like everyone said: if you enjoy something, it passes by quickly. and it's true, yuuji feels like time went by in a flash, and the exams soon started.

he passed with flying colors, he makes sure that you know about his grades — and points out that without you, he wouldn't be able to pass. yuuji, gets a little upset when he realizes that if the exams are over, you had no more tutoring sessions with him; which meant no more conversations.

so he has to ask you out right then, he didn't want to just return as mere classmates. he wanted to be more than that.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

when you didn't care about his shitty reputation of being a single father while still being on the second term of uni.

being a single parent is hard enough. not to mention, in university. not married, with a baby itself gets a lot of unwanted (negative) attention — toji, who once failed to get a babysitter on a weekday, and so he had to bring his eight month old son to class.

his son—megumi— was a calm baby, thankfully. the young one didn't cry or babble during lectures, and he just slept through it. toji was a little relieved to say the least, but ever since people find out about him being a single father to an eight month old baby, a lot of assumptions and words have gone around.

toji hated group works, especially when he has to pick the group himself. people didn't want a single father to be in their group, they assumed that the male would focus on his baby and ends up deserting the group work.

so when that particular day where he has to bring megumi to campus, strapped on a baby carrier on his chest. his lecturer just had to give out a partner work, and to add the cherry on top; the lecturer left the class to choose their own partner. so the male sat on his place, a pencil in between his nose and upper lip as he puckered them lightly — hearing his classmates choosing each other.

he figured that he could just do this and get the grade himself, solo. but when you came up and slipped into the seat next to him, he was of course surprised.

you asked him if he would like to partner up with you for this work, and after a few seconds, he accepted your offer.

toji knew it was getting bad when you didn't care about what people say about you getting close to him. just by choosing him for this work made your reputation falter a bit, and he was honestly ready for you to back out of the partner work.

but you didn't, and he knew it's bad for him, his feelings, and his heart.

the way you treated him and megumi like they're both normal (which they are normal humans), and the way you always make him feel included makes his heart race. sometimes, when he fails to look for a babysitter when you both are working for this project, you tell him he didn't have to since megumi is a calm baby.

he finds himself in awe when baby megumi plays with you during both of your little meet ups outside of class to do the project. he's in love.

© CHURIPU 2024 , DO NOT COPY OR REPOST ANYWHERE

[leashybebes]

Idk, maybe it is a little odd but "♟: Patching up a wound", if you want :)

may i offer you a little superhero au in these trying times? don't blame me, blame lou's goddamn superman jawline

"Buck, I'm sending someone to your apartment," Athena says, with no preamble.

"Uh…what? Who?"

"Don't ask questions. He needs stitches."

"He needs stitches? Shouldn't you send him to Hen or Chim or - or a hospital?"

"What did I just say about asking questions? Hen and Chimney aren't options. He should be with you in fifteen minutes. He'll have equipment, but get your first aid kit just in case."

"Wait, Athena - "

"Bye, Buck."

The night is as dark and quiet as it ever gets in downtown LA. Buck paces up and down the loft a couple of times, never straying far from the front door. Which is why he doesn't hear anything to give him any warning before there's a single, loud thump from the balcony, followed by a groan that's audible even through the closed glass.

By the time he gets to the door, a figure is pulling itself to its feet, using Buck's outdoor furniture for help.

What the fuck, Buck thinks, but opens the door anyway.

"Athena send you?" he checks.

"A lot of men fall from the roof onto your balcony?" A deep voice asks, sounding pained. What the hell has Athena gotten him into?

"Fair," Buck says, and hurries to get one shoulder under the guy's arm, hauling him further upright and helping him stagger inside.

In the light of the loft, he can see that the guy has some kind of cowl covering most of his face, just a strong jaw where a bruise is starting to blossom and a cleft chin and a pair of pink lips set into a firm line. The cowl is the same dark blue as the rest of his outfit which is some kind of…jumpsuit maybe, with flashes of silver at the wrists and - hooooooly shit.

"Holy shit," Buck breathes, unable to help himself. "You're The Pilot!"

"No autographs, kid."

"Athena hates you!"

"Sergeant Grant and I have a complicated professional relationship," The Pilot says, while Buck bites back approximately a million questions. "She said you would be able to help."

"I mean - I haven't actually given anyone stitches before," Buck admits. "But I've watched Hen and Chim - I work with them, they're paramedics - I've watched them do it like a hundred times. I don't know why Athena didn't send you to one of them…" he says, fishing a little.

"Long story," The Pilot says, and Buck helps him get seated on one of the kitchen stools. "You were closer."

"Okay," Buck says. "What's the damage?"

"Knife got through a couple of plates in the suit."

"Wait, this thing is armor plated? That's so cool!"

"Glad you approve. Here." The Pilot pulls at a previously invisible join in his suit, revealing a long gash across his ribs. It's bleeding sluggishly, not too deep, but the skin around it is angrily red.

"That might get infected," Buck says, chewing his lip.

"Need you to clean it. Please."

"Okay," Buck says. "Do you want some water?"

"That…would be great, actually."

He drinks from the glass of water Buck hands him while Buck works on cleaning the wound. He tries his best to be gentle but the guy doesn't even flinch. Which, of course he doesn't. He's a literal superhero. There is a literal superhero in Buck's loft and he can't help it anymore.

"I've seen you before," he says. "On scenes. I'm a firefighter."

"I know."

"Athena, right, of course." Buck washes his hands again and gets what he needs from the first aid kit.

"Before we get started, can I ask you a question?"

The Pilot shrugs. "You can ask."

Buck takes a deep breath. "Where do you get your suits? And why do you do this? And can you really fly? And what's your real name?"

Through the gap in the cowl, pretty blue eyes blink at him. "That wasn't a question. I can't tell you where I get the suits or what my real name is. I can fly light aircraft and helicopters but I can't fly fly. And I do this because people need help, and I can help."

"That's so cool. My name's Evan Buckley, by the way."

"Hi, Evan Buckley." The Pilot's lips curve into a smile for the first time. "Great to meet you. Now can you stitch me up before I bleed on your floor?"