#note de lecture

[petit-atelier-de-poesie]

NOTE DE LECTURE : Le muguet rouge. Christian Bobin. 2022

Christian Bobin nous offre un petit livre empreint de douceur et de mélancolie. C'est encore plus émouvant de savoir que cet ouvrage est le dernier de son oeuvre et qu'il l'a écrit alors qu'il était déjà bien malade et se préparait à la mort. 

La mort est bien le thème qui traverse ses pensées, mais avec poésie et gratitude pour cette vie d'écriture et d'humilité qui a caractérisé cet auteur. Le muguet rouge est la fleur et la couleur qui émanent de sa production, métaphores de la joie du renouveau, de la vivacité de la jeunesse, de son espoir d'un au-delà et de l'éternité que la littérature lui offrira désormais. 

Ce n'est donc pas un livre triste, bien au contraire, c'est un recueil de souvenirs, de poésie et de philosophie, où sont convoqués d'autres membres de sa famille et d'autres auteurs qui l'ont accompagné et apaisé jusqu'à cette ultime inspiration avant son dernier souffle.

[lepaillenqueue]

Si l'image m'était contée, que me dirait-elle?

[le-lecteur]

Ciel, horizon et citron sucré...

[ailatansstuff]

Fui a besarte y me empujaste. Sin mirar atrás, me fui. Quizá ya no quiero esperar más, quizá prefiero ocultar mi llanto y resignarme, que tristeza.

Me dices que sabes, que sientes, que viste… ¿Por qué veo otra cosa en tus ojos? Después me lo haces saber, pero ¿es lo mismo? Es una vajilla rota que se vuelve a armar por encima, ni siquiera es algo que parezca estar bien. Es lo que es. Supongo que sabes lo que es, y yo tengo que tragarme eso cada noche.

Me dices que chocan, que chocas. Dejemos las indirectas. Yo también choqué y no pienso reprimirme más solo para mantenernos en paz. Te fuiste, y no creo que bese tan mal. Duele más saber que no fue por eso tu brusco gesto. No hay reclamo, pero me estoy acabando. ¿Qué vamos a hacer? No respondas.

¿Cómo te digo que no te acabes nunca? Y que, si desaparezco, me busques cuando estés en otro cuerpo. Se me ven los huesos, pero me siento pesada. Quizá tú me ves completamente distinta y yo no puedo hacer nada. Me resto para que tengas de sobra, y aun así, sigo siendo un hueso. Sí, me cuesta trabajo soltar e imaginar todo distinto.

¿Estaremos a la defensiva? No eres tan sabio(a) como crees, siempre analizando, sintiendo que eres superior, más inteligente. Creo que no aplicarías lo mismo en otras circunstancias. Teniendo en cuenta muchas situaciones, ha sido intuitivo para mí reconocer ese trato.

Y ¿cómo te explico que ni yo sé exactamente dónde me rompiste? No quiero sucumbir a eso ni desmoronarme más. No me digas que lo sientes, muéstrame que sientes, qué harás, si cambiarás algo significativo y exclusivamente para ti, por ti. Si lo veo, pensaré que tal vez sea posible con todo lo demás.

¿Será? Es algo que me pregunto, pero tú eres tú y quizá yo apenas te estoy conociendo ahora. Tal vez necesito otra primera cita contigo, porque no logro entender lo que me dices. Salúdame como la primera vez y ríe sin esperar lo mismo una y otra vez. Olvida mi ser, pues ya está muy quemado en ti.

Quisiera que olvidaras muchas cosas de mí. Te amo mucho, pero quiero que volvamos a gustarnos. Siento que a veces no nos disfrutamos del todo. Sé de tu amor, ni lo dudo, pero me refiero a las mil y un emociones y sentimientos que nos tenemos.

La noche, la mañana, el día, la madrugada… ¿Tristeza? Solo me la quito con algo banal. Ya está. La noche de luna llena quedó vacía, en la palma quedó. Pero es porque estaba triste por todo lo que pasó contigo.

¿Me rompiste el corazón? ¿Tristeza? Mi amor quedó en la palma de mi mano, lo dejé en una noche de luna llena sobre una pieza blanca que ya no es tan blanca. Un trazo triste por ti. La última lágrima que lloré siempre será por ti. Y lo peor es que ni yo sé dónde me rompiste… ni tampoco pienso que bese tan mal.

[chamelierfou]

Note de lecture : La Femme au temps des cathédrales

Régine Pernoud est sans doute la plus grande médiéviste du XXème siècle. Contrairement à Georges Duby, elle aborde cette époque sans parti pris et avec une passion nettement plus chaude que ne le fait Jacques Le Goff, sans sacrifier néanmoins à une pesante érudition. Le Moyen-Âge est encore trop souvent abordé avec des lunettes déformantes qui ne font pas percevoir tout l'intérêt que présente cette période aux temps, toujours actuelles, où l'Occident se demande où il va, sans vraiment savoir d'où il vient. La thèse de l'autrice se résume à ceci : le Moyen-Âge a été une période d'émancipation de la Femme, et c'est la Renaissance, tant encensée pour son prétendu humanisme, qui a marqué un recul de la condition féminine.

Car il faut bien reconnaître que les racines chrétiennes de l'Occident, sans pour autant que cette expression ne nie d'aucune façon les apports orientaux, notamment ceux de l'Islâm, ont poussées dans le terreau fertile du sacrifice de ces premières chrétiennes, canonisées pour certaines, par l'institution ecclésiale. L'une échappe à la volonté autoritaire du rejeton barbare du pater familial romain pour vivre son chemin spirituel, l'autre fait plier le genou de son royal mari devant le Dieu vivant, une troisième, enfin, fonde à elle seule, une lignée spirituelle sous la forme déconcertante aujourd'hui d'un couvent. Mais si un personnage historique synthétise et irradie toutes les facettes de la féminité au Moyen-Âge, c'est bien Aliénor d'Aquitaine. Mère de onze enfants, épouse du Roi de France, puis du Roi d'Angleterre après avoir fait plier le Pape à son propre désir, véritable Dame inspiratrice des poètes, et poétesse elle-même, administratrice hors pair non seulement de ses biens propres, mais encore, de ceux de la Nation toute entière quand l'intérêt supérieur de cette dernière l'exige. Pas un gramme de la viridité d'Aliénor n'a été sacrifié sur l'autel de la raison d'État, montrant ainsi, par l'example, combien l'incompatibilité entre pouvoir et féminité, qu'on entend si souvent résonner au prétendu Grand Siècle, n'est pas fondée. 

On dira peut-être que cela ne concerne que quelques femmes exceptionnelles et pas la majorité d'entre elles. Rappelons ici, à la suite de Mme Pernoud, que, dans l'institution médiévale du mariage, les femmes choisissent leur mari et que, dans le cadre de ce sacrement, le prêtre n'est qu'un témoin. Rappelons aussi que les femmes travaillent à leur propre bonheur, dans ce cadre ou dans un autre, et quand la femme est possédante de biens, elle n'est en rien une potiche sous l'autorité despotique de son mari ou une dominatrice, avide de concupiscence.

Et il nous faut bien en revenir aux raisons historiques du dénigrement systématique du Moyen-Âge. Le Siècle des Lumières, et le positivisme républicain à sa suite, ont du, pour effacer l'apport intellectuel de l'Église, produire un véritable arsenal de dénigrement de cette époque obscure. Nous ne nions certes pas que l'institution ecclésiastique ait pu commettre certains abus lors du sacrement de la confession, en nourrissant malicieusement la culpabilité des ouailles, mais il n'en demeure pas moins que ce sont bien les acquis intellectuels de l'Église qui étaient ainsi visées.

Un ouvrage salutaire donc, qui ne cède rien au détriment de l'exactitude historique ni de la plénitude de ce que fut la Femme aux temps des cathédrales.

[tonycries]

Go For It, Gojo! - G.S.

Synopsis. You wouldn’t fuck Gojo Satoru even if you were paid… …is what you thought exactly five minutes before you were shoved against the wall of this cramped closet, his face stuffed in your soaked panties.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, academic rivals to lovers, student president! reader, unprotected sex, banter about physics, cunnilingus, oral sex (male + female), 7 minutes in heaven, college! AU, 69, Satoru is a tease down bad for you (and has a big dick), overstimulation, pet names (sweetheart, hardass), swearing.

Word count. 10.2k

A/N. I really don’t like physics. Art by @_3aem on X.

Life truly has an awful sense of humor - almost as bad as Gojo’s, which you discovered on the first day of Advanced Quantum Physics. 

The air charged with nervous energy and the scent of freshly printed syllabi, you quickly snag a seat right at the front row of Professor Yaga’s class. 

Ah, you’ll never forget how peaceful those few seconds to yourself after introductions were - before the devil incarnate dramatically swung open those lecture hall doors and plopped himself down right next to you. Late. 

“Any closer to Yaga and you’d be fucking his wife, y’know.” a voice hums from beside you, shattering your daydreams of passing this class with flying colors and riding a wave of glory into becoming a Nobel prize-winning physicist. 

With a slight scowl, you turn your attention to the source of disturbance - only to meet eyes with (self-proclaimed) campus sweetheart, Satoru Gojo, leaning on his chair with an air of nonchalance. At your silence, he repeats, “I said any closer-”

“I heard what you said.” you snap, irritation flaring at the amused twinkle in his blue eyes and the mirthful grin that spreads across his lips at your reaction. “Doesn’t erase the fact that you’re sitting here too.” you raise a brow.

“Oh me? That’s because I’m already fucking his wife, sweetheart.” he deadpans with a blank expression. 

What? The tense silence that follows is deafening - for the first time ever in your life, you were shocked into speechlessness. 

A beat passes. One. Two. Before Gojo bursts into hysterics, clutching his stomach. “You- you shoulda seen the look on your face- HAHAHA-” he gets out between uncontrollable laughs. Face burning, you train your eyes forward and will yourself to not glance at the 6’3 mess cackling beside you.

Ugh. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Just think happy thoughts - kittens, quantum mechanics, being valedictorian. Desperately attempting to block out the giggling thorn at your side, you recoil at Professor Yaga’s extremely disapproving look in your direction. 

Panicking, and dreams of being his ace student slowly flushing down the drain, you quickly flip through your notes, attempting to catch up to where the lecture had now started. 

“Looks like we’re in trouble, partner~” Gojo’s dramatic stage-whisper catches the attention of students around you, them chuckling at your expense. 

“Hey, you’re the student president, right? Hey~ Heyyy prez~” As Professor Yaga continues his spiel about the syllabus, you continue to very obviously ignore the incessant comments that spill out of Gojo’s lips, to stifled laughs from his fast-forming entourage. 

The harder you tried to focus on Professor Yaga’s words, the louder and more absurd Gojo’s comments became - as if he’d made it his personal mission to enrage you. A sense of impending doom looming over you, you glare at him with a look that could’ve melted steel, hissing out, “Do you ever in your life shut the fuck up?”

Eyes widening in mock innocence, he grins “Oh~ I didn't know our student prez could get so feisty. Maybe I should take notes instead of doodling hearts around your name in my notebook.”

Ears ringing in embarrassment and frustration, and mind a whirlwind of how bad it would really be if you killed Gojo right here, you almost miss Professor Yaga’s question, “Now, would anyone here be able to discuss the interpretations in the debate between the Copenhagen interpretation and the Pilot-Wave theory?”

Teetering on the edge of your seat, you raise your hand, scrambling to salvage whatever is left of your academic reputation. You and- Gojo?

You start at the call of your name from Professor Yaga, “The Copenhagen Interpretation uses Heisenberg's uncertainty principle and emphasizes measurement to state that quantum-level particles can act as both waves and particles. It’s the most widely accepted and pragmatic theory.”

Gojo basically falls out of his seat in eagerness to answer after you.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Gojo.” 

You internally groan, ready for whatever bullshit was about to come out of his mouth. 

With a deep breath, “Not to be the devil’s advocate but the Pilot-Wave theory makes way more sense practically.”

Professor Yaga raises an intrigued eyebrow at Gojo’s statement, the class collectively holds a breath - as if awaiting the impending academic battlefield.

Gojo, with a cocky grin, plows on, “Think about it. The Pilot-Wave theory suggests that particles have definite positions and paths, unlike the uncertainty principle of the Copenhagen Interpretation. It's like predicting where a ball will land after you throw it, rather than saying it could be anywhere until you look."

Oh? He wasn’t a complete idiot?

Yet, you roll your eyes, “But the Pilot-Wave theory is too fanciful, it brings in too many hidden variables that have their own set of problems. It goes against the measurements and principles of locality!”

Unbothered by the challenge, Gojo leans back further in his chair, “What’s a couple complications? It’s a lot clearer on a microscopic level, none of that weird uncertainty of the Copenhagen Interpretation.”

Irritation running through your veins, you scoff at his condescending tone, “It might seem intuitive, but experiments and observations support the probabilistic nature of quantum mechanics.” You’re almost out of your chair at this point, an accusing finger pointed at Gojo. “Despite its weirdness, the Copenhagen Interpretation has proven successful in predicting outcomes.” 

“Oh yeah? And it’s also only used by hardasses that just want to shut up and calculate, sweetheart.”

“Big talk for a little bi-” 

“OKAY STUDENTS, that’s enough for now. Let’s put a pin in this discussion and move on with the topic.” Professor Yaga, who had been watching the debate with amusement, promptly ends it once you two begin to get overly heated. 

The rest of the class, on the edge of their seats and probably hoping for some fists swinging between the academic titans, now sit back in disappointment at the fight cut off early. 

You sit back in indignation, fuming at how Gojo had gotten you so worked up. And he was wrong too! 

The lecture continues as if you two were never two curse words away from each other’s throats. 

But, in the midst of it all, your glare meets blue, sparkling with amusement - a jolt of electricity runs through your body at the glint of recognition of the other’s brilliance. An unspoken yet undeniable competition.

You’ve avoided Gojo like the plague for the past few months since then - which isn’t doing much when said plague follows you around everywhere with incessant calls of “Hey, hardass prez~”. The only time you seek him out being to gloatingly show off the large, red “100” on your tests - to which, unfortunately, he does the same. 

It’s stupid. It’s childish. Honestly, sometimes you think he just tries to get under your skin for the hell of it.

But you don’t have the time to think too deeply into that.

Just like you don’t have time for this frat party. 

Music and alcohol thrumming through your veins, it’s always the same thing. You’d rather be holed up getting ahead of your physics textbook than be here. Yet, you owed a favor to your friend Haibara - and he’d been bugging you to come to this party for weeks now. 

You’ll just stay another hour then leave, you sigh.

Zoning out as Haibara plays an overly-intense game of beer pong, you’re startled by an arm around your shoulder. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our lil’ prez looking like she’d rather peel paint than be here.” The expensive cologne hits you before the realization of who this was. “Drooling over the jocks? I recommend the STEM majors, sweetheart, jocks aren’t that great in bed.”

Quickly shrugging off his arm, you scowl, “Not like STEM majors are any better. And unlike some people, I have goals beyond being the life of the party.”

Decked out in slacks and a slightly too-unbuttoned shirt, Gojo chuckles, “Yeah, like what? Banishing fun?” Cerulean eyes gleaming with mischief, “You gotta let loose for once, sweetheart. Not everything in life is about academics and accolades.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes “Well not like I-” but whatever snarky retort gets caught in your throat as Gojo seizes your hand, effortlessly pulling you onto the dance floor. 

Caught off guard, you can do nothing more than sputter in surprise as he leans down to murmur in your ear, above the bass reverberating the walls, “C’mon hardass, sometimes in life, you just gotta- dance!” 

Gojo spins you into a dramatic dip, his silver chain brushing your face and his hand on your back burning into your skin.

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment - yeah, embarrassment - as the people around you cheer in amusement at the science department’s biggest rivals navigating the dance floor with surprising chemistry.

This was ridiculous. And yet, music ringing in your ears, you almost crack a smile. Almost. That is until your eye catches Haibara’s surprised ones from the side of the dance floor. Wait - here you were dancing with Gojo. 

Gojo pain-in-your-ass Satoru.

Immediately pushing him off with a hand to his chest, you don’t listen to whatever spills out of his mouth as you make your way to Haibara, disappearing with him into the crowd.  

“Hey, hey you okay? Wasn’t that the guy you were manifesting would step on Lego with his bare foot?” Haibara’s concerned voice speaks up from wherever you were dragging him through this sprawling frat house. 

“Ugh, yeah. Sorry about that, I don’t even- Anyway, how did the beer pong go?” you snap out of your reverie. What happened there? You were almost…enjoying yourself with Gojo Satoru of all people. 

Listening to Haibara brag about his dominating beer pong win thankfully took your mind off of your little endeavor with Gojo. 

“And then Yuji totally-”

“AH, THERE YOU ARE! Perfect, come join we’re two people short!” your kinda-friend Shoko’s drunken drawl breaks through the conversation. You can barely get a word out as she forcefully drags you two into a dimly lit room against your protests. 

The atmosphere heavy with beer and laughter, she plops you two down onto the floor in a neat circle of people before taking her seat beside you. “GREAT! Now we’ve got everyone, we can finally start.”

With a mischievous grin, Shoko declares, “Alrighty, folks! Time for the ol’ classic - we’re playing 7 minutes in heaven!” pulling out an old-fashioned, tattered hat from behind her back, to a collective mix of groans and cheers from the circle. 

“Where did you even find that ratty old thing, Shoko?” a sharply handsome man - Geto, you think - chuckles from his seat opposite you. And beside him- your heart stops. Gojo.

A smirk curling his lips and twinkling blue eyes locked on you. 

As if on instinct, you move to get up - only to be brought back down by a hand on your wrist. “Nuh-uh, no one’s escaping, c’mon it’ll be fun.” Shoko smirks, beginning to hand out pieces of paper to write down your names.

Apprehension pooling in your stomach, you share a glance with Haibara, who was honestly just happy to be here. Reluctantly, you scrawl down your name, tension building as it drops into the abyss of the hat.

“As our first attempted escapee, I think the prez should go first.” that agitating voice you knew too well speaks up. If looks could kill, Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing all over his grave with a textbook on the Copenhagen Interaction. 

To agreeing laughter - and your impending doom - the hat is promptly placed in front of you. God, you knew you should’ve stayed home. With a shaky hand, you delve in, grasping onto a slightly crumpled piece of paper.

Not Gojo. Please not Gojo. Literally anyone but Gojo- 

Turning it over.

Satoru Gojo.

You jolt in surprise, rereading the hasty handwriting over and over - as if willing it to change. This must be some kind of sick joke. Eyes meeting Gojo’s, a flash of surprises passes his face before a self-satisfied grin takes over. He looked way too fucking pleased with himself.

“No fucking way.” Shoko mutters as it dawns on the group just who you were paired up with. Cheers and wolf-whistles erupt, filling the room as Satoru stands up extending a hand theatrically towards you. “If her highness the student prez would do me the utmost pleasure of joining me.”

You scoff, jeez it would be a surprise if you two didn’t kill each other in there. “Unless she’s…intimidated?” he bats his long lashes at you mockingly.

Intimidated? Of who? Swatting away Gojo’s hand, you stand up. “Intimidated? Don’t make me laugh.” 

He leans down, retorting, “I’ve tried but you don’t seem to know how.”. The room holds their breath, attention squarely on the two of you.

A beat of silence passes as you glare at him. You really could smack his annoyingly pretty face right now, but you shouldn’t - too many witnesses. 

“Now now, you two. Save it for the closet.” 

Ever the mediator, Geto ushers you two in the direction of the - very cramped - closet tucked into a corner of the room. 

Before you know it, the creak of the heavy wooden door rings in your ears as the door closes behind you. The loud click of a lock resonates, plunging you two into darkness. 

The muffled sounds of the party seem miles away as you try to focus on your breathing - trying not to let your mind drift to Gojo. You could feel the heat of his body, the ghost of his presence less than a foot away from you.

“So…” you flinch as Gojo’s voice cuts through the deafening silence. “You still alive and breathing after being trapped in a tiny closet with me?”

You huff, desperately wanting to break out of this closet, “Yes, but you probably won’t be if you don’t stay on your side.”

“This closet is barely a closet, there’s no ‘side’, sweetheart. And that’s my leg you’re resting on.”

You immediately scramble to move away from the warmth of Gojo’s leg that you’d been subconsciously leaning yours on. In the chaos, you probably did a bit more damage than solving. “Ah! Wait- watch the crown jewels, hardass.” 

You distance yourself as much as possible in the small space, knee burning where it had brushed up against Gojo’s that.

God, you were making a fool of yourself.

“As much as I like forceful women, you better take me out on a date first, sweetheart.” As your eyes adjusted to the dim lighting filtering in through the slight crack of the door, you could make out that signature playful grin. 

Your irritation simmers beneath the surface. Gojo always knew how to get under your skin. 

“Don’t you worry your empty lil’ head, I wouldn’t fuck you even if I was paid.” you bite back.

“Oh yeah?” Gojo leans in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “You sure about that, prez? I’ve been told that I’m irresistible.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah, irresistibly hard to not smack.” 

“I always did like ‘em feisty. Makes our little debates all the more interesting.”

“Our debates would be a lot more interesting if you learned to keep that big mouth shut.”

“Oh? C’mon, prez, you love this ‘big mouth’. And you love the challenge. I see the way you look for me every time you answer one of Yaga’s questions, y’know.” Gojo murmurs, gaze piercing into yours.

He leans in closer - now definitely not on his side of the closet. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it chemistry. Admit it and I might consider not calling you ‘hardass’ for a whole week.”

“What- That’s just because- I’d rather be called ‘hardass’ for a lifetime than admit to having any chemistry with you. I can’t even tolerate you for seven minutes here.” you sputter at both his proximity and his (absurd) accusations.

“As the student prez, isn’t your entire job to tolerate everyone? You’re a walking contradiction, sweetheart.”

“I am not. You have no effect on me.” you protest, standing firm. In the heat of your argument, you and Gojo have drawn closer to each other. His breath now fanning your face as he hums, voice a seductive tease, “I do, admit it. There’s a part of you that likes our chemistry.”

A defiant spark ignites in your eyes, “I’ll admit no such thing.”

“Then…hit me like I know you want to if you don’t want this.” he whispers, voice breathless. He closes the distance.

Gojo’s lips meet yours. 

Soft, they were so soft. 

Your heartbeat thundering in surprise, a hand raising to - to what? Smack him away? Eyes fluttering closed, your hand fists his shirt, the other subconsciously finding its way to his cloudy locks. Tugging. Kissing him back. 

Satoru kisses you like he’ll never be able to again. Because, he knows - he probably won’t.

Lips searing against yours, his eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste. Sweet - so sweet - just like candy, with a hint of Baileys and everything that he’ll never be able to have. 

A strangled groan leaves his throat when you bite down on his lips. Tugging with your teeth. Shit, fuck him and his bigass ego, he wanted to be the one showing off his irresistibility but really it’s the other way around. 

Mouth opening to let you in, he drinks in your gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours. Large hands on your face pulling you impossibly closer to him in this godforsaken closet. It was dizzying - almost as if it hurt to part, drawn by that familiar magnetism that always seems to hang around you.

Lost in the heat of the moment, Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body. Groping and squeezing every curve and dip - he doesn’t have enough time. He probably never will.

A hand rests firmly on your hips. Awaiting. Breaking away - just a fraction - he breathes out urgently into your lips, “I need to taste you. Let me taste you. Please.”

“Desperate, huh?”

Your gaze pierces through him, it always does. Immediately after your disoriented nod, he presses a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. God, he could do this forever.

You shudder as he hastily bunches your tight dress at your hips, sending blood rushing straight to his cock. Shit, this was not how he expected these 7 minutes to go.

Hurriedly falling to his knees, the pain doesn’t even register when he comes face-to-face with your clothed cunt. Panties already so wet - just for him. Cock twitching carnally, he needed to taste you now. 

Tongue flattening across your swollen folds through your underwear, just a slight taste of your wet pussy and Satoru already thinks he might pass out. Ah, so good - of course you taste heavenly.

“Ah! Gojo- more.”

Pulling away, he feels drunk off the whimper of disappointment that escapes your mouth. “Call me Satoru.” he hums, fingers deftly sliding your soaked panties down your legs. His hot breath fanning your entrance has you clenching your thighs together, desperate for any friction.

Mouth watering at this, Satoru curses the darkness inside the closet - can’t even admire your pretty pussy right. You flinch as his face meets your cunt. Shit, this was better than he’d ever imagined on those lonely nights pathetically fucking his fist.

He breathes you in so sinfully, tongue sliding teasingly between your folds in a leisurely rhythm that almost has him forgetting however many minutes you two have left. Frankly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it either. Sinful squelches fill the confined space, along with your quiet moans of his name. 

“Hngh- S-Satoru. Feel s’good. Faster.” 

Ah, it’s really music to his ears. Your voice plays on repeat in his mind. He doesn’t even realize the call from outside until you look down at him, eyes dazed and kiss-bitten lips moving to panickedly mutter, “Satoru, we only have three more minutes.”

Ah, guess he’ll have to take his time in his dreams. 

“I only need two.” Satoru purrs, lips ghosting your wet core, voice sending goosebumps down your spine - all the way down to your dripping cunt. 

“W-well, stop hngh- running your mouth then.” you retort.

Satoru’s smirk against your plush folds is the last thing you see before he dives nose-deep in your pussy. He doesn’t waste time, tongue dipping in and out of your hole at an unforgiving pace. In and out in and out in and-

“Hah- yes! Satoru jus’ like that!” you hiss out, desperately trying to keep the moans ripping from your throat to a minimum, in fear of the others outside hearing. 

Noticing, Satoru snakes a hand up to your mouth - bullying his ringed-fingers in through your swollen lips. His index caresses your tongue, speeding up his movements on your pretty pussy as you gag around him. Moans catch in your throat as you struggle to accommodate him, the pleasure of being stretched from two ends too much. 

Satoru only has to take one look - tears clinging to your lashes and drool trickling down the corner of your mouth as you suck on his fingers - before he thinks he might just cum in his pants. Fuck, it was so lewd. 

You tighten your grasp on his hair, sure that your knees would give out if it wasn’t for the bruising grip he had on your hips, keeping you firmly on his mouth. Unable to run away. 

Shit, for someone so tight-laced, you were so messy on his mouth. He moans as your slick pools in his mouth, dripping down the corners of his lips. The  tap! tap! tap! of it hitting the hardwood floor rings deafeningly in his ears.

Ah, so this is why they call it 7 minutes in heaven. Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind dying if it was in between your legs being suffocated by your cunt. 

Your entrance clamps down desperately on his tongue, forcing him to bully it into your snug pussy, fucking you unrelentingly. His nose rubbing against your swollen clit over and over. 

At this point, Satoru doesn’t know whether the pulse he feels is that of his heartbeat or your cunt, throbbing and achingly needy for his mouth. His nose stimulates your clit just right, sending shockwaves through your body that have you bucking into him for more.

Voice slightly muffled by his fingers, “Fuck- Satoru, keep going. Hngh- I’m gonna cum!” 

The way your walls desperately try to fuck his tongue has his cock straining so painfully against his trousers. Satoru increases his abuse on your cunt mercilessly, the harsh pace making you squeal and buck into his face. Your juices are now all over his mouth, gushing around his tongue. In and out in and out in and out-

“Satoru!”

You cum hard - all over Satoru’s pretty face.

Now, Satoru loves when you run your mouth and infuriate him, but he might just love it even more when you’re falling apart and speechless under his touch. 

Riding out your high on his features, you can feel yourself quivering around his tongue as he laps up your juices as if it were a delicacy. Deep moans leaving his mouth and vibrating across your soaked cunt, making you jolt at the overstimulation.

Pulling back, Satoru admires your unfocused eyes and bruised lips. “For someone that so fucking despises me, your slutty pussy sure is sucking me in so desperately.” he murmurs, slightly out of breath after what just transpired. 

“Sh-shut up.”

Ah, if only he got to see this view more often. 

You can’t help but feel the same way. Seeing Satoru fucked out, vibrant eyes half-lidded and blown out, your slick prettily glossing all over his mouth and nose. A small voice in the back of your mind wishes he was more like this and not whatever he is when he’s getting on your nerves.

“ONE MORE MINUTE! Finish up whatever devil’s tango or death match y’all are having in there!”

Those troublesome thoughts are pushed out of your mind as soon as you hear Shoko call from outside.

The bubble is broken. Jumping apart as far as possible in the cramped closet, you press yourself into the closet wall as you two wordlessly rush to make yourselves slightly more presentable. The air, once charged with overflowing tension and sex, now so strained.

Bending down to feel for the panties that Satoru- no, Gojo had thrown god-knows-where, your hands graze his - still slightly wet with your spit. Snatching your hands back as if it burned, you make out Gojo’s figure pocketing something.

…

Your panties??

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss, face burning at both his actions and the idea of going outside without panties.

“Just think of it as repayment for the fun.” he hums, mirth spilling into his tone. And before you could snap at his antics, Shoko is ripping the door open and looking around the closet for what you can only assume to be missing body parts and blood.

“Aw, man. And here I was thinking Satoru would be six feet under by now.” she groans, walking off disappointedly - for which you were eternally grateful otherwise she’d have seen the few suspicious stains on the floor.

“Remember, you owe me twenty, Shoko.” Geto speaks up from the circle. Were they…betting on whether you and Gojo would kill each other in there?

Finally stepping out of that godforsaken closet, you catch the smirks and raised eyebrows from some of the people from the group.

Meeting Gojo’s eye, a smirk curls around his swollen lip as he swipes a thumb across it. Agonizingly slow. Teasing. 

Your cheeks flare, something pooling in your stomach. Ugh, this is why you hate frat parties.

“You alright, man? You look…flushed?” you hear Geto question, pointedly staring at Satoru’s slightly disheveled look.

It was all getting too much - the alcohol in the air, the thumping of the overplayed pop music, and him. You felt so lightheaded. Ripping your gaze from Gojo’s you leave without so much as a goodbye to him, only stopping for a reassuring nod at Haibara. You make a beeline for the exit, dashing out of there and down the winding staircase as fast as you could. 

Focused on navigating the packed party, you almost don’t register Gojo rushing after you. Ignoring whatever words were tumbling out of Gojo’s mouth, you silently thank the sorority that had just pulled up - clinging onto him in greeting, making it impossible to follow after you. 

The cool night air washes over you as you finally step outside. You sigh in relief as you leave the chaotic sounds of the party - and him - behind. 

Impatiently waiting for your friend on the way to pick you up, only two thoughts echo in your mind.

He actually only needed two minutes.

What the fuck?

Meanwhile, back in that heady room, Shoko nudges Suguru, the latter still watching in amusement where Satoru had run after you in the door. “Hm?” he asks, absent-mindedly.

“Why do most of these papers have Satoru’s name?”

---

You pass through the next morning in a daze. The hardest part was probably trying to get dressed without making eye contact with the purple finger marks on your hips that Sato- Gojo had left to remember him by.

You still can’t believe that happened. 

It’s alright, it was just a mistake in the heat of the moment - you just have to forget it ever happened, right? But that’s easier said than done when your last class of the day is Advanced Quantum Physics.

Cursing your timetable, you step through the crowded campus. You pull your sweater tighter around yourself, the fabric doing nothing to stop your skin searing where Gojo’s lips had been just last night.

Alright, you just had to get through this one class today. There’s a lot of people in Professor Yaga’s class - it’s not like you’ll necessarily see that bane of your existence-

“Yooo prez, fate just seems to bring us together hmm?” 

Gojo almost topples out of his chair, waving in your direction. As your eyes sweep across the room, you can feel your heart sinking. Shit, you really feel like you’re being Punk’d right now. 

Cursing whoever was up there for this cruel joke, you make your way to the desk beside Satoru’s - the only empty one. 

Slumping down onto the chair with a frustrated huff, you sink into yourself - eyes trained firmly forward and ignoring the playful grin in your peripheral vision.

To your surprise, Gojo doesn’t say a word throughout the lecture. Not a single comment about fucking any professor’s wife - or your cunt. Huh, did last night cause some type of qi deviation or something?

As Professor Yaga drones on about quantum entanglement, you find the words going in one ear and out the other, too focused on wondering what Gojo’s game was.

It’s only towards the end of the lecture, at the introduction of some new assignment that you find yourself finally letting your guard down. Okay, see, it wasn’t too bad. Now time to go back to your apartment and study whatever quantum entanglement was for the next five hours.

“Ah- And remember, the midterm assignment pairings are posted on Canvas.” 

What was that?

God, you hated working with other people. It was much more efficient for you to stay in and finish this paper in one sitting.

“So, partner~ My place or yours?”

What?

The bell rings, its metallic chime resonating in your mind almost as loud as Gojo’s words. Signaling the end of class - and probably the end of your sanity. 

You wish the ground would swallow you up at this very moment. These days have really not been your days.

---

“Literally what do you bring to the table?”

“Comedic relief and my undeniably good looks.”

“...”

“...and also the case study and background information.”

The air at the stuffy café just off-campus was a mixture of freshly ground coffee and hushed conversations - of course, occasionally disrupted by the chaotic debates that erupted from your little booth.

Not too long ago, as everyone moved to file out of the classroom, you were frozen, glaring at your open laptop so intensely you half-expected it to combust - scrutinizing the neat arrangement of Gojo’s name next to your own over a million times.  

Finally sighing in defeat, you nodded in surrender at Gojo - who was whooping in victory. But, you were still adamant on meeting somewhere in public. The last time you two were left alone ended up…interesting. 

“Then you do that and I’ll take care of the rest of the theoretical analysis and evaluation. Okay, sounds good, Gojo.” you deadpan, rubbing the sides of your forehead in frustration. 

“Ouch, no Satoru?”

Ignoring his comment, you promptly slam your laptop closed, gathering your things with a determined sigh. Ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cafe. “So you do that and put it on the doc, and I’ll do the same with my parts. See ya.”

That’s when you feel a large hand covering yours - the same one from- “Hey there now, hardass, stay a little longer - gotta make sure you don’t slander quantum entanglement in our essay the same way you do with the Pilot-Wave theory.” Gojo interrupts your intrusive train of thought. 

“What? Unlike you, I don’t slander any scientific theories. Although, I do think the idea of entangled particles jumping around like you do is hardly the hallmark of a stable scientific theory.” you retort, face burning but setting down your bag nonetheless.

Resting his face on his hands, he grins at you. “Oh yeah? I think stability is overrated, prez. Quantum entanglement challenges you because it’s a realm where your precious stability crumbles in the face of non-local correlations.”

God, was he glad he begged on his knees to Yaga to pair you two together. He was having way too much fun with this. 

“Just because particles can communicate faster than you can comprehend doesn't mean we should abandon reason.” you raise a brow. 

“Well, I think you should just embrace the uncertainty, sweetheart. Life is a game of chance, just like quantum entanglement.”

“Oh, really?” you drone out, sarcastically. 

“Yeah, think about it. For instance, I never thought I’d still be alive and breathing after last night. But here I am.” at your stunned silence, he continues. “I for sure thought you’d have the coffin ready as soon as I kissed y-”

You panickedly place your hands over his mouth to shut him up, those blue eyes twinkle in amusement. “When I said you had a big mouth I really wasn’t lying, huh.” 

Slowly removing your hands once it seemed like Gojo wouldn’t spill your endeavors in this family-friendly cafe, you sigh, “Okay- We’ll get some shit done today, alright. But this is the last time I’m meeting with you for this.”

“Mhm~ You got it, prez.”

It was not the last time you met with Gojo for this. 

Nor was it the second-last.

Or the third-last. 

Each and every time you two worked together on the assignment, you’d spend more time bickering about anything ranging from what you’d learned in Professor Yaga’s class that day to whether the old lady who frequented the café was a part of the mafia. 

“I’m telling you, she handles those knitting needles like they’re a weapon.”

“Mhm and she sips her Earl Grey like she’s plotting espionage. Now, get to work before I use my teaspoon as a weapon.”

“I’d rather investigate her than this damn Qiskit simulation.”

“Sure, Gojo. I’ll add her to our list of groundbreaking research projects.”

“Don’t come crying to me when I rub it in your face once we see her on the news as a mafia queenpin, prez.”

You’re pretty sure the café employees have a love-hate relationship with you and Gojo - too lively to be one of their favorite regulars, but arguments too amusing to kick you two out. 

And as for your relationship with Gojo…well. It’s not as if you can’t go 7 minutes without being somewhat civil, and yet that’s exactly the issue, isn’t it?

After what had happened that night, it feels as if there’s something charging the air whenever you two are together.

You chalk it up to just lingering tension, but that still doesn’t explain the way Gojo’s eyes hold a warm twinkle whenever he looks at you - gaze a little too warm than you’d expect a rival to have. But it’s fine, you just have to ace this assignment and then this strange dynamic can go back to normal.

It’s only towards the end of your assignment that you realize how wrong you really were.

---

Out of breath and darting across campus towards where you knew Gojo was waiting, you half-wish you joined the track team instead of the student government. Damn student reps, can’t keep proper archives.

As much as you got a kick out of getting on Gojo’s nerves, you hated to keep anyone waiting.

“Ah! Prez! Was heartbroken thinking you’d stood me up, y’know?” Satoru calls once he spots you bolting towards him on that dimly-lit pathway. Wow, maybe you should’ve joined the track team.

You trip. Ah, maybe not.

Feet automatically hastening your way, he catches you. Well, more like you fall into his arms.

“Just in time, huh?” he chuckles, thankful for the sun dipping below the horizon - otherwise you’d surely have caught the rosy flush tinting his cheeks. Arms wrapped around your waist and supporting your waist, Satoru almost coos at the surprised look gracing your face. You always did something to his heart.

Hastily distancing himself from you once you stand on your own, he rambles - anything to drown out the banging of his heart against his chest. “So, I’m assuming you were out there doing all your president-ly duties?” 

“Ah! Yes, I’m so sorry, the meeting ran overtime and-” 

Listening to you rant, Satoru thinks that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here - bickering with you. He’s only snapped out his reverie at your disappointed groan. Oh, what was this? He didn’t even realize his feet had carried him to the little café already. 

Ripping his eyes from you, he turns to what moping at. A sign with red writing is plastered over the very locked café entrance - Sorry! Staff training today, hope to see you tomorrow!

“Seems like everyone’s got meetings today.” he hears you grumble. Satoru knows it isn’t right, but his heart leaps slightly at the chance to get to know you outside of that familiar cafe.

You, meanwhile, felt tension - and something else - pooling in your stomach. Shit, if the sanctuary of your café is no longer available…

“Well, we could just go home and finish off the paper by ourselves. It’s only the last bit anyway.” you suggest, voice slightly shaky at the idea and anticipation of actually being alone with Gojo after so long. 

“But Suguru’s such a loud snorer, I’d never get any work done.” Gojo whines. Well, there goes that plan.

“The library?”

“I hear it’s haunted this time of year.” he answers right away. 

“Ghosts are seasonal?” you ask absent-mindedly, too focused on weighing between the need to finish this assignment today and the uncertainty of what would happen between you and Gojo.

A tense silence fills the slowly darkening street as you go through all your options. Finally, watching the long shadows casted now, you sigh. “Fine. We’ll go to my place.” you mutter out. 

“Would you get angry if I celebrated right now?”

“Maybe.”

The walk to your apartment is bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. It was almost peaceful - if it weren’t for Gojo’s excited chattering about god-knows-what. 

Your mind was running a million miles a minute. Was something like last time going to happen? Were you a lecher for expecting it? Why didn’t you mind the thought as much as you think you should?

You risk a glance at Satoru, who was in the middle of a passionate speech about how ketchup was a valid condiment on pasta. Soft sunlight paints his hair an amber hue, casting warm shadows that bring out his pretty features, eyes sparkling with passion and mischief. He was beautiful.

Wait. Beautiful?

“Hey isn’t this your apartment building or is walking past it a pre-entrance ritual?” 

Ah. Whoops.

You snap out of those ridiculous notions, gathering whatever dignity you have left to walk back to the apartment complex you’d left in the dust while wrapped up in your thoughts.

“Oooo, didn’t take you for much of a decorator, hardass.” Gojo comments, flitting about your cozy apartment to look at all the little knick-knacks and pictures 

“Did you really think I lived in some sterile lab?” you retort. Gojo’s almost-endearing curiosity amuses you enough to let go of the electricity thrumming through your body at having him so close. In your home. 

“Well, I expected more beakers and fewer fairy lights, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to be offended. “Believe it or not, Gojo, hardasses can have a sense of style, too.”

He continues his exploration, stopping in front of a photo on the wall. “Who’s this model?” he grins, pointing at a picture of you in stuffy formal attire at some conference.

You sigh, knowing exactly which photo he's referring to. “That, Gojo, is me at a conference presenting a groundbreaking research paper.”

“Groundbreaking, huh? Is that what they call it these days?” he hums, arching an eyebrow playfully. 

“Yes, and six feet under is what they’ll be calling you if you don’t get your ass here and finish this paper.”

“...yes, prez.”

Writing the conclusion and inserting citations is always the fun part. If you could write an essay on whatever you want, it would be only conclusions and citations, you think.

After a few hours of working on your paper, apparently Gojo does not feel the same way.

“Fuck Noodletools. All my homies hate Noodletools.”

“This is why you only have two friends, Gojo.”

“Hey! I’m a very likable person, y’know.” 

“...”

He sets his laptop down leaning closer to you over where he was seated opposite you on the coffee table, clearly bored of citations for the time being. “Also, aren’t we friends, sweetheart? Technically I have three.”

You raise a brow, this was the first time Satoru had ever addressed the strange dynamic you two had. “Are we?” you ask, genuinely. 

A deafening silence envelopes your living room. This was the first time you’d seen such a serious expression take over Gojo’s face as he answers, voice even, “I’m not sure.”

The atmosphere thickens with a charged tension, the weight of Gojo’s words lingering in the room. A spark flickers in his eyes. You feel like you could almost get whiplash from the contrast between the heated banter to where you two were now. Was it always so hot in this room?

You let out a strained laugh, attempting to diffuse the seriousness and go back to a trivial territory you were more familiar with. “I never thought the great Gojo Satoru would be uncertain about something.” Your eyes flicker unwillingly from his intense gaze to his worry-bitten lips.

The mischief returning to his gleaming eyes, he smirks “Uncertainty can be thrilling, don't you think, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what to say to that - and you don’t have to. Because before you can respond, Gojo swiftly leans over the coffee table - catching your lips in a sudden, electrifying kiss. 

Time stands still. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize that you didn’t want to push him away. At all. In fact, you grab a fistful of his soft locks, pulling him impossibly deeper into the kiss. 

Pulling away mere millimeters, Gojo’s hot breath fanning your mouth as he whispers, “Told you the uncertainty is thrilling, sweetheart.”

“Shut up and kiss me.” you grumble, irritated because his lips ghosting yours was not enough.

Before you know it, Gojo has you pinned against the plush couch. His lips finding your, the kiss deepening as he yearns for that desperate connection - as if each breath depends on smothering you with dizzying kisses. 

The room seems to shrink, right now only filled with the heated exchange of breaths and the feeling of Satoru’s lips searing into yours. 

You think he tastes like caramel and uncertainty - yet, this time, you fall into the unknown with open arms. Wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your arms around his broad shoulders - bringing him to you so close you’d think the laws of physics were taking a coffee break.

It almost hurt. 

The intensity of the moment only growing, the atmosphere in your homey apartment crackles with a tension that you knew in the back of your mind had been building for so long - ever since that party.

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears. You knew this would happen.

And a part of you needed it to.

His fingers trace a path along your jawline, leaving a trail of heat - you shudder, craving for more. 

“Gojo, I want you.” you breathe out, words muffled by Satoru sucking sinfully on your lips. 

He pulls away slightly, delicate strings of saliva still connecting him to you. Every fiber of his being resisting to part.

“Don’t call me that.” he purrs out, the intensity of his half-lidded stare sending a jolt straight down to your heated core. “It’s Satoru when we’re fucking, remember?”

Looking into his sultry eyes, for the first time ever you decide to heed what Satoru says. “S-Satoru, please.” you whimper, hips bucking up to meet his own. You can feel the large outline of his achingly hard cock straining against those stupidly overpriced trousers, pussy quivering in anticipation. 

Now, there have been three times in his life that Satoru thinks he has died and gone to heaven. The first being when he discovered that the ramen joint by his dorm also had free Wi-Fi. Second, that first day in Advanced Quantum Physics when you snapped at him told him to shut the fuck up. 

And finally, right now, as he’s got you needy and squirming underneath him - such pretty gasps of his name leaving your kiss-bitten lips. 

God, navigating quantum physics is a walk in the park in comparison to what you put his heart through. 

“Hmm, never in my life thought I’d see his view, sweetheart.” he whispers lowly into your ear, delighting in the goosebumps that erupt along your alluring body. How did he get so lucky?

Hastily pulling down your shorts, his mouth waters at your wet panties. Another prize for him, hm? Throwing them along with your panties to god-knows-where, Satoru drinks in the sight of your bare pussy - a privilege that he didn’t get in that godforsaken closet. 

Ah, so ready and dripping for him already. Your slick glistens out of your heated entrance as you clench around nothing. “Aww, they’ve faded.” he whines, heart lurching at the lack of his marks from last time.

It’s alright, he can just make more.

Not one to waste time, with a bruising grip holding your hips steady, Satoru grinds his painfully hard cock into your needy cunt, savoring the pretty mewls that leave your mouth. The way your swollen pussy quivers against him makes him throw his head back, seeing stars already. 

Nipping along your neck, leaving marks he knows you’ll have to cover up tomorrow. “Sit on m’face,” he murmurs into your skin.

“W-what?”

Pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the valley of your breasts, Satoru breathes you in. Fuck, he prefers the smell of your skin to any scent in the world. “Sit- on- my- face.” he repeats, words punctuated with erotic kisses to your hardened nipples, tongue flicking them through the fabric of your clothes. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me, y’know?” you gasp. Yet, still shifting on that cramped couch. Why do you two always fuck in the most inconvenient places?

Satoru’s legs hang off the end of your couch as he lays on his back, you’d almost find the position funny - if it weren’t for you straddling his head. 

His hot breath on your wet cunt sends waves of electricity though your entire body as you hover over his mouth. Your needy pussy right above where his mouth is, hesitating. Your slick oozes slowly through your swollen folds - drip! drip! drip! onto his awaiting tongue, brows furrowing and eyes rolling to the back of his head at your sweet juices.

“Mhm, and I hope that you’ll be the death of me.” he hums, tongue savoring your taste.

It’s the last thing said before Satoru surges forward, plunging mouth-first into your heated cunt. 

Despite not being on a time crunch this time, Satoru doesn’t waste a moment teasing - he already has you splayed out and aching for him, what more could he want?

He bullies his tongue into your snug cunt, pushing past the first ring of muscle. You twitch around him, sweet moans spilling incessantly from your mouth. “Ah! Hngh- Satoru! Fuck s’good.”

Your sounds of pleasure going straight to his dick, he bucks into your hands. Ah, more. He needs your touch more. 

The feeling of your plush walls clamping down on him only spurs him on further, fucking you at a ruthless pace. One hand gropes across your body, resting a thumb on your clit that rubs tight circles, making you grind down further into his mouth. 

“Your pussy is so honest, sweetheart. She wants me so badly.” he murmurs, voice sending vibrations that make you let out a loud moan which he suspects your neighbors would be complaining about. 

You were so perfect for him, Satoru thinks he might go insane.

You were definitely going insane.

Satoru shows no mercy, his abuse on your dripping cunt only speeding up at every buck of your hips into his tongue. It felt so fucking good. 

Closing your eyes, his pressure on your core has you seeing spots behind your vision. You could feel the curl of his signature smirk against your folds as your pussy tries sucking him back in at every thrust. Too good to let him go. “Knew you loved this ‘big mouth’, hardass.” he murmurs. 

Shit, you can’t be the only one acting so needy like this.

“What’re you doing, sweetheart?” Satoru drawls, voice muffled by your cunt as he feels the breeze of his lower abdomen hitting the heady air of your living room.

“Payback.” is all you mutter out as you fumble his trousers down his long legs. Curse these gyms. Curse squats. Why did he have to be so perfectly sculpted? An Adonis in his true form. 

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth as his boxers come into view - rock-hard cock straining painfully against it A patch of pre-cum pools at his head - he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him. Hands shaky from the way Satoru’s incessant tongue was fucking into you, you shuffle his boxers down. 

Satoru’s painfully hard erection springs out, hitting his lower abs. Fuck- how the hell were you supposed to take him? Life was really unfortunate - water was wet, and Gojo Satoru has a huge dick.

“S-sweetheart, you don’t have to-” he murmurs against your swollen pussy. 

From all your times shutting up Gojo Satoru, this one might just be your favorite. 

His words catch desperately in his throat as you spit out a pool of saliva onto Satoru’s furiously flushed head. A low hiss leaving him as you teasingly lick his sensitive slit. 

Never one to back down from a challenge, Satoru attaches his lips with yours once more. He groans lowly into you, the stimulation making you yelp in surprise. 

“So, it’s like that, huh?” 

Satoru doesn’t have the time to ponder your words before you take in as much of his length as you can in one go. “Ah! Hah- Oh fuck, prez. Always knew you were a forceful woman.”

You moan at the slightly salty taste of his precum. Gagging around him, drool drips down the corner of your mouth as you try to take him in inch by fucking inch. It was so fucking messy.

Diving nose-deep in your cunt once again, Satoru continues the merciless pace of his tongue once more. Both your muffled moans fill the heated room, lost in the pleasure and the heat of the moment.

Shit, you knew by the way your walls clenched down on his tongue that you weren’t gonna last long. And judging by the urgent twitching of Satoru’s cock - he wasn’t going to either. 

He fucks up his throbbing erection into your mouth, your eyes watering as his tip hits the back of your throat. Ropes of spit and precum decorate your lips. Even the staunch part of you that never backs down for anyone cheers at being so used. It’s so fucking debauched.

Your hand moves down to massage his heavy balls, tugging and pulling at a rhythm that matches the rapid ministrations of his thumb on your swollen clit.

Mind spinning and pleasure dizzyingly overwhelming as you both lean closer and closer to your highs. With a final mewl around his thick cock, your juices are gushing all around Satoru’s mouth. 

Your mind blanks as you cum, the only things registering being the tingles of your oversensitive pussy as Satoru rides you through your high on his tongue and the taste of Satoru as he cums in hot spurts in your mouth. Salty, with a hint of sweet - the flavor making your pussy twitch.

Fucking his seed into you, your mouth milks his cock. His cum dribbling down the corner of your mouth, all thoughts of dirtying your couch go out your brain when you hear the fucked out whines at the back of Satoru’s throat.

Fuck a refractory period, you wanted to hear that more.

You remove yourself from him with a lewd pop! Cum flowing smoothly down your throat, you lock eyes with Satoru over your shoulder. His jaw drops, pupils blown lustfully as your tongue sticks out - showing the way you’ve swallowed every single drop of his seed.

“Now, Satoru. I need you to fuck me with yours cock just as you did with your tongue.” your words still strained from your orgasm.

Wordlessly, Satoru nods, eyes shining - still reeling from the sinful sight of your bruised lips glossy with his cum - his cum that you swallowed as if it was a delicacy.

Meanwhile you were thinking that you should fuck Satoru more if it meant you got him to shut up and be pretty more often. 

Slightly more clear-headed now, just as lustful. 

Your couch creaks in protest as you shift positions to face Satoru once more. He seizes your lips in a passionate kiss, mouth attacking yours with a desperation for your essence.

Your head spins as you taste yourselves on each other, words tumbling out of your mouth in the haze, “Satoru, bed- now.”

But when has he not challenged you?

“Mhm, anything you say, prez.” he whispers raspily against your lips, still-hard cock teasingly dragging along your swollen folds. 

“Satoru.”

“Fuck yes. Say m’name, sweetheart.” he groans out, throwing his head back against the armrest. Your slick pools all over Satoru’s thick head, dripping sensually down his length to where he gripped tightly at the base. 

Swollen lips dropping into a small “oh”, he slides a ringed hand up his member, spreading your juices. Cock twitching carnally at the way your pussy was leaking all over him, he grits out, “Need to feel you around my cock now, sweetheart.”

So he does.

Thick head pressing into your tight entrance, a low growl leaves his throat at how sinfully tight you were. Fuck, he could just about pass out right now.

“S’tight, sweetheart. So good.” he fucks up into you in shallow, uncontrollable movements of his hips - impatience quickly waning. You yelp at each thrust, walls burning with the stretch of Satoru’s thick head. 

You try to steady yourself as Satoru’s thrusts get deeper and deeper, nails digging harshly into his muscled shoulders. In the midst of it all you still manage to impatiently slur out, “I-if you’re gonna fuck me then hah- fuck me like you mean it, Satoru.”

Oh, that did it.

Your words make the last bit of sanity Satoru had left snap. 

In a swift movement, he sheaths his throbbing erection in your wet cunt completely. A gasp gets caught in his throat at the way your walls were clamping down on him in surprise. 

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and a dangerously predatory glint in them that sends shivers down your spine. “Fuck me like I mean it, huh? You’re quite bossy, y’know that, prez?”

Before you can retort - and probably dig your grave deeper - he stands up in one fluid motion, your legs around his waist and cock still buried deep in your snug pussy. You moan at the change in angle, his tip now kissing your cervix so deliciously painfully. Shit, you feel so full. 

Hands moving down to grope your ass firmly and support your weight, he grins lowly in your ear, “You’re lucky I love that part of you.”

The wall is cold as Satoru shoves your back against it. his body making the air leave your lungs as he presses into yours, ramming into you at a merciless pace. Your tight cunt clenches so tightly around him, as if to prevent him from leaving. 

Each thrust into your warm core has his eyes rolling to the back of his head, brows furrowing in ecstasy. His lips capture yours once again in a rough dance that matches the cadence of his hips.

You mewl against his mouth at the feeling of his heavy balls stinging your skin as they smack your ass. The power behind each harsh thrust has you bouncing against the wall, legs pulling tighter around his toned waist to bully his cock impossibly deeper in you. 

“Where- fuck! Where’s the bed?” he moans breathlessly against your lips, voice sounding as if each thrust of his pulsing cock into your plush walls sends him spiraling deeper into insanity.

“Down- down the hallway. Hngh- fuck, Satoru!” you not far behind.

Your mind is foggy, barely even registering as Satoru moves blindly towards your bedroom with powerful strides - not yet pulling out of you.

He doesn’t get very far before he’s got you sprawled over your bedroom floor, your carpet digging into you as his cock slams into your abused cunt with that feral pace he loves so much. Not even making it to the bed.

“Ah! Hah- Satoru, what happened to the bed?” you sputter out in-between uncontrollable moans. 

“Too far. Hngh- need you now.” he answers around your breasts, teasing and tweaking your sensitive nipples.

“Wh-who’s irresistible now?” you manage to smirk, relishing in the huff of laughter that escapes him. Even now, you always did manage to one-up him.

“Mhm, you’ve always been irresistible, sweetheart.” he mutters, moving to press a chaste kiss against your forehead, not sure whether the words were even meant for you to hear. 

And you know it’s just pussy-drunk talk, but right now you can’t help the way your cheeks heat up, heartbeat ringing in your ears. 

Not sure how to respond to that, you pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his burning face in the crook of your neck. Maybe right now neither of you needed to speak, your bodies doing enough talking as Satoru continues his relentless cadence.

Your hips bucking up to meet his, you whimper in pleasure and overstimulation into the heady room as Satoru moves down a hand to draw rough, little circles over and over your throbbing clit. It was all too much. “S-Satoru.”

“Me too, my sweetheart. Me too.” is all he gasps out, teeth digging into your neck at the pleasure overwhelming his sensitive cock. Satoru’s tight balls twitch as they smack your ass, cock glistening with cum and slick. He sees stars behind his eyes - or maybe those were tears at the overstimulation. He really doesn’t know anymore. 

Head spinning and thoughts racing with only Satoru Satoru Satoru, you’re very much in the same state. 

“Satoru?” you whine out, tears clinging to your lashes.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

You pull him into an intense kiss, pussy clamping down on him desperately as his lips brand yours - it sends you both over the edge. 

Satoru thinks he sees heaven as he cums, and you were probably an angel. 

Hot ropes of his thick cum paint your walls white, cunt quivering around him as you both ride out your climaxes together. A creamy ring forms around his base as he fucks his seed into you desperately, marking you so obviously as his. All thoughts of Plan B run out of your mind at the overstimulated whimpers leaving Satoru’s ruby lips.

His dick twitches inside you as his unforgiving thrusts slow down to shallow grinds of his hips, nothing more than to keep his cum inside of you as your highs bate.

Body collapsing onto yours, careful to not crush you with his weight, Satoru pulls you closer to him. And despite everything that happened this evening, he thinks that this might be what makes his ears burn red the most. Your body so vulnerably connected with his own. Just the two of you in this quiet world.

The silence feels intimate and fragile. Brain still hazy from your orgasms, you don’t think you’ve ever quite looked at your bedroom ceiling from his angle. 

Strangely enough, Satoru’s warm weight on you feels comforting. Neither of you speak now. Nor do you speak when Satoru carries you to bed, searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe you clean with. 

It’s only when he lingers at the foot of your bed - uncertain - that the silence is broken. “Get in, stupid.” you scoff, opening the covers invitingly.

Of course, an elated smile overtaking his face, Satoru jumps in your bed with enough force to send you both bouncing. It was childish. It was so ridiculous. It had you barking out a surprised laugh at his antics.

In your joy, you don’t even realize that Satoru has stopped moving - frozen, smile slipping off his face and staring at you with an unknown spark in his eyes. 

“What?” you question, feeling strangely self-conscious. 

White locks tousling as he shakes his head, he breathes, “It’s the first time I’ve made you laugh.” The words hang in the delicate atmosphere, tension so thick you think it could snap any moment.

You hide your face in your hands, palms clammy. “You- you make me sound like some sort of evil witch.” you stammer out, embarrassment pooling in your gut. The tension in the air dissipates, yet the intensity in Satoru’s gaze remains.

Satoru understands, smiling blindingly. He pulls your naked body to his, wrapping his arms tenderly around your waist as you both bury into the covers. “Well, more of a hardass than an evil witch.”

“Satoru?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You still have to finish your citations.”

A/N. Can be read as a standalone BUT part 2 planned for next longfic Sunday!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[notesjournalieres]

21 janvier 1824

On ne parle que terribles maladies des enfants, de fièvres cérébrales, de croup. Toutes les fois qu’on raconte un malheur de ce genre, j’ai le cœur serré. Je pense à mes cinq adorables enfants. Je ne travaille plus à mon histoire. Ma Lise ne m’y pousse plus, parce qu’elle croit que j’en ai éprouvé du mal à Pithon. J’y reviendrai cependant. Je veux voir comment écrivent les autres historiens, au moins les contemporains. Voilà deux livres que je parcours de l’histoire de Venise par Daru. La narration est sèche, coupée en phrases courtes. Mais c’est le commencement de la République. Il y a peu de détails parvenus jusqu’à nous. Il était difficile de féconder et animer ces récits. M. Daru sème son histoire de réflexions qui, la plupart, sont communes et même quelquefois triviales. C’est court de pensée. Ce n’est pas là Guizot dans ses travaux historiques.

Je relis les Mémoires d’Angleterre, ou plutôt je les continue. La préface des mémoires de Clarendon est remarquable. — Mme de Bérenger veut me faire dîner mardi avec M. de Montchenu. Elle parle bien, très bien ; mais elle parle toujours. Ces femmes brillantes donnent à leurs maris des réputations imméritées. Raymond de Bérenger passe pour un ennuyeux et pour un sot. Je ne l’ai jamais rien entendu dire qui ne fut juste et même fin, et toujours parfaitement exprimé. — On ne parlait chez Mme de Ste-Aulaire que des Tablettes en déroute. Villèle a acheté à Coste 180.000 fr. son journal. Coste a-t-il toujours été un agent du ministère déguisé, ou bien a-t-il marché franchement dans des voies d’opposition?

Il faudra faire en sorte de rendre un centre de réunion à ces jeunes doctrinaires dispersés qui, en fait, possèdent esprit et cœur, talent et dévouement. Le duc de Broglie dit que les anciens libéraux se sont trompés sur les dispositions du peuple, qu’ils sont finis, qu’il faut créer un nouveau parti. Moi je dis : Attendons. Les masses sont pour nous. Il en sortira quelque chose. Le duc de Vicence veut absolument qu’on me porte à St-Quentin.

[solmire]

A glimpse of your voice

Pairing: deaf!gojo x f!reader

Synopsis: College!au Where deaf!gojo left alone in the hospital after the car accident, and the reader, who has a giant crush on him, brings him the notes after every lecture, saying that professors ask her to do that, but in reality, she just doesn’t want him to feel lonely and tries to be around so he will never feel like he is some type of burden for others.

Tags/Warnings: fluff, hurt/comfort/hurt/no comfort/eventual comfort, angst, happy ending, toxic relationship, Sukuna is warning himself, bullying, physical abuse. I will add more throughout the story.

Author's note: little headcanons are NOT in the right time order, it's just something from the category of small memories from their relationship. There WILL BE a FULL fic, stay tuned.

Taglist: @someonenamedray @totallyuniquenut @not-aya @pinacoladagod @lumilarity @rh-tg1 @luv3nti @thequeenofcurses @arrozyfrijoles23 @hel1nn @luna-v-roiya @p1nkfl0wers @iwriteforlove @gloomysel @mashtura @chiyokoemilia @eolivy @getoicious @bbyrugou @moonlight-inthe-sea @dreamsarenicer @kidd3ath @1sweetheart1 @ethereal-moonlit @satoruxsc @linny-bloggs @whytfisgojosohot @entr4p3 @makimamybelovedwife @samxnavialover @haokanie @kye-chen-r @blitziwitch @des-todoroki @bunheadusa @gojojjknanami @sukunasrealgf @xavsbabagrill @pandabiene5115 @laukern @lady-of-blossoms @minascasket @chich1ookie @dazaisfavgf @kalulakunundrum

taglist is open!! Leave a comment if you want to be added.

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[coursdefrancais]

Comment lire pour progresser ?

Comment lire pour progresser: Guide complet pour maximiser votre développement personnel à travers la lecture.

La lecture est bien plus qu'une simple activité intellectuelle, elle est une clé précieuse pour le développement personnel. Dans cet article, nous explorerons comment lire de manière stratégique peut devenir un puissant outil pour progresser dans tous les aspects de votre vie. Que vous aspiriez à améliorer vos compétences professionnelles, à développer votre créativité ou à renforcer votre bien-être émotionnel, la lecture peut être votre guide. Découvrons ensemble les étapes pour tirer le meilleur parti de chaque livre que vous lisez.

Chapitre 1: L'importance de la lecture pour le développement personnel Avant de plonger dans les détails, comprenons pourquoi la lecture est une clé du développement personnel. Explorons les avantages que la lecture peut apporter à votre esprit, à votre carrière et à votre vie en général.

Chapitre 2: Choisir le bon genre de livres Tous les livres ne sont pas créés égaux. Découvrez comment sélectionner les livres qui correspondent à vos objectifs de développement personnel. Explorez des genres variés, du développement professionnel à la fiction, pour maximiser les avantages de votre temps de lecture.

Chapitre 3: Fixer des objectifs de lecture Apprenez à définir des objectifs de lecture spécifiques et réalisables. Qu'il s'agisse d'un livre par mois ou de l'exploration de nouveaux sujets, avoir des objectifs donne un sens à votre lecture et maintient votre motivation.

Chapitre 4: Prendre des notes efficacement La prise de notes n'est pas r��servée aux études. Découvrez comment prendre des notes de manière à tirer le meilleur parti de votre lecture, à renforcer votre compréhension et à créer une ressource personnelle que vous pouvez revisiter.

Chapitre 5: Discuter et partager vos lectures La discussion et le partage de vos lectures avec d'autres peuvent enrichir considérablement votre expérience de lecture. Explorez les avantages de rejoindre des clubs de lecture, des forums en ligne ou simplement de discuter avec des amis et collègues.

Chapitre 6: La lecture comme outil de croissance professionnelle Explorez comment la lecture peut être un catalyseur pour l'avancement professionnel. Découvrez des stratégies pour choisir des livres qui renforcent vos compétences, élargissent votre perspective et stimulent votre créativité au travail.

Chapitre 7: Intégrer la lecture dans votre routine quotidienne La cohérence est la clé. Apprenez comment intégrer la lecture dans votre routine quotidienne, même si vous menez une vie occupée. Des conseils pratiques vous aideront à faire de la lecture une habitude durable.

Chapitre 8: Surmonter les obstacles à la lecture Identifiez et surmontez les obstacles courants à la lecture, tels que le manque de temps, la procrastination ou le sentiment d'être submergé par le choix. Des solutions simples vous aideront à faire de la lecture une partie incontournable de votre vie.

Conclusion: La lecture peut être bien plus qu'une simple activité de loisir. En adoptant une approche stratégique de la lecture, vous pouvez exploiter tout son potentiel pour votre développement personnel. Que vous cherchiez à élargir vos horizons, à acquérir de nouvelles compétences ou à stimuler votre créativité, la lecture peut être votre alliée précieuse. Mettez en pratique les conseils de cet article et découvrez comment chaque livre peut être une étape de plus sur le chemin de votre progression personnelle.

[petit-atelier-de-poesie]

NOTE DE LECTURE : L'amour pur. Agustina Izquierdo. 1993

Ce roman s'ouvre sur une question fondamentale formulée ainsi : "Qui peut échapper à ce que dit le mot désir ?" que l'auteur.e (peut-être Pascal Quignard dont ce nom serait hétéronyme et anagramme) développe tout au long de l'histoire d'amour entre le Père Guimerà et Rina. Tout les sépare et pourtant ...  Lui est un homme d'église, déjà vieillissant, passionné de musique qu'il joue et compose. Elle est une fille de service, jeune et robuste, sans culture ni éducation. L'un et l'autre partagent le goût pour le chant d'église avec la même retenue. 

Cette histoire d'un autre temps (et pourtant éternelle) donne l'occasion de tenter un essai sur L'Amour pur, l'attraction et la détestation, la pudeur et la douleur, la permanence et l'ambivalence. L'écriture est particulièrement délicate, avec une précision d'analyste sur les ressentis de chacun des deux protagonistes. C'est particulièrement beau d'avancer dans ce clivage entre le vice et la vertu, comme entre l'ombre et la lumière, où il ne faut pas se fier aux gestes, aux regards, ni même aux mots pour accéder à cette ambition d'idéal et cette émotion de complétude, d'accomplissement, tellement humaine et si fragile. 

[lepaillenqueue]

www.lepaillenqueue.com/post/le-résumé-d-action-l-art-de-condenser-le-récit

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

De-aged Danny shenanigans with an adult Damian taking after his father.

Danny, about 6: *drigging through the trash*

Damian, 26: Hello? Are you alright?

Danny, whips around to look at him with glowing green eyes: hissssss

Damian, blinks: Oh, dear....Are you hungry?

Danny, suspicious:... yeth

Damian, nods: If you come with me, we can either go to a batburger down the street or my apartment a block over. I have a washer and dryer I can run your clothes through while you bathe.

Danny: Are you trying to kidnap me?

Damian: If I was, I'd be a fool to say so

Danny: mm twue...why else would you want to help me though?

Damian: one. It would be irresponsible of me to level a toddler alone, in an alley, in Gotham.

Danny, pouting: I'm not a toddler

Damian: Two. I will never hear the end of it from my siblings whether or not I help you, but it'd be more teasing than lecturing if I do help you.

Danny: Why would they do dat?

Damian: If you don't have any place to go, I might just tell you. But only if I can make sure you don't tell the wrong person.

Danny: I'm good wif secrets!

Damian, amused: We shall see. And now third and final reason. Are you aware your eyes are glowing green?

Danny, gasps and slams his eyes shut: You're not supposed to see!

Damian, softly: It's okay. I understand what that means. One of my elder brothers' eyes glow the same way. It must have been very scary for you to die

Danny, sniffling: It was... does his eyes weally glow green?

Damian: They do. His usually glow when he gets angry, is it the same with you?

Danny, now blinking blue glowing eyes at Damian: mmm? No? Green is too much bad emotion

Damian: Bad emotion?

Danny: Mad, um, strezz? No, the bigger one!

Damian: Panic or anxiety?

Danny, points at him with a bounce: Yeah!!

Damian, amused and concerned: I see

Danny: mmm let's see, um, and scared?

Damian: Interesting. Jason's eyes are usually an indicator of angry, but I know he likes to cover his fear and concern with that same anger. I shall look into it. On that note. And what does glowing blue mean?

Danny, blinks: Blue?

Damian: Yes. Did you know your eyes are glowing blue now?

Danny, shocked: No! They didn't do that before!... At least I don't think they did?

Damian: Well, they're a very pretty shade of blue.

Danny: Maybe... Maybe that's how my parents noticed...

Damian, trying not to frown: What did your parents notice?

Danny, turning his big teary eyes on Damian: That I'm not fully human anymore. They didn't notice. They never noticed!

Damian, slowly reaching out to the kid to see if he'd accept a hug: Sounds like your parents didn't deserve you.

Danny, giving into his childish instincts and flinging himself into Damian's arms to sob his little heart out: They didn't even know I died! It's not fair! I'm not weally human and it's their fault! I hate their stupid po-po- THING! It shocked me and it hurt and now I'm dead and it's their fault!

Damian: *gently rocking Danny til he tires himself out*

Danny, sniffling: It's not fair...

Damian: Something I've found is, it never is. Every stray my father has housed has had an unbearably harsh life, and I, being his blood son, was no different. My mother and her father raised me for the first ten years of my life, and I've come to understand that my childhood was not a good one. It took me a long time and a lot of patience from my eldest brother to come to realize what I was missing.

Danny: Like, Jazzy?

Damian: mm? Who's Jazzy?

Danny: My big sister. She's a big know it all, but she tries...

Damian: Well, that's-

Danny, jolts in Damian's hold: Tried! *GASP* Jazzy doesn't know mom and dad didn't kill me!! *pause* um, kill me again?

Damian: Well, we'll have to tell her, won't we? You wouldn't happen to know her full name? I can ask my family to contact her while we get you cleaned up

Danny: Yeah! Her name is Jasmine Fenton! She goes to a big big school here! That's why I came here! I just... I got lost..

Damian: That won't do

Damian, pulls out his phone and calls Barbara while starting to walk to his apartment: Gordon. I have a request.

Barbara: Yeah? Whatcha got, baby bat?

Damian: Can you look up a Jasmine Fenton? I have something she will probably want back.

Barbara: Holy shit! Is that a child??

Damian, sighs: Yes, it's her little brother. He ran away from a bad situation with his parents and got lost trying to find his elder sister.

Barbara: Alright. I'll check out her entire life to make sure she's safe to- wait. Damian, is that kid's name Danny?

Damian, realizing he never asked: One moment.

Damian, looks down at a sleepy, but curious Danny: Is your name Danny?

Danny, beams: Yeah!!

Barbara: Caught that, but, uh, Damian, Danny is supposed to be 20, not...4? 5? Not a tiny child

Damian: umm... Danny did you used to be older?

Danny, shrinks into himself and his eyes turn green: Ye-yeah... I don't know why I'm little... mommy did something and it Huuurt and hurt til suddenly I was free and I ran and hid in a bus

Damian, soothingly petting his back: Okay, it's okay, we'll figure it out.

Barbara: Take care of him for the night, we'll contact his sister tomorrow at a reasonable time. I'm not finding anything too concerning on her yet so she's probably safe

Damian: Copy that. Goodnight, Gordon.

Barbara, teasing: Goodnight, mini-Bruce!

Damian, flushes, but doesn't deny it before hanging up and glancing towards Danny: That was Barbara Gordon. A family friend. She'll help us find your sister, but you'll be staying with me for tonight.

Danny, sleepy: Okay..

Damian, slipping into his apartment lobby and going straight up the stairs, ignoring the gaping attendants: Don't fall asleep just yet. You will be fed and bathed first

Danny, huffs, but straightens up: What food?

Damian: That depends, I only really have vegetarian food so I suppose we'll have to find something you'll eat

Danny: Sam is vegetarian! I eat vegetarian sometimes with her!

Damian: hm? Very good, then it should be easier for me to feed you

Damian and Danny have a wonderful time. Danny is fed, watered, and cleaned up before being set up with a quiet sound machine to sleep. Damian has a crisis over wanting to keep Danny and suddenly understands his father's adoption habit. He sets alarms to check on Danny throughout the night, but it's otherwise uneventful.

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: Hey y'all! I hope y'all enjoy, the next one might be submissive Terry idkidk 🫣 kinda hate this one.

Perfect Gentleman. | Aaron Pierre.

Gentle!Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on, oral s3x ( m receiving), extreme language (cursing, sexual references) established relationship, slight daddy kink if you squint. Not proofread!

Summary: terry's been the perfect gentleman, maybe a little too gentle.

swear you can have me, you really one-of-one.

how you so nasty? you really one-of-one.

You eagerly scratched the itch away in your bitten up ankles. The mosquitoes out here in the Black Bayou had torn your exposed ankles up—and this was why camping wasn't your thing. You'd never complain though, any excuse to be with Terry was a good one.

"I told you to wear long socks," he chuckled looking back you and at how you'd scratched the skin on your ankles red, "all that gardenin' you do and you out here with no socks on," he softly lectured as you watched him pitch the tent, at his demand. He was such a gentleman.

You'd been dating Terry for over four months, you've both went on a plethora of dates, had the steamy first kiss, and even spent a night at each others apartment, but you still hadn't fucked yet. Was it you? You knew you had an Oscar worthy performance of your coy-innocent act that Terry ate up all of the time, but you weren't a prude. You couldn't count how many times you'd hinted, and seduced only to be met with more gentleness.

And you loved how patient, protective, and gentle he was with you. He was everything you'd practically asked for when you started dating. A nice man, a sweet man—and you got it, a full blown golden retriever boyfriend. He had so many amazing qualities, he was always on time arriving fifteen minutes early. Something he said was one of the most useful things he learned from his time in the Marine Corps. He was a full blown de-escalator, he never wanted to argue with you, always communicating as calmly as he could before coming to an understanding with you. He was gentle. But maybe he was too gentle? You wanted Terry in the worst ways. It didn't help that he stayed in good shape, gym four times a week, and his infinite morning runs kept him in tip-top shape.

You pouted, squinting your eyes as you looked at Terry from underneath the brim of the Nike bucket hat you'd retrieved from him. Although he was pitching the tent and the sun was currently beating down on him, he decided that, you, sitting in the shade doing nothing, needed the hat more. Such a man.

"You said come comfortable, and I garden in my crocs—that's what I came in!" You defended your reasoning for not wearing the socks that he did tell you to pack last night over a quick FaceTime call, but he did say come comfortable in the same sentence. "These mosquitos are relentless, baby, look at my ankles!" You frowned looking at how red and irritated the skin has gotten there even on your deep brown skin.

Of course Terry stopped his meddling with the tent and came over to assess your so badly injured ankles. He tsk'd softly his big hands cradling both of your ankles gently. Now push them behind my head! you eagerly thought feeling him touch you at all always sent shocks and shivers through your body.

"They eatin' my baby up," he somberly acknowledged rubbing his thumbs where the bites were firmly, "you put bug spray on like I told you?"

You nodded. "Yeah, just go and finish the tent," you dramatically sighed waiting to eagerly scratch at the bites, "I'll just be sitting over here, itchy, getting ate up." At least something was eating you up.

He brought your left ankle up to his lips casually, placing a soft kiss there before setting the both of them back down carefully. You almost moaned, it had been way too long. "stop scratchin' at em, you makin' em worse."

You looked at him, batting your eyelashes at him a dazed nod following right behind. He was so gorgeous, and it didn't help that he was so sweet and treated you like the absolute brat you were. He continued on with his quick work with the tent and you continued on with your sneaky scratching. After it was perfectly pitched, he got you inside as soon as it was done to rub a bit of alcohol on your itchy ankles and making you put on a pair of his socks that were way too big for you.

You frowned looking down at your legs later that night as you both set around the campfire, that you had gotten started. You hadn't forgotten all the survival tips your father had shown you. Terry focused on cooking the fish he and you caught earlier from the pier. He'd cleaned it and dissembled it himself. "These are puttin' a damper on my outfit, so not cute."

Terry chuckled, quickly flipping the searing fish over in the pan. Your eyes flickered over to him. "What?"

"You so country," he commented through a light chuckle, "damper?"

"That's not country!" You defended through a smile. "Everybody says damper!"

"Nobody says damper,"

"Does too!"

"Why you gotta be such a brat? Why you act like that?" He teased playfully, holding his hand out to you only to pull you up from your chair and into his lap. "Hm?" He hummed nuzzling his faced into your neck where he playfully nipped at the skin on your neck, knowing the ticklish effect it had on you.

You laughed hunching your shoulder up to push him away from the area, "stop!" The assault lasted a few more minutes before he reluctantly stopped, only when he seen the tears from your nonstop laughter, and how you cradled your aching stomach when you laughed.

"Brat," he mumbled in between persisting kisses to your lips. You happily returned each one, who were you to deny the brat allegations. They were very true. "Always gotta have yo way."

"You love how bratty I am," you retorted, trailing your own lingering kisses from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck.

"I do," he mumbled out an agreement making you laugh against his neck before continuing on, and you thought maybe, as his hands kneaded the back of your thighs and the undersides of your ass. But all that came undone when he urgently removed you from his lap in light hysterics about almost burning the fish.

The fish.

How could he even think about fish when he had your throbbing pussy in his lap, was he really blind to all this shit? Or was he just not sexually attracted to you? Or was he fucking celibate? The questions brought on a lingering insecurity. The rest of the night you were more distant, quiet, the situation left you a little embarrassed and salty. You'd never had a man be so indifferent to your advances. Or did he even see them as advances? Hell, you didn't know anymore.

Your distance and quiet demeanor didn't go unnoticed either Terry, who constantly made it his mission to see if you were okay and enjoying yourself. You answered the same all the time, yes, which did very little to comfort him—but he also didn't wanna push you into irritation.

"You sure you good, baby?" He asked later that night as you both settled into the cozy tent. You made sure to nestle yourself into your cute, pinky, sleeping bag. It was so you.

"Yeah." You simply answered with a nod, forcing the weak smile. Such a liar. But you weren't gonna admit that the situation left you feeling a little salty. You didn't wanna bring the situation up at all, you'd much rather forget it.

"You sure? You not actin' like yourself, baby. You want me to take you home?" There he went. Being so him. Always being so caring.

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing really, im just..itchy still." You seamlessly lied. Or maybe not. You were still itchy.

Terry decided not to press the issue instead making sure he got as close as possible to you, something he always did when you slept together, he loved being right up under you—you didn't contest to it. Ever. You both gave your good nights, and Terry made sure to turn off the LED lantern lamp you both had in the tent. A soft and easy silence falling over the both of you. Terry's soft breathing, body heat, chirping crickets and the pitch black were enough to lull you to sleep. And they almost did, but damn, you were still itchy.

You brought your knees to your chest, hastily scratching at your extremely itchy ankles, a heavy, draws out sigh from the temporary but almost euphoric relief skipped past your lips.

"Stop scratchin'." Terry's deep voice but through the silence, the raspiness on the edge of his voice attributed to the sleep that had took him in quick. The words halted your actions quickly as you tried to quietly morph into a comfortable position.

"I'm not," you spoke quietly.

"But you were."

His damn hearing. He heard everything.

"Well I wouldn't have been if I was doing something else." Your tone snappy but the suggestiveness fore fronted the sassiness.

"Somethin' else like what?" Terry questioned.

You huffed immediately, sitting up abruptly from your sleeping bag and flickering the lantern on. "Are you really that clueless?" You exclaimed almost, looking at his ever so lost expression. "Terry, are not you sexually attracted to me?"

Terry looked at you as if you'd grown two heads. Like he couldn't understand why you'd ask him such a question, like you didn't know he was a full blown raging man. "Why would you even ask me that, of course im sexually attracted to you, baby."

"You don't act like it," you quietly murmured, "it's like every time I try, you pull back. What is it? I really thought I was obvious enough with everything."

And you were. Terry wasn't ignorant to your advances. But he also wasn't ignorant to your past relationships and the men that you dealt with. Full blown sex addicts a few of them seemed to be, and some of them seemed unable to form a real bond with you without sex. He wanted to prove to you that he actually liked you, that he wanted to get to know you past sex. That he wanted this to last. It'd taken copious amounts of restraint for him to slyly deter away from the advances. Copious amounts.

He wasn't exactly sure how he made it to four months himself, without caving in. Maybe it was his serious he'd gotten about your relationship, maybe it was genuine like for you that made it somewhat easy. He was still a man though, taking care of himself when he was finally away from you.

He said your name slowly, sitting up himself, "im utterly, completely, and deeply sexually attracted to you. But I wanna show you that when it comes to keeping this together, sex is indifferent to me. I don't want you to think we need that shit to connect. I genuinely like you, alot."

"I like you too, but I already knew that Terry," he softly laughed, the weight of the insecurities dropping off your shoulders. You couldn't believe that once again, all this time, the lack of sex was catered to his feelings about you. You were gonna fuck this man so good. So good. "I knew that at the end of the first date when you didn't try to kiss me when you dropped me off." You giggled at the recanting of the memory.

"I wanted you to feel it though."

"And I do feel it," you slinked even closer to him, hand trailing up his thigh, "I feel it so much." You looked up at him, batting your long lashes.

Terry sat there slack mouthed, brows furrowed, his stormy eyes looking down at you with bursting pleasure and astonishment as he watched you suck him down. How the fuck did you get so good at this shit? You'd completely covered his shaft in your saliva, you were loud and sloppy. Just how he liked it. Throat so tight around him, every time you nuzzled him in. You were dazed yourself, tasting him, having him in the back of your throat where you craved him so many times before. You were savoring all of this.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his girthy length, stroking them at a brisk pace, your wet mouth guiding them in their dizzying up and down movements. His grunts and groans of approval only furthered you to please him more. You looked up at him, eyes watery, and soft as you took him down, spit bubbles formed around him, as you nuzzled him in deeper into your mouth. Removing a spit soaked hand, you nuzzled that into your soaked panties, pleasing him, pleased you.

"Sss-shitttt," he drug out through a groan, his strong hand grasping the back of your neck, as he bucked himself up into your mouth, relentlessly fucking your throat. You shut your watery, burning eyes letting him use you how he wanted. "Fuck, eat that dick up baby. You do that shit so good," he slurred through his persisting moans.

That only furthered your arousal, which furthered your efforts. The rough gags and choking from you was almost enough to send him over the edge. Almost. You finally pulled back, giving him a chance to recover and giving yourself a chance to catch your ailing breathing.

You stroke him off, spitting down on his shaft in your hands, eagerly stroking the lubrication in, leaning your head down to suck one of his balls into your mouth; gently. You knew too much. How did you know so much?

"Why you so nasty?" He mumbled grabbing your chin once you were done tending to his balls. "Hm?" He hummed before pressing your wet lips to his own. His kiss rushed, sloppy, and deep. His tongue searched every inch of your mouth, his lips sucking your own into his mouth.

Oh he was nasty like that?

"Move," he knocked your hands away from his still hardened dick, "take that shit off." He comments taking heed to the articles of clothing you still had on, his own hands slithering under the oversized shirt you'd put on for bed.

"But I wanted to make you cum—" you started, wiping your wet mouth with the back of your hand once he eagerly pulled your t-shirt off, nipples immediately pebbling due to the exposure of the cool night air in the tent. You didn't get to finish your sentence before Terry's lips were already latched onto the flesh on your neck, creating red blemishes as he cascaded down your body skillfully.

"You bout to," he mumbled attaching his lips to yours once again, "open up," he tapped your jaw firmly, "lemme see." The firm taps to your jaw ignited the fire and aching need in your belly, a moan slipped past your lips as you opened like he asked.

You watched, dazed, as he spat down into your mouth. Oh, he was nasty.

It was like yin and yang to you. This couldn't be your Terry. Not the Terry that bought you flowers every Sunday and never let you lift a finger Terry. This was a different Terry, nasty Terry. Impatient Terry. Demanding Terry. Just what you wanted.

"Oh my god-uhhhh!" You slurred out through a moan. Terry's vice grip on your locs matched the same vice grip you currently had him in right now. He had you positioned on all fours, one hand on your hip to steady his hard, dizzying strokes. He was fucking you hard, too hard. Too good. Your thighs trembled beneath you, knees threatening to buckle as he slammed into your heated core repeatedly. It's like he knew exactly where that spot was located. "Right there, daddy! Right fucking there," you whimpered, face pressed pathetically on the pallet beneath you.

"I know, i feel that shit," he groaned, sending another hard smack to your ass cheek, the recoil from his pelvis constantly slamming into your ass had him in a complete daze. Four months he kept himself from this, restrained himself from what he knew had to be good. But he didn't expect it feel like this. "Wettin' me right the fuck up—mm mm, keep that shit right there, you better not fuckin' lay down, keep that shit open just like that." He mumbled out into the tent, taking into head your trembling legs. The lewd sounds of your sopping wet pussy, followed by the loud slapping of your skin together filled your tent and your empty head.

"Fuckkkk," you groaned out, managing to sit up in your elbows, acrylics clawing at the covers beneath you, your eyes crossed as you felt his tip kissing a little too deep, "so deep, baby."

"Mhm," he hummed pulling your head back with his tight grip on your hair, his lust filled glare looking right down into your own crossed eyes, "right where i should be. Look at you, takin' this dick like a good girl. This what you wanted right?"

"Yesssss," you managed to fully get out, a series of breath taking moans following. He was giving you exactly what you wanted; hard, rough shit. He was fucking you like he hated you, like he had a point to prove. This shit was only making you delusional did he not understand the type of you he would get now?

"Yeah? Wanted daddy to dig yo' shit out just like this, huh?" He nodded watching you nod in response, your breaths coming out in a series of heavy puffs. "I know you did, can tell by the way you creamin' on my dick."

"Shittt!" You gasped out the exploitive, planting your hands flat against the ground, mustering yo whatever weak energy you had to fuck yourself back against him, working toward your own impending orgasm. "I'm finna cum!" You rushed out.

Terry pulled you back toward his chest, your small frame engulfed in his as you sat promptly in his lap getting impaled in the most delicious way possible. You felt lightheaded, high, and perfect all at once. "Babyyyy, im cummin'!" You whined out.

"Keep tellin' me, do that shit. Lemme feel you cum on my dick," he grunted, the lewd works making you clench around him as they clearly sent you tumbling over the edge. Terry mocking your long, loud and drawn out moans with his own. His lips attacking wherever they could on your exposed neck. His impaling strokes never stopped, even when it was clear you'd completely rode it out. He kept fucking you, sending you into a deep place of overstimulation. When was he ever planning to cum?

"Look at you," he mumbled a smug smirk on his lips, hand firmly holding your slacked jaw in his hand, "dick got you dumb—breathe through that shit, baby." He tapped your jaw, repeatedly. The sight of you alone, plus the constant contracting of your walls around him had earned you a deliciously sounding groan. You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until he spoke up.

Everything was too much. It was too much to focus on. The pleasure, his voice, his kisses. Forgetting to breathe in the middle of your overstimulation was warranted.

Your breaths cane tumbling back to you fast, hard and quick you panted. Body trembling in Terrys grasp, as dared to lean forward feeling another orgasm approaching, but this one felt harder. Body-shattering. It hurt and felt so good at the same time.

"Fuck, ima nut baby," Terry grunted in your ear. "Pussy so good, why yo shit so good like this?" Finally.

"Cum in my pussy, please daddy," was the first and only thing you could get out, not even warning him about your oncoming orgasm. This one cramped everything, the tightness in your stomach didn't subside but seemed to get tighter. Your thighs were numb, but your legs ached. The squeal you let out left your throat raw, and that's why you didn't hear Terry when he finally announced that he was cumming, but you felt him for sure, right where you told him to.

You felt Terry's lips against your jaw, kissing you repeatedly. Telling you how well you did for him, how he couldn't believe he kept himself away from that for four months. How good it was. These were finally the words that lulled you off to a blissful sleep, you'd finally got what you wanted. There you were, fucked out In a tent, with cum leaking out of you. Such a whore. A happy whore.

-

still no tag list! 😭 hope you enjoy this little filler! 💕

[rednightmare18]

oh, fine. let's talk about sin.

This is a note about religion and KCD2—particularly how it applies to Hans & Henry’s relationship development.

It isn’t my intention to write the definitive post on this subject, and this is certainly not an academic summary, a Tumblr History Lesson, or a thesis statement on why you can’t write whatever the hell you please. But as much as I detest fandom discourse, I also dislike seeing my words misused as a bludgeon against fan writers, and so I am stepping in to provide what I hope will be some useful CliffsNotes to everyone.

Take them or leave them, they are here with the intention to help fic writers make (briefly) informed decisions about how to embark on their creative research. KCD2 spoilers under the cut. PSA: If I see you using this nastily to harass fanfic writers you don't like, I will be very upset with you.

The medieval Catholic Church's doctrines were not representative of a homogeneous, mythical One Medieval Worldview on everyday life—nor was the MCC a monolith of its own. It is important to differentiate the Catholic institution from “the average medieval person’s ideas about daily life.” A quick foray into documents and moral treatises written by church officials at the time will reveal that the clergy was also not a monolith, but a hierarchy of individuals with vastly different ideas and recommendations on how humans should live. We simply cannot stamp a single religious document, decree, or interpretation (that was successfully published and preserved for hundreds of years; the vast majority were not) as a one-size-fits-all primer on what your average village blacksmith thought about things. I would certainly bristle were a historian from 2800 to suggest my country’s government & preeminent religious institutions painted an accurate picture of my (or my neighbors’) moral opinions on every subject under the sun. I bet you would, too. Critically, this does not mean all the common people embraced same-sex romance and all the religious officials reviled it. Indeed, it means people are people and their opinions will differ based on their personal experience, environment, personality, and priorities. Christianity profoundly affected the medieval world and mentality in ways both conscious and unconscious, much as any major global religion does, but it does not and did not make Europe into a dystopian Christian hivemind that thoughtlessly parroted a single unified view of every topic under the sun.

Religious opposition vs. religious guilt. Remembering that “people are people,” it is likewise important to differentiate religious opposition from religious guilt. Male lovers, particularly those in a position of high status (who were expected to produce heirs), would certainly face opposition to their desire to fuck off into the woods and kiss their boyfriend forever. It would certainly not be prudent or safe for a minor lord like Hans Capon to openly flaunt his romantic love for his squire; religiosity-fueled accusations of sodomy were useful as political bludgeons to threaten enemies and de-legitimize rivals. Caution is required. However, I find it is also important to note that Hans and Henry seem to express no personal guilt over their love for each other, religious or otherwise. It is telling that they do not step back from their relationship after consummating it under duress; on the contrary, both of them immediately seem to take it for granted that they will continue sharing their lives without any further negotiation required, and admitting their romantic feelings for each other has changed little of this, save for bringing them closer and providing relief. It is also telling that if Henry chooses to confess to his dream-parents that his devotion to Hans is romantic in nature, they react with surprise, but do not lecture him about sin. (In fact, his mother immediately leaps to Henry’s defense after his father reacts with shock.) Henry himself expresses no grief to them beyond a vague acknowledgement that hearing this must be a surprise. This is important—Henry’s parents appear in his dreams as representations of Henry’s inner doubts, guilt, grief, and misgivings. They do not throw up any real opposition or disgust to his intention to “settle down” with Hans. (Which is frankly a bonkers thing for Henry to say in any sense.) Despite the opposition they face from their environment and the expectations of status placed upon them—and despite Hans’s anxiety about being forced into a betrothal and how this may frustrate his intention to spend every waking moment with Henry—Henry and Hans both seem to feel completely positive about consummating their romantic relationship. For all intents and purposes, they canonically provide each other with comfort, love, and certainty. Not a shred of guilt or self-hate bubbles up into the canon text where each other is concerned. (This isn’t to say you can’t add this element in your fanworks if you choose. I’m not your dream-Martin!) NOTE: There is one moment during The Kiss scene in which Henry shows clear inner conflict. After Hans initiates a kiss (that Henry visibly rushes to accept), Henry turns his face away from him briefly, which causes Hans to perceive rejection and scurry away. Henry's expression is visibly troubled before he turns to the door. I see a valid argument for interpreting this brief expression of distress as gut-reaction frustration or revulsion, either at himself or even to the physical kiss, but we don’t really have enough canon input to say for certain what causes this flash of doubt. In any case, when it’s gone, it’s gone. At least for the purposes of KCD2 where it left us. You can’t “break up” with Hans after this or back out of the romance; Henry has decided for himself that the only way to go is forward.

Everything’s the same—but different. Homophobia in the 1400s was a different beast from homophobia in the 2000s. I will not dive into this here because I've written about it elsewhere to share background research on my own monastery fic, and because the topic is far too large to summarize in a bullet-pointed list. Simply, the medieval world did not codify sex acts or romantic feelings as identity markers in the way we do; while sodomy was certainly a taboo, this was a classification of non-reproductive sex acts, not slang for “gay man.” We cannot, in essence, “backport” our contemporary homophobia into the Middle Ages; it doesn’t make sense. Similarly, we cannot backport our bizarre late-1900s+ anxiety about pregnancy termination into 1403, but if you think I'm going to dive into that here except by way of brief comparison, you are cuh-razy. Worth noting that taboo also does not mean alien... or secret. More on that below.

Normalcy, Secrecy, and Taboo. One thing KCD2 (and KCD1, to a lesser extent) does very well is dismiss the Victorianized pseudo-history that same-sex romance, sex, and affection were some sort of widely-kept secret from society that did not dawn upon people until the second half of the thousands. In KCD, no one is surprised or bewildered by stories, both fictional and local, of same-sex lovers. Yes, medieval people knew about gay sex and no, “discovering” that it exists would not have shocked them—because a taboo is not necessarily an unknown. While NPCs react with different shades of opinion to conversations about same-sex romance, the world does not treat this as alien; it wasn’t. It is discussed casually, albeit with some discretion depending on context and company. KCD2 even enables you to play a Henry who has had prior sexual experience with men (see the Black Bartosch interactions) and has already embraced his own same-sex attraction to the extent he can confidently, casually sexually advance on men.

The Elephant in the Room: Class. Remember that the class divide at hand provides as much—if not more—opposition than the religiosity. Feudalism itself was built into medieval Catholicism. I sometimes think KCD downplays the importance of class, especially in KCD1, as it allows Henry to openly speak to Hans in ways that are unthinkably inappropriate given the feudal consciousness of the time, with almost no punishment or reaction from those around them. Not just because these interactions might indeed arouse suspicions of same-sex romance, but because a commoner risks severe punishment (or death!) for putting his hands on a lord, interrupting him, and insulting him in public. (Yes, including a noble’s bastard, a designation which is more harmful than not in many ways.) That's not to say Hans himself would not allow Henry to speak to him in this way; it's clear he desperately enjoys the novelty of someone who speaks to him freely, even in the earliest hours of KCD1, before they are tightly bonded. But it is strange there is so little blowback or external punishment for Henry when he baps His Lordship upside the head and calls him a buffoon in front of a gaggle of His Lordship's soldiers, on the precipice of dangerous military action, with Captain Bernard no doubt on the verge of apoplexy nearby. For this reason more than any other, I would argue, Henry and Hans’s relationship spits in the face of feudal order—and it does so even without the romantic consummation.

That's enough of that now, Jesus. I hope someone finds this to be a helpful bullet-point summary and it facilitates a more confident venture into historical fiction research! So TLDR; regarding the fandom's current anxiety of, "Am I making the Sin of it all too big of a deal?" my ultimate answer is yes, but also no, for it deeply depends on the context and the creator's intention. Love you lady, buhbye.

[strwbyoons]

INTERLACE

STARRING ... SPIDEY!J. JUNGKOOK X READER

WORD COUNT ... 10.5K

SUMMARY ... at what point do crossing paths become one in the same?

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slow burn. reader and jungkook are both awkward losers. reader is in mega denial abt her feelings. is it a love triangle if it's technically only two people? fighting and mentions of blood. very spidey centric this chapter.

playlist : head over heels (tears for fears). glue song (beabadoobee). some (steve lacy). a new kind of love (frou frou). i want you to love me (fiona apple). my kind of woman (mac de marco). telephones (vacations). blondie (current joys). fade into you (mazzy star). waiting room (phoebe bridgers).

taglist. prev. next.

you don’t know why this is making you this nervous.

it’s not like jungkook is scary. he’s quiet, sure—keeps to himself, doesn’t talk much in class. but he’s nice. normal. a perfectly reasonable person to ask for help.

so why the hell are your palms sweating?

you take a slow breath, forcing your legs to move, weaving through the crowd of students packing up their things. by the time you reach his desk, most of the lecture hall has emptied, and jungkook is still sitting there, hunched slightly over his bag like he’s in no rush to leave.

he glances up when you stop beside him.

his eyes are huge. it throws you off for half a second, but you shake it off, adjusting your bag strap and clearing your throat.

“hey,” you say, voice coming out a little softer than you mean it to.

jungkook stares.

and stares.

for a second, you think he might actually be buffering. then, finally, “uh. hey,” he says, blinking like he just remembered how to function.

you shift, rolling your shoulders. okay. normal. this is normal.

“so, um.” you glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of how empty the room is. “this might be kind of random, but… do you, uh. know anyone who tutors?”

jungkook blinks again, like he wasn’t expecting that question. “tutors?”

you nod, shifting on your feet. “yeah. for chemistry.”

god, why does this feel so awkward?

jungkook doesn’t answer right away.

his expression shifts—just a flicker of something unreadable—but you don’t have time to dwell on it before he clears his throat.

“uh. yeah. i mean, i—” he rubs the back of his neck, voice slightly strained. “i can ask around.”

you try not to let your disappointment show, but you must not be very good at it, because jungkook’s brows twitch slightly.

“oh,” you say, nodding. “cool. yeah, that would be great.”

you hesitate.

because this—standing here, watching him watch you, feeling like there’s some kind of weird, invisible weight between you—feels off. like the conversation should be longer, like there’s something else you should say, even though you don’t know what.

but you don’t want to drag this out.

so you clear your throat, shifting your bag strap higher. “and, um… if you hear of anyone good, could you maybe… let me know?”

jungkook nods so fast it almost startles you. “yeah. of course.”

his voice is weirdly serious.

but you brush it off, offering a small smile. “thanks, jungkook.”

for a second, his breath catches—like you just said something completely life-altering instead of just his name.

you tilt your head, but before you can think too hard about it, you wave and turn toward the door.

you don’t look back.

but as you step into the hallway, something about the whole thing still lingers. like you missed something important.

jungkook had rehearsed for this exact situation. he thought the hard part was over—he'd actually acted semi-normal when he'd approached you, managed to hold eye contact while offering to be your tutor. he'd even left the exchange having obtained your number (sweet!!).

he'd spent countless nights revising content, practicing formulas and memorising equations and theories so that he could at least seem like he knew what he was doing.

this was it. his moment. he was finally just going to interact with you like a normal fucking human being.

it was all good in theory, but in practice? jungkook was royally fucked.

because now you're sitting next to him, completely oblivious to the fact that he's barely holding it together.

you're chewing on the end of your pen, eyes narrowed at your notebook, looking way too focused for someone who has no idea how much damage they're doing to his concentration.

"so," you say, tapping the paper. "balancing equations. i kind of get it, but also, i really, really don't."

jungkook blinks. right. chemistry. that's what they're here for.

he clears his throat, forcing himself to focus. "uh, yeah. it's not too bad once you get the hang of it."

you shoot him a deadpan look. "strongly disagree."

he huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. "okay, so—" he grabs his pen and flips to a clean page. "the key thing is that both sides need to have the same number of atoms. like, if you start with four hydrogens on this side, you need four on the other too."

you nod slowly. "okay. that… makes sense."

"yeah, so let’s try this one." he writes out a basic equation, sliding the notebook toward you. "give it a shot."

you stare at it like it's personally offended you.

jungkook bites back a grin. "it’s not a trick question."

"it feels like a trick question," you mutter. but you pick up your pen, hesitating before writing a number down.

jungkook watches as you pause, lips pressing together, brows furrowing in concentration.

he looks away quickly.

he should be focusing on the chemistry. the equations, the tutoring.

not the fact that he’s definitely in trouble.

because the moment you put pen to paper, jungkook knows—just knows—you’re about to get it wrong.

and sure enough, when you slide the notebook back toward him, there it is.

wrong.

not completely wrong, but wrong enough that jungkook exhales through his nose and shakes his head.

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “god, this is so dumb.”

“it’s not dumb,” jungkook says, flipping his pen between his fingers. “you’re just thinking about it the wrong way.”

“okay, smart guy.” you tilt your head, challenging. “explain it to me in a way that actually makes sense.”

jungkook leans back, tapping the pen against the page. “okay, think of it like this. say you’re making a fruit salad—”

you blink. “a what?”

“a fruit salad,” he repeats, undeterred. “and say you start with four oranges.”

you eye him warily. “...okay.”

“so no matter what you do—peel them, slice them, throw them in a bowl with other fruit—at the end of the day, you still have four oranges.”

your brows furrow, lips pressing together like you don’t want to admit that makes sense.

jungkook grins. “balancing equations is the same thing. no matter how you rearrange the elements, the total amount of each one has to stay the same on both sides.”

you stare at him for a long moment.

then, finally, you sigh. “...that’s actually a good analogy.”

he smirks. “i know.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips now. “okay, hotshot, let’s see if you can explain something harder.”

jungkook arches a brow. “oh, so now you want me to tutor you?”

you shove his arm lightly. “shut up and give me another problem.”

he chuckles, flipping to a fresh page. “alright. let’s try the haber process.”

he writes it down, leaving it unbalanced:

N₂ + H₂ → NH₃

“alright,” he says, capping his pen. “same rule as before. everything on the left has to match everything on the right.”

you narrow your eyes, twirling your pen between your fingers before jotting something down.

jungkook watches as you hesitate, erasing and rewriting numbers, brows furrowed in concentration.

it’s weirdly endearing.

and then you groan, pushing the notebook back. “i give up.”

jungkook scans your work. “you were close.”

“i hate that phrase.”

he grins, nudging the notebook back toward himself. “watch.”

he adjusts the numbers as he explains. “so, nitrogen. you start with two on this side, but only one on this side. so we fix that by making this a two—” he scribbles down the coefficient.

“okay…” you say slowly, watching his pen move.

“now hydrogen,” he continues. “we start with two here, but six here. so we add a three here to balance it out—”

N₂ + 3H₂ → 2NH₃

he slides the notebook back to you with a triumphant smile.

you stare at it, expression unreadable. “i swear to god,” you say, shaking your head, “if you had explained it like that from the start, i wouldn’t have struggled.”

jungkook laughs. “so what i’m hearing is, i’m a great tutor.”

“what you’re hearing is, you could’ve been a great tutor.”

“eh. still counts.”

you roll your eyes, but this time, you’re actually smiling.

and jungkook—despite everything, despite his initial panic, despite the fact that he’s sitting way too close to you for his own sanity—finds himself smiling too.

you stretch your arms over your head, letting out a quiet sigh. “y’know, i almost asked namjoon for tutoring.”

jungkook stills for a second before forcing himself to look casual. “oh, yeah?”

you nod, scribbling absently in the corner of your notebook. “yeah. figured he’d be a good choice, since he’s, like… stupidly smart.”

jungkook huffs a small laugh, but something about that digs at him a little. because you’re right. namjoon would be the better choice.

namjoon is a teacher’s aide. namjoon is literally enrolled in biomedical engineering, which is, like, a hundred times more impressive than whatever jungkook is doing. namjoon probably understands this stuff instead of just memorizing enough to fake his way through a tutoring session.

jungkook shifts slightly in his seat, tapping his pen against the table. “so why didn’t you?”

you blink at him.

then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, you shrug. “because you offered.”

jungkook's brain goes blank.

because what?

you say it so easily, like it’s obvious, like there wasn’t even a question. like you actually wanted to study with him.

his grip tightens around his pen as he watches you absently flip through your notes, completely unaware of the absolute chaos you've just thrown him into.

for a second, neither of you say anything.

your eyes flick up to his, and suddenly, he’s stuck.

there’s a small pause—just a beat, just long enough for jungkook to forget how to breathe.

you hold his gaze like it’s nothing, like he’s not sitting here actively trying not to combust.

his mouth goes dry. his heart is way too loud.

and then, just as quickly, you glance back down at your notes, tapping your pen against the paper. “okay, next question. impress me, tutor boy.”

jungkook clears his throat, blinking hard, trying to snap himself out of whatever the hell that was (he is so fucking done for).

he shifts in his seat, flipping through the textbook like he actually knows what he’s looking for. “uh. yeah. next question. right.”

you smirk, tilting your head. “you good?”

“yeah.” his voice comes out too fast, too stiff. he forces a casual shrug. “just, uh—thinking of a good one.”

(thinking about how you looked at me like that. thinking about how you chose me instead of namjoon. thinking about how—fuck.)

you hum, resting your chin in your palm. “hope it’s a hard one.”

jungkook exhales sharply, scanning the page like it has the answers to any of the things he’s struggling with right now.

finally, he lands on a problem that looks complicated enough to distract both of you.

“alright,” he says, tapping the book. “let’s see what you got.”

you lean in slightly, eyes flicking over the question, and jungkook tells himself to focus—on the tutoring, on the problem, on literally anything except the way your shoulder brushes his when you move. but he feels it anyway. and he knows this is so much worse than he thought.

time passes.

the tutoring session slowly shifts—somewhere between balancing equations and half-scribbled notes, the conversation drifts, drifting away from chemistry, away from anything remotely academic.

at first, it’s small things.

you ask jungkook how he even ended up offering to tutor you in the first place (he very smoothly dodges the part where jimin bullied him into it). he asks you if chemistry is your worst subject (it is, followed closely by calculus, which makes him wince in secondhand pain).

but then, when the notes are mostly abandoned and the textbooks sit open but unread between you, jungkook asks, “so, the mural.”

you pause, pen tapping against the table. “what about it?”

jungkook shrugs, keeping his tone casual. “just wondering how it’s going.”

you blink. “how do you know about the mural?”

fuck.

jungkook freezes.

because—right. right. he’s not supposed to know about that. not as jungkook.

he clears his throat, scrambling for a non-suspicious answer. “uh—i mean, it’s kind of hard to miss, right? huge wall, lots of paint?” he forces a laugh. “not exactly subtle.”

you tilt your head, watching him.

for a second, he panics. does she know? is she suspicious?

but then, your lips curve into a small smile. “guess that’s true.”

he lets out a breath, relieved.

you shift slightly, leaning back in your chair. “it’s going okay. slow, but i like how it’s turning out.”

jungkook nods, relaxing a little. “still just ‘feeling it out’?”

you grin. “always.”

jungkook exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, watching him curiously. “you actually care, or are you just trying to distract me from chemistry?”

he scoffs. “i do care.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay, and i’m trying to distract you.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “appreciate the honesty, tutor boy.”

jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

and as the conversation drifts even further from chemistry, as the minutes slip by unnoticed, he realizes he doesn’t actually mind that they haven’t gotten much studying done.

because sitting here, just talking to you? that might be his favorite part.

you stretch your arms over your head, letting out a slow sigh. “you know, this is giving me serious deja vu.”

jungkook raises an eyebrow. “deja vu?”

“yeah,” you say, twirling your pen between your fingers. “feels like our first library date all over again.”

jungkook chokes.

his throat closes up, his brain slams into a brick wall, and he spends a solid three seconds trying to remember how to breathe.

because—date??

DATE??

“what—” he coughs, scrambling to recover. “what?”

your eyes widen, like you just realized what you said. “oh my god.” you sit up straighter, waving your hands frantically. “no, wait, not like—i didn’t mean—i just meant, like—”

you groan, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before trying again. “i meant ‘date’ in, like, a casual, non-romantic way. like a—like a study date. not a date-date.”

jungkook is still stuck on the first part.

you clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “obviously, right? because that wasn’t—i mean, it’s not like we were—”

jungkook nods way too fast. “right. yeah. totally.”

silence.

the air is suddenly so much thicker than it was two seconds ago and neither of you are looking at each other anymore.

you tap your fingers against the notebook. jungkook fiddles with the cap of his pen.

somewhere in the distance, a clock ticks.

and then you really make it worse. you shake your head, then sigh dramatically. “god, i haven’t been on a date in ages.”

jungkook short-circuits.

you seem to realize it the second it leaves your mouth because your face burns hot immediately.

“i mean—not that you needed to know that,” you add quickly.

jungkook stares, not sure if he needed to know that either, but now he does and it’s definitely doing something weird to his brain.

you groan again, dropping your head onto the table, muffled voice full of suffering. “why am i still talking?”

jungkook has no idea.

no idea why you’re telling him this. no idea why his face is getting warm at the thought of you not having been on a date in ages.

he should say something. should defuse the tension, get this conversation back on track before either of you combust.

but his brain is a useless pile of mush.

so instead, he just blurts, “really?”

you lift your head just enough to squint at him. “why do you sound so surprised?”

he freezes. “i—uh. i don’t? sound surprised?”

you narrow your eyes, clearly not buying it.

jungkook panics. “i just mean—like, i figured you probably—” he waves his hand vaguely, trying to will the words to make sense, “—go on dates?”

you groan, dropping your forehead back onto the table. “oh my god.”

jungkook wants to crawl into a hole. “that’s not what i meant.”

your voice comes out muffled against the wood. “please stop talking.”

“yeah. okay.” he nods, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “i can do that.”

silence. horribly awkward, suffocating silence.

you peek up at him, resting your chin on your arms, and jungkook almost forgets how to function when you pout dramatically.

“i don’t know why i said any of that,” you whine, shaking your head.

jungkook exhales a laugh, the tension breaking just a little. “honestly? same.”

you squint at him. “you barely said anything.”

he shrugs. “felt like i did.”

you stare at him for a second. then, slowly, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

and just like that, the weirdness settles into something… easier.

you groan, stretching your arms over your head. “okay. chemistry. let’s focus. no more personal life crises.”

jungkook snorts, flipping the textbook back open. “you started it.”

“and i regret it immensely.”

“noted.”

you shake your head, grinning. and jungkook can't help but mirror your grin.

after a few minutes more, the library announcement chimes overhead, signaling that closing time is in fifteen minutes. you sigh, stretching your arms before starting to pack up your things.

“guess that’s our cue,” you say, slipping your notebook into your bag.

jungkook watches, debating something for a second before finally just going for it. “want me to walk you home?”

you pause, blinking up at him.

for a second, he wonders if that was too forward, if he made it weird, if he—

but then, you just smile, shaking your head. “that’s sweet, but i’ll be fine. i live pretty close.”

jungkook nods, trying to ignore the slight disappointment in his chest. “got it.”

you sling your bag over your shoulder and flash him a grateful look. “but seriously, thanks for tutoring me. i know you probably have better things to do.”

jungkook shrugs. “it’s not a big deal.”

you tilt your head, amused. “well, i’ll still say thanks. so, when are you free next?”

“whenever,” he answers immediately.

you raise an eyebrow. “wow. must be nice having unlimited free time.”

jungkook panics for a second because, yeah, it is nice when you don’t technically have a set schedule outside of being a vigilante and school.

he clears his throat, scrambling for a normal answer. “uh, yeah, i mean… i just study and play video games, so.”

your expression brightens at that. “oh? what games?”

he exhales, relieved at the topic change. “mostly overwatch. jimin and i play together a lot.”

you snort. “i suck at overwatch.”

jungkook scoffs. “you can’t be that bad.”

“no, i promise you, i’m that bad.”

he smirks, tilting his head. “so prove it.”

you blink. “what?”

“play with me sometime,” he says casually, shoving his books into his bag. “i’ll carry you.”

you shake your head, laughing. “you say that now, but wait till you actually see me play.”

“still worth it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s a fondness in it. “nah, i usually play stuff like stardew valley.”

jungkook nods, pretending he hasn’t dumped way too many hours into that game himself. “yeah? how’s your farm?”

you grin, eyes bright. “thriving. absolute empire. perfect livestock, peak efficiency.”

he chuckles. “that so?”

“mhm.” you start heading for the door, throwing a glance over your shoulder. “i’ll show you sometime if you want.”

jungkook hesitates for half a second, then nods. “yeah. i’d like that.”

you smile. “cool.”

and just like that, you push open the library doors and step into the hall, calling out a quick, “see you later, tutor boy!” before disappearing into the crowd.

jungkook watches you go, standing there in the doorway for a moment longer than he probably should.

then, finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair.

he’s so, so fucked.

it’s been a few days since your first tutoring session with jungkook, and somehow, your brain still won’t let go of that one stupid moment.

the part where you, for absolutely no reason, volunteered the information that you haven’t been on a date in ages.

why did you say that? what compelled you to just throw that out there like it was relevant to anything?

it wasn’t even that big of a deal—jungkook didn’t react weirdly, didn’t press you about it—but now you can’t stop wondering if he has gone on any dates recently. if he’s been out with someone, if there’s someone else who gets to sit across from him and hear him talk about things that aren’t chemistry equations.

you frown, shaking your head. it doesn’t matter.

because you don’t care. obviously.

it was just an awkward slip-up, that’s all. no reason to read into it, no reason to wonder about things that don’t concern you.

you don’t care.

really.

“you look like you’re thinking way too hard about something,” taehyung’s voice snaps you out of your daze.

you blink, barely registering that you’ve been staring at the sidewalk for the past minute instead of watching where you’re going.

taehyung, your seatmate in one of your other classes and the only person who seems to struggle with chemistry as much as you do, raises an eyebrow. “are you planning to confess to the pavement or…?”

you groan, adjusting your bag strap. “shut up.”

he laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets as the two of you walk across campus.

“so,” he says, shooting you a knowing look. “you finally got a tutor?”

you hum in confirmation. “yup.”

he grins. “about time. i was starting to think you were just accepting your fate.”

you groan again. “trust me, i was.”

taehyung laughs, shaking his head. “well, at least namjoon’s helping you out now. you couldn’t have picked a better tutor.”

you blink. “wait, what?”

he gives you a confused look. “your tutor. namjoon?”

you snort. “oh. no, not namjoon.”

taehyung frowns. “not namjoon?”

you shake your head.

he blinks. “then… who?”

you glance away, suddenly feeling a little awkward. “…jungkook.”

there’s a pause, and taehyung stops walking.

you take a few more steps before realizing he isn’t next to you anymore. when you turn back, he’s just staring at you, brows furrowed in disbelief.

“wait. jeon jungkook?”

you sigh. “how many jungkooks do we know?”

he ignores that, eyes narrowing. “the same jungkook who spends half of lecture spacing out and scribbling in his notebook?”

you roll your eyes. “he’s doing fine so far.”

taehyung still looks unconvinced. “so… you asked him?”

“no, he offered.”

his eyebrows shoot up. “he offered?”

you nod, and he really squints this time. “okay,” he says slowly. “what exactly did he say? word for word.”

you groan. “why does it matter?”

“because.” he leans in, smirking. “i need to know if this is just tutoring, or if tutor boy is lowkey flirting with you.”

your face heats immediately. “taehyung.”

he grins. “yes?”

you shake your head aggressively. “it’s not like that.”

he shrugs, but there’s mischief in his expression. “if you say so.” but the look on his face definitely says he doesn’t believe you.

you groan, tightening your grip on your bag. “seriously, it’s not like that.”

taehyung gives you a look. “mmm. still skeptical.”

you roll your eyes. “look, i originally just asked him if he knew any tutors, okay? like, if he could ask around or whatever.”

taehyung hums, intrigued. “and?”

“and i guess he just figured tutoring me himself was easier than actually hunting for one.”

taehyung stops walking again. you turn to see him staring at you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…what?” you ask.

he tilts his head. “so, instead of just looking for a tutor, which would have taken him a single day and it would be over with, he just… decided to be one? to take time out of his day to tutor you?”

you nod. “yeah?”

he squints. “even though he definitely didn’t have to?”

you frown. “i mean, yeah, but—”

“even though he probably had other things to do?”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. “oh my god, taehyung.”

he grins. “i’m just saying. interesting.”

you glare. “it’s not like that.”

he shrugs, falling back into step beside you. “if you say so.”

as you walk, taehyung hums, still smirking like he knows something you don’t. “so, when’s your next study date?”

you trip over your own feet. “it’s not a date,” you sputter, spinning to glare at him.

his smirk widens. “you sure?”

“it’s not a date,” you repeat, scowling. “me and jungkook never been on a date. ever. and he can go on as many dates as he wants and it doesn’t bother me because it’s not like i wanted to go out with him in the first place so there.”

silence.

taehyung blinks at you, completely unimpressed. “…okay?”

your brain finally catches up with your mouth, and horror creeps in as you replay the absolute disaster that just came out of your own lips.

taehyung just watches, waiting, smug as hell.

you groan, smacking a hand over your face. “i don’t know why i said all of that.”

“oh, i do,” he says, all too pleased with himself.

you refuse to dignify that with a response. instead, you storm ahead, fully ready to throw yourself into oncoming traffic.

taehyung, the menace, just follows along, whistling smugly. “you and jungkook, sitting in a tree—” you immediately smack him on the back of the head.

“ow!” he yelps, rubbing the spot dramatically. “violence? over a silly little song?”

you shoot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass, and taehyung shuts up immediately. he falls right into line, walking beside you like a perfectly normal, well-behaved person. not even humming.

you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. “…that easy?”

he lifts his hands in surrender, lips twitching. “what can I say? i know when i’ve pushed my luck.”

you huff, shaking your head. “good. keep it that way.”

taehyung nods sagely. “oh, for sure.”

but the second you glance away, you catch him grinning out of the corner of your eye.

taehyung, very much not knowing when to not push his luck, mutters under his breath, “you are so whipped.”

without hesitation, you smack him again.

“ow—!”

“i am so not whipped,” you hiss, jabbing a finger at him.

taehyung rubs the back of his head, grinning despite the repeated assault. “denial is a river in egypt, my friend.”

you glare at him. “taehyung, i swear to god—”

“okay!” he lifts his hands in surrender, still grinning. “i’ll stop. for now.”

you narrow your eyes. “good.”

but as the two of you keep walking, taehyung just smiles to himself, smug as hell. and you hate that, for some reason, it feels like he already knows something you don’t.

“bro, you are so whipped. president of whipped city. honorary mayor. full-time resident.”

jungkook sighs, staring blankly at the game screen. “…yeah.”

jimin nearly drops his controller. “wait, what?”

jungkook exhales, running a hand through his hair. “i said yeah.”

jimin gapes at him, like jungkook just admitted to something earth-shattering. “hold on. hold on. you’re actually agreeing with me? no pushback? no pathetic attempts to deny it?”

jungkook groans, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth. “dude, what’s the point? we both know it’s true.”

jimin flops dramatically against the couch. “oh my god. my best friend—self-aware?”

“shut up.”

“no, no, this is huge.” jimin tosses his controller onto the coffee table and gestures wildly. “this is, like, character development.”

jungkook scowls, shoving him with his foot. “dude, play the game.”

jimin smirks, picking up his controller again. “so what’s got you suddenly admitting defeat? did she do something cute again?”

jungkook grits his teeth, staring too hard at the screen. “she exists. that’s enough.”

jimin cackles. “oh, you are so gone.” jungkook groans, slumping deeper into the couch, because yeah. yeah. he really, really is. he’s been gone from the moment you smiled at him for the first time.

not just a polite, passing smile, not the kind you give to strangers in the hall, but a real one—bright and effortless, the kind that made his brain short-circuit and his stomach flip all at once.

it was over for him before he even realized it.

jimin side-eyes him, a slow grin creeping onto his face. “you’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”

jungkook scoffs. “shut up.”

“you are.” jimin points at him. “you’re sitting here, pretending to focus on the game, but in reality? your brain is running a full highlight reel of every time she’s ever laughed in your direction.”

jungkook’s eye twitches. “…so what if it is?”

jimin gasps, clutching his chest like he’s moved. “holy shit. you’ve evolved. you’re finally embracing the downfall.”

jungkook sighs, pausing the game and rubbing his face. “god, i hate you.”

“no, you love me,” jimin corrects, slinging an arm around jungkook’s shoulders and shaking him lightly. “but not as much as you love—”

jungkook slaps a hand over his mouth, and jimin laughs against his palm, completely unbothered.

jungkook sighs, pulling his hand away. “bro, what do i do?”

jimin leans back, smug. “depends. what’s the goal here? do you just wanna keep suffering in silence? or do you actually wanna do something about it?”

jungkook exhales sharply, staring at the game screen. “i don’t know.”

“well,” jimin grins, “i do.”

jungkook groans, already regretting asking. “oh god.”

jimin smacks his knee. “dude. date. her.”

jungkook freezes.

jimin raises an eyebrow. “what? too much?”

jungkook stares at the screen, heart pounding.

because—fuck.

date her. just two simple words. but now that they’re out there, he can’t stop thinking about them.

obviously he's had the idea in passing, but he's never fully entertained it. he'd imagined it every now and then, wondered what it would feel like to hold your hand and keep you by his side, and then dismissed the idea entirely.

but now it was somewhat tangible.

it wasn’t just a passing thought anymore. it was real enough to put a name to, real enough that jimin could say it out loud, real enough that jungkook’s chest tightened at the very idea of it.

he swallows hard, gripping his controller like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

jimin watches him closely, the smirk on his face slowly morphing into something less teasing, more knowing.

“…you wanna,” he says, voice softer now. not a question.

jungkook exhales, pressing his lips together.

does he?

he thinks about it. really thinks about it.

about you, sitting across from him in the library, chewing on your pen as you furrowed your brows at a chemistry problem. about you standing in front of that mural, streaks of paint on your fingers, looking so focused, so alive. about you looking at him—at spider-man—and telling him you thought he was a good guy.

his stomach flips. yeah. he wants.

“…yeah,” jungkook mutters, barely above a whisper. “i wanna.”

jimin beams.

“okay, lover boy,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “so what’s the move?”

jungkook groans, dragging a hand down his face. “god, i don’t know.”

jimin hums, fake-pensive. “well, you could just ask her out.”

jungkook levels him with a deadpan stare. “oh, genius. brilliant. why didn’t i think of that?”

jimin grins. “i know, right?”

jungkook shoves him, and jimin cackles.

but underneath all of jimin’s antics, all the teasing and the prodding and the smugness, jungkook knows he’s right. if he wants this—if he really, actually wants this—he can’t just sit around waiting for fate to keep throwing you in his path.

he has to do something about it.

…except he won’t.

because the thought alone is enough to send him into a full-blown spiral, and if he actually tried to do something about it? he’d probably self-destruct on the spot.

he’s not ready for that. so instead, he just leans back into the couch, stretching his legs out and letting out a slow breath. “yeah, no. not happening.”

jimin groans dramatically. “dude.”

“nope.” jungkook shakes his head, staring at the game screen like it holds all the answers. “happy to keep things exactly the way they are.”

jimin rolls his eyes. “oh, because that’s going so great for you.”

jungkook shrugs. “could be worse.”

“bro, you are suffering.”

“debatable.”

jimin makes a frustrated noise, flopping back against the cushions. “this is painful to witness.”

jungkook snorts, nudging jimin’s foot with his own. “so stop witnessing.”

“oh, no. i’m invested now,” jimin says, pointing at him. “one of these days, you’re gonna slip. you’re gonna do something so disgustingly obvious that she has to notice, and when that day comes? i will be there to say ‘i told you so.’”

jungkook shakes his head, amused. “cool. let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”

jimin just grins, looking way too smug. “oh, we will.”

jungkook rolls his eyes and unpauses the game, diving back into their match.

he tells himself not to think about it anymore.

not about you, not about the way his chest tightened when he admitted he wanted this, not about the fact that jimin is probably right and it’s only a matter of time before he screws up big time.

for now, it’s easier to just keep things the way they are.

you step back, wiping your hands against your hoodie, smudging more paint onto the already-stained fabric. the mural is starting to take shape.

sort of.

it’s different from what you originally planned. when you first started, it was going to be full of blues—deep, rich shades, like the night sky stretched across the wall. but somewhere along the way, the reds started creeping in.

now, there’s more red than blue.

you tilt your head, studying it under the dim glow of the streetlamp. you didn’t plan it this way, but somehow, the colors look familiar.

warm undertones mixed with the shadows. the way the red bleeds into the dark, streaks of white cutting through the mess, as if something—or someone—is moving through it.

it looks like—

no.

you shake your head, dipping your brush into more red.

you don’t know what it looks like yet. it’s still forming. still coming together. you’ll figure it out later.

you just keep painting.

the streetlamp flickers, casting a dull glow over your workspace, your shadow stretching long against the wall. the night is quiet—just the occasional sound of passing cars, the distant murmur of the city still alive somewhere beyond this little pocket of stillness.

your brush glides across the concrete, the red blending deeper, warmer, more intense.

you tell yourself you’re not thinking about it.

not thinking about why your strokes keep forming those streaks, those sharp angles that almost resemble the shape of someone in motion.

not thinking about why you keep gravitating toward these colors, why the contrast between red and blue feels so familiar, like you’ve seen it a thousand times before, flashing across the city skyline.

you sigh, stepping back again, arms crossed.

maybe you’re imagining things. maybe it’s nothing. maybe your subconscious just decided on this without consulting you first.

but still, the mural is starting to look like something. or someone.

you press your lips together, debating whether to add more or leave it for the night.

before you can decide, a noise from above catches your attention.

a faint thump—barely noticeable, but enough to pull your focus upward.

your eyes flick toward the rooftops.

the city stretches above you, dark windows, empty fire escapes, towering buildings. nothing unusual. nothing there.

but something in your gut says otherwise.

you linger for a second longer, staring at the skyline, before finally shaking your head.

it’s just your imagination. probably.

you turn back to your mural, reaching for your brush again. because whatever it is—whoever it reminds you of—you’ll figure it out later.

right now, you just want to paint.

just as you’re about to dip your brush back into the paint, a commotion erupts in the distance. loud, sharp—people screaming. your head snaps toward the street. you hesitate for only a second before stepping away from the wall, peering out from the alleyway.

“oh, what the fuck.”

there’s something big—way too big—moving down the street. cars veer off, tires screeching. people sprint in every direction, desperate to get out of its path. streetlights flicker, casting broken shadows over the chaos.

you blink hard, trying to process what you’re seeing. because whatever that thing is, it’s huge.

bulky, armored, stomping through the street like it owns the place.

“is that—” you squint, taking a step forward. 

it lets out a roar. an actual, earth-shaking roar. you flinch, gripping the edge of the wall. "fucking godzilla junior,” you mutter, heart hammering.

the thing—creature? metal suit? angry science experiment?—swings an arm, knocking over a lamppost like it’s nothing. it crashes onto the sidewalk, sending sparks flying. this is so not your problem. this is, in fact, the exact opposite of your problem. this is a spider-man problem.

your fingers tighten on the strap of your bag as you scan the street, looking for any sign of red and blue.

because if there’s one thing you do know, he’ll show up. he always does.

the creature stomps past your alley, the ground shaking with every step.

you hold your breath, pressing yourself against the wall as it moves further into the city, tearing its way through the streets like a walking natural disaster.

you should leave. should turn around, pack up, go home. but instead, you wait, because you know what’s coming next.

and sure enough, not even a full minute later, you spot him. a blur of red and blue swings into view, flipping between the buildings, fast and precise, headed straight for the chaos.

you grin. “go get ‘em, spider-man!” you call out, cupping your hands around your mouth.

he falters. mid-swing, his momentum glitches, his body twisting at the sound of your voice.

“whoa—shit—”

he just barely corrects himself before landing, almost colliding with a very confused pedestrian.

you giggle, pressing a hand to your mouth.

he whips around, scanning the area, but you’re already retreating back into the alley, out of sight.

you laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you dip your brush back into the paint. the shouts and sirens from the street feel distant now, like background noise to your own little world.

the colors on the wall bleed together beneath your touch, slow and deliberate. you swipe through the wet paint with practiced ease, dragging the deep reds across the surface, blending them into darker shades, cutting through them with streaks of white and blue.

it’s instinctual, the way your wrist moves, the way the brush strokes form something you recognize but don’t question. it’s coming together on its own—shapes forming out of muscle memory, lines shifting into movement, colors layering until they feel right.

you don’t mind how familiar it’s turning out to be.

even if there's no red string, even if fate doesn’t work the way the stories say it does—if the universe keeps bringing two people together, again and again, through coincidence or chaos or sheer, dumb luck—

isn’t that the same thing?

your fingers pause against the wall.

the thought lingers, curling into your chest like something warm, something you don’t want to name yet.

so you don’t.

instead, you pick up your brush again and keep painting.

jungkook is getting his ass beat.

not, like, fatally—he’s had worse, honestly—but this? this is definitely not great.

he barely dodges another swing from godzilla junior, flipping backward onto a car hood before launching himself into the air. his chest aches from where he took a hit earlier, and his reflexes are just a little slower than usual, which is definitely not ideal when fighting something that could probably fold him in half.

and the worst part?

he’s still thinking about you.

because, of course, of course the second he swings in, you have to be there—cheering him on, all cute and distracting—and now his brain is all messed up, and that’s why he nearly wiped out in front of a whole crowd of people.

(seriously, who does that? what kind of idiot almost faceplants mid-swing just because a girl said his name?)

(oh, right. him.)

“hey, focus, dumbass!” he mutters to himself, shooting out a web and flipping just in time to avoid another direct hit.

the creature—or, more accurately, the massive asshole in a mechanical exo-suit—lets out a roar of frustration, swinging wildly at nothing as jungkook zips between buildings.

jungkook lands against a wall, crouching low, trying to catch his breath. he really needs to find an opening, but all he can think about is the way you giggled before disappearing back into that alley. his stomach does a weird little flip, and that’s when it hits him.

not a realization. an actual hit. because apparently, while he was busy being an idiot, godzilla junior decided to throw an entire street sign at him.

the impact knocks the air from his lungs, sending him crashing into a dumpster with a loud, painful clang. jungkook groans, peeling himself out of the metal. 

okay, focus. no more thinking about you.

jungkook barely has time to roll out of the way before the dumpster caves in on itself, the metal screeching as godzilla junior storms toward him. “okay, rude,” jungkook wheezes, flipping onto his feet. “you ever heard of talking things out? no? just straight to throwing street signs, huh?”

the guy inside the exo-suit growls, voice crackling through the speakers. “shut up and fight me.”

jungkook sighs, shaking out his limbs. “see, that’s the problem. i am fighting you, and yet, somehow, i’m still getting my ass handed to me.”

before he can brace himself, the guy lunges, fast—way too fast for something that big. jungkook dodges just in time to avoid a direct hit, twisting mid-air and landing on the creature’s back. “whoa, big guy,” he grins, gripping onto the metal. “you ever think about cutting back on the protein powder?”

he barely gets the words out before he’s violently shaken off, his body whipping through the air like a ragdoll before he slams into the pavement.

pain explodes through his ribs.

“ow.” he groans, rolling onto his side. “okay. that was fair.”

the guy doesn’t let up, stomping forward, metal plating glinting under the streetlights. jungkook forces himself to move, to breathe, flipping backward as the exo-suit’s arm smashes into the ground where he was just laying. concrete shatters beneath the force.

“man,” jungkook huffs, shaking out his wrist as he shoots a web, swinging around to land on a streetlight. “you are really committed to the whole mindless destruction thing, huh?”

“stand still and maybe i’ll stop.”

“ohhh, see, that sounds like a trap.”

the guy lunges again, swiping at the post with a massive, mechanical arm. jungkook jumps—barely clearing it—but he’s not fast enough this time. the impact sends shockwaves through the ground, knocking him off balance mid-air.

before he can recover, a fist, full force, collides with his chest, folding him in half.

he flies.

his vision tilts—buildings blur—his body crashes straight through a bus stop sign before slamming into the pavement, rolling several feet before finally coming to a stop against the side of a parked car.

his mask sticks to his face from the sheer amount of sweat, his ribs are screaming, and he’s definitely going to have a new collection of bruises tomorrow.

“ow,” he mutters again, blinking up at the sky. “ow, ow, ow.”

people are still screaming in the background, sirens wailing in the distance. he needs to get up. needs to get back in the fight before the guy starts tearing apart more of the city.

but—

yeah. no.

he needs, like, two seconds.

dragging himself up onto shaking legs, he stumbles into a nearby alleyway, pressing his back against the brick wall, gasping for breath. his vision swims and his hands tremble as he braces them on his knees.

okay. just a second. just a second to breathe.

then he’ll get back out there.

jungkook tugs off his mask, sucking in a shaky breath as the cool night air hits his sweat-damp skin.

his lungs burn. his ribs ache like they’ve been put through a meat grinder.

he spits onto the pavement—dark red against the concrete.

great. awesome. love that.

he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, grimacing. his knuckles sting, his fingers are twitching from exertion, and every single breath reminds him that he definitely got his ribs cracked somewhere in the process of getting bodied.

“okay,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders, trying to will the pain away. “not dead. not dead. still good.”

he’s had worse.

he leans his head back against the brick wall, shutting his eyes for half a second.

the distant sounds of destruction still echo down the street—sirens, screaming, metal crunching under massive weight.

he should be out there. but instead, he’s here—hiding in an alley, gulping down breaths, trying to ignore the way his body is begging for a break.

“just a second,” he mutters to himself, hands curling into fists. he can’t afford to stop for long. the fight isn’t over yet.

jungkook forces himself to stand up straight. his body protests—every muscle screaming, every breath a sharp reminder of how hard he just got his ass handed to him—but he has to move.

because outside the alley, chaos is still unfolding.

the ground shakes again, a distant explosion rattling through the streets. people are still running, still screaming.

he can’t afford to sit this one out.

with a deep inhale, he wipes the sweat from his forehead, then rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the ache. his fingers fumble as he tugs his mask back down, adjusting it into place.

alright.

jungkook cracks his neck, flexes his hands, forces himself to take another step. he ignores the way his ribs protest. ignores the way his legs feel like lead.

he’s been through worse.

probably.

gritting his teeth, he fires a web toward the nearest fire escape and yanks himself up, flipping onto the rooftop with a grunt. the moment he clears the edge, he sees it. godzilla junior, still rampaging down the street, tossing cars out of its way like they’re made of styrofoam.

jungkook exhales through his nose. “round two, big guy.” and then he swings.

jungkook swings, using the momentum to propel himself forward, ignoring the sharp pull in his ribs as he twists mid-air.

he needs a new strategy.

because going at this guy head-on? clearly not working.

he lands on the side of a building, clinging to the glass as he assesses the scene. godzilla junior is still tearing through the street, metal limbs glinting under the streetlights, hydraulics hissing as it stomps forward.

jungkook exhales sharply. okay. think. what does he know?

the exo-suit is heavy, super heavy, which means it’s slow to recover after a big move. it definitely has enhanced strength, so getting close is a one-way ticket to another ass-kicking. and it has hydraulics, which means it can break.

jungkook’s lips curve into a grin.

“alright, big guy,” he mutters, rolling out his shoulders. “let’s see what happens when you stop moving.”

with that, he shoots a web at a nearby streetlight and swings hard, aiming straight for the thing’s back.

it hears him at the last second, turning just as he lands feet-first onto its shoulder.

“miss me?” jungkook quips, driving his web-shooters straight into the crevices of the exo-suit’s joints.

before the guy inside can respond, jungkook fires.

thick webs burst from his shooters, jamming themselves into the gears and hinges, clogging up the hydraulics in a mess of reinforced webbing.

the exo-suit whirs, sputters, tries to move, but the entire left arm locks up. jungkook grins.

“aw, what’s wrong?” he taunts, flipping over the creature’s head before landing on a nearby car. “can’t throw me across the city anymore?”

the guy inside snarls, trying to yank the arm free. jungkook doesn’t give him the chance. he dives, rolling under the thing’s legs before webbing the back of its knees, pulling tight.

another loud hiss—another joint jammed.

the suit stumbles.

jungkook flips backward, landing a safe distance away as the mechanical beast groans under its own weight.

“y’know, buddy,” he calls, panting, “maybe you should’ve invested in better hinges.”

the exo-suit lurches forward, trying to force itself free, but the joints are already straining. jungkook doesn’t wait. he fires two more webs at a nearby light post, swings himself high into the air, then comes down fast, both feet colliding directly with the already-weakened left knee.

the suit collapses.

metal crashes against the pavement, sparks flying as the massive frame finally buckles under its own weight. jungkook lands on the ground a few feet away, chest heaving. the guy inside groans, struggling, but he’s stuck, and just like that the fight is over.

jungkook stands there, catching his breath as the riot of noise around him settles into something more distant. sirens wail as cop cars pull up, officers pouring onto the street with their guns drawn—not that they’re needed anymore.

the exo-suit guy is down, tangled in a mess of metal and reinforced webbing, completely immobilized.

one of the officers approaches, cautious at first. “nice work, spider-man.”

jungkook nods, barely hearing him.

because right now, all he can think about is you.

the way you had cheered him on earlier, loud and carefree, like you knew he’d win. like you had never doubted that he would.

he wonders, would you be proud of him?

he hopes so.

because right now, standing in the aftermath of another near-death experience, barely holding himself together, that thought makes it feel worth it.

jungkook exhales, rolls out his aching shoulders, then fires a web at the nearest building.

the cops can handle the rest, he needs to get out of here.

his muscles scream as he swings off into the night, his grip weaker than usual, his head pounding. every movement feels slower, every pull of his body through the air making his ribs throb in protest. by the time he lands on an abandoned rooftop, his knees buckle on impact. he barely catches himself, arms shaking, breaths coming in sharp and uneven.

his body feels like it’s about to cave in.

his ribs burn, his limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and he’s pretty sure if he takes his mask off, there’s at least one nasty cut hidden underneath.

but for now, he just lays back against the rooftop, stares up at the stars, and lets himself breathe.

you sigh, rolling your shoulders as you walk home, the scent of fresh paint still lingering on your hands. today had been a good day—no interruptions, no chaos—save for the slight hiccup. well, a little bit more than slight, but for once you'd been left entirely unaffected. just you and your mural, slowly coming to life. but as you round the corner near your building, something catches your eye.

or rather, someone.

spider-man is there, hanging upside down from a web attached to a nearby fire escape. you slow your steps, noticing he’s not moving much. the thought makes your stomach twist. “hey,” you call out, stopping just below him.

his head tilts slightly, like he’s only just noticed you. “oh. hey.” his voice is off—lower, a little rougher than usual.

you narrow your eyes. “are you… okay?”

he waves a hand. “yeah, yeah. just—” he makes a vague gesture, “—taking a breather.”

you cross your arms. “uh-huh. taking a breather by hanging upside down?”

he shrugs, but the motion looks lazy, like he’s conserving energy. your eyes scan him quickly, and that’s when you notice the way his suit is ripped just slightly at his side, the dark material stained a little darker.

your stomach drops. “you’re bleeding.”

he sighs. “technically, yeah, but it’s—”

“not a big deal?” you finish for him, unimpressed.

he pauses. “...yeah.”

you glare.

he sighs, like he already knows what’s coming.

“look,” he says, still hanging there, voice lighter now, “i appreciate the concern, really, but i’ll be fine. i just—”

“come inside.”

he stops.

“what?”

you nod toward the entrance of your building. “my apartment is literally right here. you need to clean that before it gets worse.”

spider-man hesitates. it’s subtle, but you see it—the way his shoulders tense just slightly, the way his fingers twitch where they grip the web. “i’m good,” he says. “really.”

you cross your arms. “you don’t look good.”

“charming,” he mutters.

you huff. “i’m serious. that looks bad. and if you just leave it, it’ll get worse.”

he’s still quiet.

you narrow your eyes. “what, scared of my decor?”

“no,” he says quickly, then pauses. “should i be?”

“depends on your taste,” you say, shrugging. “but i do have a first aid kit, so. your call.”

he still doesn’t move.

you sigh. “look. if it makes you feel better, you don’t have to stay long. just long enough to patch that up so you don’t pass out mid-swing and eat pavement.”

he exhales a small laugh, but you can tell it’s just for show. still, after a second, he sighs again—deeper this time, more resigned. “…okay.”

you nod, ignoring the way your stomach flips a little.

“good,” you say, turning toward the door. “then quit hanging around and come on.”

he groans. “oh my god, was that a pun?”

“it absolutely was.”

“i regret this already.”

you grin. “no takebacks, spidey.”

spider-man lets out an exaggerated sigh, rolling his shoulders before finally reaching up and releasing the web holding him in place. the second his feet hit the ground, his knees buckle. he stumbles forward, the world tilting around him, and he barely has time to process it before your hands are on him.

one gripping his arm, the other pressing against his chest, steadying him before he can completely collapse.

“whoa—okay, nope,” you say, tightening your grip, voice sharp with concern. “you are so not okay.”

“i—” he starts, but his ribs scream when he tries to straighten up, and his vision tilts again.

he would have gone down if you weren’t already half-carrying him.

“jesus, spider-man,” you mutter, struggling under his weight. “could’ve warned me before you almost ate the pavement.”

he exhales a laugh, but it’s weak, winded. “wasn’t—planning on it.”

you scoff, shifting your stance to better support him. “yeah, well, you’re not walking on your own, so just—don’t fight me on this.”

he wants to protest, but he can’t.

because as much as he hates to admit it—his legs are barely holding him up, his ribs are fucked, and right now? he needs you. so instead, he just sighs. “…fine.”

you huff. “good choice.”

with slow, careful steps, you guide him toward your building, your grip firm, your touch warm even through the material of his suit.

the trip up to your apartment is hell.

for him, probably because he’s in pain.

for you, because he is heavy as shit.

you’re practically dragging him by the time you reach your door, his arm slung over your shoulders, his weight leaning into you more and more with every step.

“you know,” you mutter, shifting him against you as you fumble with your keys, “for a guy who moves like a damn gymnast, you’re really bad at this whole walking thing.”

he lets out a breathless laugh. “sorry—not my best day.”

you huff but don’t respond, finally unlocking the door and shoving it open.

the second you step inside, you aim for the couch, and as carefully as you can—which, at this point, isn’t much—you practically toss him onto it.

he lands with a sharp, pained exhale, body sinking into the cushions.

you wince. “whoops.”

he lets out a weak, breathy chuckle, but his whole frame tenses as he shifts, a clear sign that he’s not doing great.

you step back, hands on your hips, trying to catch your breath.

“alright.” you clap your hands together. “stay put.”

he huffs, tilting his head toward you. “yeah, not a problem.”

you roll your eyes but don’t argue, already turning on your heel and heading toward the bathroom. you need your first aid kit. and maybe a lot of patience.

because if this guy even tries to act tough about how messed up he is, you’re not going to let him hear the end of it.

you return a minute later, first aid kit in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. he’s still slumped against the couch, head tilted back, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.

“alright, sit up,” you say, kneeling beside him.

he groans but obeys, shifting just enough to let you get closer. “the suit stays on,” he mutters, voice rough.

you snort. “wasn’t planning on stripping you down, spider-boy. don’t flatter yourself.”

he huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t say anything else. you reach for his mask, fingers brushing the material lightly. “just gonna move this up a little, okay?”

he nods, barely perceptible.

you pull it up slowly, stopping just above the bridge of his nose.

…huh.

your brows furrow slightly as you take in the lower half of his face. it’s… weirdly familiar.

not in a striking way, not in a this is someone i definitely know way, but in a nagging at the back of your mind kind of way. like maybe you’ve seen him before.

but that’s ridiculous.

you shake the thought away and press the cool washcloth to his face, wiping gently at the blood and dirt smeared along his nose and cheeks.

he flinches slightly at first but then relaxes, letting you work in silence. his lips are dry, slightly cracked, and there’s a faint bruise forming along his cheekbone.

“you look like hell,” you murmur.

he exhales a soft chuckle. “feel like it, too.”

you shake your head, dabbing at the last of the blood before sitting back.

“stay put,” you say again, standing up.

“not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes already half-lidded.

you walk into the kitchen, open the freezer, and grab the first thing you can find—frozen peas. good enough. when you return he peeks one eye open, and you toss the bag onto his chest.

he grunts. “ow.”

“don’t be dramatic.” you plop down onto the armrest of the couch, watching as he begrudgingly lifts the bag and presses it to his ribs. “you need ice, and that’s all i’ve got.”

he shifts, adjusting the peas against his chest. “…thanks.”

you shrug, playing it off. “don’t mention it.”

you linger for a second too long, eyes flicking over his face once more—his bruised cheekbone, the faint cut near his lip, the way the mask rests just above his nose. you don’t know why you keep staring, so you shake it off and push yourself to your feet.

“stay here,” you say, as if he’s in any condition to go anywhere.

he grunts in response, now holding the frozen peas to his face.

you head to the kitchen again, pulling open a cabinet and grabbing a bottle of painkillers. you pop two tablets into your palm, then fill a glass of water before making your way back to the couch. he looks up as you sit beside him, shifting slightly to make room—not that there’s much room to be made.

you hold up the painkillers. “open.”

he blinks. “what?”

“your mouth,” you clarify, tilting your head.

his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, maybe protest, but instead, he just sighs and does as he’s told. you drop the tablets onto his tongue, then lift the glass of water to his lips.

he hesitates, just for a second, before wrapping his fingers loosely around yours, steadying the glass as he drinks.

it’s quiet. too quiet.

your pulse jumps, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are—of the way your knees are touching, of the warmth radiating from his body, of the way his throat moves as he swallows. it’s… uncomfortably intimate.

you know you should pull away, but for some reason, you don’t.

his fingers brush yours as you lower the glass, his breath warm when he exhales. he shifts a little, glancing at you. “i could’ve done that myself.”

“could you?” you quip, tilting your head, aiming for smug.

but it falls flat.

because your voice is quieter than you meant for it to be, and you’re still too close, and your brain is suddenly too caught up on the details—on the little things, like how soft his lips looked when they parted, or how his jaw tensed just slightly when you touched him, or how his presence alone feels weirdly overwhelming in your tiny apartment.

he stares at you for a beat, and your breath catches.

he holds your gaze for a second longer—just long enough to make your pulse stutter, just long enough for something to settle thick in the air between you. then, finally, he exhales.

“you should head to bed.” 

his voice is rough, softer than before, like he’s trying to gently remind you that it’s late, that you’ve done enough, that you don’t need to be sitting here looking at him like that.

you hesitate. “what about you?”

he shifts slightly, adjusting the ice pack against his cheek. “i’ll go when i’m ready.”

you frown. you could argue, could tell him to rest, could insist that he shouldn’t be running off anywhere in his condition—but something about the way he says it makes you pause. because you get the feeling that whatever ‘ready’ means for him, it’s not something you can change. so instead, you sigh.

“fine,” you say, pushing yourself to your feet. “but don’t be an idiot, okay? if you still feel like crap, don’t leave.”

he huffs out something between a laugh and a breath. “i’ll be fine.”

you shoot him a look. “i mean it.”

he grunts in acknowledgment, but you don’t know if it’s a promise or just a way to get you to drop it. still, you let it go. you linger for a second longer, but then you force yourself to turn away, padding toward your room.

you push the door open, step inside, fingers curling around the handle.

just before you close it, you hear him say;

“…thank you.”

quiet, rough, almost like he wasn’t planning on saying it but couldn’t stop himself. you pause. your throat feels tight for a reason you don’t want to think about.

but you don’t turn around.

you just nod, even though he can’t see it, and gently close the door behind you.

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @knivesdoingcartwheels @mimi1097 @angellekookie

[incendiobrock]

you get me so {chris sturniolo}

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

pairing(s): stoner!bff!chris x innocent!bff!reader

warning(s): smoking weed, language, sloppy make out

summary: when you need a break from your college work and request to smoke, chris is happy to help you out.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

textbooks were scattered across the floor, packets of papers and an open laptop not far behind. a wooden pencil fidgeted between your fingers, drumming lightly on one of the books as your eyes skimmed the pages. the room was dimly lit, the only light emitting from some string lights and a small desk lamp. a vinyl spun softly in the background, filling the room with deftones, and that familiar scent that lingered in the air.

dior sauvage, incense sticks, and a slight hint of weed was the best way to describe it. it was a scent you had grown to love, a scent that reminded you of him. a soft groan escaped your lips, your head pounding from the hours spent studying and taking countless (useless) notes. the carpeted floor was no longer offering any comfort as you struggled to lay in a better position.

“why don’t you take a break?” his voice filled the air, breaking the comfortable silence that had last between the two of you for the past hour or so. you looked over your shoulder to see him sitting against his headboard, looking down at you as you laid on the ground at the foot of his bed. with a sigh you shut your laptop, “i can’t… i still have to catch up on my lecture and start my thesis for-“

“-ah, ah, ah.” he tsked, cutting off your sentence. “you told me one more hour like.. two hours ago.” he looked at you pointedly, eyebrows slightly raised as he mentioned the promise you’d made to him to at least take a break. glancing down at your watch, you realized how much time had passed, feeling even more doomed for the amount of work you still had left. quickly, you stacked up all your textbooks, moving the pile out of the middle of the floor before you stood up to stretch.

“okay. i’ll take a break but i can only wait about thirty minutes before i need to get back to my work.” you agreed, crawling to sit at the end of the bed, facing him. he shifted slightly before patting the space besides him, “c’ mere.” his voice muttered softly. as soon as you fell into place beside him, his arm wrapped over your shoulders, tucking you into his side. “you work too hard, y’ know?” he whispered. leaning into his side you shrugged your shoulders, your eyes fluttering shut slightly as your head continued to pound.

his fingers idly traced the skin of your arm, looking down at you, carefully taking in your expression. “just relax ma.. i gotchu, you know that.” his words tickled the top of your head, his lips brushing against your hair. “do you have weed?” you asked suddenly, catching him completely off guard. his fingers still against your arm, his breath hitching slightly in shock. you tilt your head back slightly to look up at him as he shifts his away from you, “what’re you talking about?” he asked with a slight chuckle.

his fingers began to trace your skin once again as he continued to speak, “course i got some weed.” a short silence hung over the both of you again as you nodded your head. chris couldn’t help but smirk softly, his free hand reaching over to lightly poke at your side, “why? you want some?” he asked, almost jokingly, knowing that you had never been one to smoke before. in fact, you were always getting onto him for it, telling him that it was a bad habit, even though he insisted that it wasn’t addictive and you had nothing to worry about.

“yeah,” you replied softly, nodding your head. his eyebrows furrowed, moving his body so he could get a closer look at your face. “wait… you’re serious? are you sure?” he quickly asked, trying to decipher if you were joking. something about his concern for you made your heart flutter, butterflies swirling in your stomach as you looked into his deep blue eyes. chewing on the inside of your cheek, you nodded again, “i’m sure… don’t you always tell me that it will make me feel relaxed?”

his face shifted into a slight smile as you recalled what he had said to you in the past. “depends on the strain but yeah. it can help ya relax.” he nodded, impressed that you had remembered that conversation from however long ago. the vinyl scratched slightly as the record ended, making chris immediately get out of bed. he lifted the record off the turntable, shuffling through his collection in search of something new to put on.

your eyes were glued to his back, taking in the sight of his ruffled waves, lowly hanging black sweats, and his signature dark grey zip up jacket. as he placed a new record onto the turntable you spoke up again, “so you have the relaxing kind?” he chuckled, turning around to walk back over to you. “oh, you really weren’t kidding?” he chuckled, standing at the side of the bed as he pulled open the drawer to his side table. his hands shifted through miscellaneous trinkets and papers before he pulled out a metal zippo lighter and a small rectangular case.

sitting cross legged in front of you on the bed, he placed the materials in between the both of you. a small lump formed in your throat as you looked down at the two objects in front of you, chris hadn’t even opened the case yet and you already felt nervous… he glanced up at you, watching as you looked down at the sheets. “are you sure you want to?” he asked carefully, making your eyes meet his. you swallowed the lump in your throat as you nodded your head slowly, “i-i want to but…”

“don’t worry… i know what i’m doing.” he reassured, shooting you a playful wink as he began to open the case, revealing five perfectly rolled blunts. the scent of weed instantly became stronger, filling your nostrils as you looked down at the blunts. carefully, you picked one of them up, spinning it between your fingers as you examined it. “promise it’ll help ya relax.” he stated, gently placing his hand over yours as he took the blunt from you. carefully, he placed the end of the joint in between his lips before grabbing the lighter. “just gonna get it started for ya,” he informed, his words slightly muffled as he continued to hold the joint in his mouth.

your eyes stayed glued to him as you watched him skillfully cup one hand around the joint, bringing the lighter up with his other hand. the flame flicked on as the bud glowed red for a brief second before he took in a breath, the rolling paper now lit. the small puff of smoke blew past his lips as he took the joint from his mouth, handing it towards you. “don’t breathe too hard,” he warned as you gently took the joint from him.

“all you gotta do is take a small breath, hold it in for a few seconds and then let it back out.” he instructed, giving his head a short nod to encourage you. shakily, you brought the filter up to your mouth, your lips wrapping around it before glancing back up at chris. “y’ got it..” he encouraged, nodding his head again as he looked at you.

slowly, you took a deep inhale of the joint, the smoke immediately burning your throat and lungs. you stifled a cough as you tried to hold the smoke in, your hand quickly passing the joint back to chris. “atta girl. there you go.” he smiled, watching as you slightly choked on the hit. when you finally breathed out the smoke, a fit of coughs filled the air. chris chuckled, placing the joint back in his mouth as he reached over and grabbed a water bottle off his night stand, unscrewing the cap before passing it to you. he lazily took another hit, inhaling and exhaling the smoke like it was as smooth as the water you were now chugging.

“shit burns,” you rasped out, pulling the bottle of water away for a second before continuing to drink. chris couldn’t help but chuckle at you again, his hand reaching out to rub your thigh, “you get used to it.” your hand brushed his as you slowly took the joint again, determined to take a few more puffs despite the burning. as soon as you placed it back in your mouth you could feel his gaze on you, intense and slightly lazy. glancing up at him you noticed the slight squint in his eyes, glossing over his pupils. his hand continued to soothe your thigh as you smoked more of his joint.

by the time the first side of the vinyl played through, the joint had burned all the way down to the filter. chris’ attention immediately shot over to the turn table, sighing as he got off the bed to flip the track. watching him suddenly felt more surreal, like you weren’t sure if it was just a dream or if your mind was really moving that slow. it felt like you were watching a stop motion video, or like someone was reeling through an old timey film roll. blinking suddenly felt long and drawn out, your body almost melting into his mattress.

chris had made it back to the bed, lazily smiling as he looked over you. “feelin’ okay?” he questioned softly, laying down besides you as you still sat cross legged. all you could do was nod your head, an equally lazy smile pulling on your lips. as he studied your face he could tell that the weed had worked, making your movements slightly slower, your eyes glossy and squinted. his hand wrapped gently around your wrist, pulling you to lay beside him.

“you know what will make you feel even more relaxed?” he asked softly, allowing you to place your head on his bicep as you scooted close. “hmm?” you lazily hummed, making him smile. he pulled you tighter, his hand slipping under the hem of your shirt as he began to rub your back. his lips press a firm kiss to the top of your hair, his eyes closing as he focused on holding you close. your skin prickled with goosebumps as his hand softly rubbed the skin of your back, his scent now fully engulfing you as you nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck. you took in a big breath, allowing his scent to fill every inch of your nose.

he moved back slightly to look at you, his hand moving from your back to cup your face, his thumb rubbing gently over your cheekbone. “y’ work too hard…” he whispered genuinely, taking in every single feature of your face. “doesn’t it feel nice to just lay here…. relaxed?”

you blinked softly as you looked at him, your words slurring together slightly as you agreed, “feels nice…” a small smile formed on his face as his thumb moved down, idly running over your lips. he couldn’t help but stare as they parted instinctively. “so fuckin’ pretty…” he whispered, making your body tingle, cheeks flushing. you were used to his compliments but this time it felt different. maybe it was because of the weed, or maybe it was the way he was looking at you. you shivered under his touch as his thumb lightly grazed over your lips again, gently pulling at your bottom lip. his gaze was glued to them, almost as if he had forgotten that your eyes even existed. “wanna kiss you so bad…” he mumbled his confession, your heart nearly stopping at his words.

you weren’t sure if he had even meant to say that out loud, or if he had even realized that he had. “so do it.” you whispered back, the weed induced haze clouding your mind. his eyes finally shot back up to meet yours, his expression almost shocked like you somehow reached into his thoughts and read his mind, though he was the one who had slipped up. he searched your face for any signs of hesitation and when he didn’t see any you gave him a subtle nod, letting him know it was okay. that was all he needed to pull you close, his hand resting on your jaw as he carefully, slowly connected your lips.

you hummed softly into his mouth, kissing him back with that same, slow, passion. he took his time, his thumb gently tracing your jaw as his lips melted into yours. you felt his tongue lazily trace your bottom lip, asking for permission that you were happy to give as you carefully parted your lips. his tongue danced with yours, allowing you to taste him, spearmint and the lingering hint of weed. when he finally broke away you were both breathless. his forehead rested against yours, the tips of your noses brushing together. “god, i’ve wanted to do that for such a long time…” he confessed breathlessly. your fingers mindlessly played with the ends of his hair, “you should get me high more often if this is the outcome.” you whispered, boldly. he smiled, moving you carefully to lay on your back as he hovered above.

“deal.” he whispered back, reconnecting your lips as his hand now held your waist.