Title:

Title: 𝒶 𝓅𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝓁𝑒𝓈𝒽

Pairing: Apollo!Peter Parker x Cassandra!Reader

Summary: Not even the gift of foresight will keep you from the God who calls you his.

Warnings: Dark!God AU, Stalking, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Dubcon/Noncon, MINORS DNI!

A/N: whew! back from hiatus with my very late entry for the amazingly talented @thanatosfic’s 1K Greek Myths challenge! the real challenge was keeping this under 5k—i literally just barely squeaked by lmao. it’s been a minute, so i know i’m a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy anyway. ❤️ divider by @whimsicalrogers

You run because you have to—because you see. He never should have let you see, Peter knows that now. It was meant to be a gift, a glimpse into existence the way they saw it, but it was a mistake.

Humans were never meant to know the future.

At least, that is what he reasons as he pursues you.

You already had a touch of prophecy without Apollo’s gift—his gift. It was what had caught his attention the first time, when your soul was young, and you hadn’t yet learned not to trust him. Just a hint of foresight. That’s what had caught his eye.

But humans are quick and clever—that’s what he would come to learn, especially about you. You who had taken his gift but spurned him. You would make him chase you to the ends of the earth—beyond, had you the power. You were looking at him now, he could tell as he explored the recently abandoned hut that had served as your home in the weeks you had evaded him.

Peter kicks over the camping stove with frustration, carding his fingers through his curly brown hair. It’s been abandoned for a week at least, maybe more. He’d caused this, his eagerness spilling over into the dreams. He shouldn’t have shown you images of yourself, writhing in pleasure underneath his touch—you’re too headstrong for such a direct approach.

He leans down to inspect the bed, lifting the top sheet to his nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells like you, a little. He sighs. It’s been so long since he’s held you the way he wants to—centuries.

Lifetimes.

The lingering scent of you stirs him, and Peter palms himself through his jeans. There was a time before he woke, where he was just Peter, and Peter alone.  He still doesn’t know what happened, when a second set of eyes opened up underneath his, and someone else slipped inside his skin with him. Or was it that he’d used to be someone else? It was confusing to think about the time before this mattered—before you mattered.

He is both now. He is Peter and more now—

He is Peter the God.

Fuck, to have you, finally—the thought makes Peter shudder with pleasure as he undoes his jeans and ruts into his own hand. He’s getting closer, bridging the gap you’ve built between yourself and him bit by bit. He swipes a thumb across the head of his cock, pretending it’s you who’s touching him. He hasn’t had this body yet, hasn’t tasted of you wearing this skin, and the newness of it excites him.

He knows you’re watching as he spills onto the dirty sheets, knows you’ll see him closing in on you, but that’s fine.

You’re out of places to run.

——

“And what brings you in today? I see here on your resume you have some experience in office administration.” The faded silver nameplate pinned to the older woman’s threadbare blouse reads Shirley, and her plastic looking smile parts to reveal lipstick stained teeth.

You force a weak smile of your own. You can’t tell her the truth—the truth that sounds insane even when you think it in your head.

“I’ve just always liked Seattle, and since I’ll be in the area for a bit—”

“Portland.” Her smile widens unpleasantly.

“W-what?”

“This is Portland.”

Shit. Seattle was last month. “Y-yeah. No, sorry, I just moved from Seattle.” You correct yourself hastily. Seattle had been good. Six long months without the visions, the all-too-real dreams that left you drained and terrified.

Without him.

“And was this the sort of work you were doing in Seattle?” The sickly sweet lilt of her voice makes you nauseous. You know what she’s doing—digging—and you want to protest, if you do, you know you can kiss this temp job goodbye. Your righteous indignation won’t pay for the hotel room you’re staying in, or put gas in your jeep or food in your stomach. You want to keep running, but you can’t—not without money.

“Yes, it was. On a more permanent level,” you add, knowing it’s what she wants to hear. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be gone in two months—maybe less, if the dreams pick up again.

“Hmm.” She thumbs through the little packet containing your application, resume and references, and you try not to fidget as she does so. You don’t want her to call up any of the people listed—hell, not even the companies, considering you’d up and left without so much as a see you later when you’d realized how close you had allowed him to get.

“Well. Everything looks to be in order…” She places the manila folder down with a snap. “I’ll make the call. You should hear from them no later than tomorrow afternoon with your hours. Please be on time.”

“Thank you so much, Shirley.”

“Mrs. Harscombe.” She corrects you with an oily smile. “And you’re quite welcome.” You know you shouldn’t risk looking into Shirley Harscombe, you know it’s only a waste of your time and energy, and it’ll only lead the Peter-Apollo-thing to you that much faster, but you’re doing it before you really mean to, peering into her future and all its possibilities. It’s like being swept down a raging river and all of it’s streams all at once, and her life thrums around you like a heartbeat.

You see Shirley standing in her kitchen as her husband berates her with a beer in his hand. You blink, and there’s Shirley—opening a second bank account, a secret bank account so that her husband—Ben is his name—doesn’t drink away all of their retirement funds, or else she’ll have to work till she’s seventy. You blink—and there is Shirley.

Smiling smugly at you as she gloats over the scrap of power she wields. You don’t feel angry at Shirley—not anymore.

“Have a good day.” You gather your bag and sweater as she stamps something on your file and enters it into the system with a few keystrokes on her computer. You head for the door, but linger in the threshold, hesitating.

“Mrs. Harscombe?” She looks up at you with the same thin smile, like an adult humoring an irritating child. “Separate bank accounts isn’t enough. You should leave him.” She sputters after you as you walk out of the door, down the hallway and out into the gray afternoon.

—

You hear from the nursing home the very next day, and by the middle of the week, you’re already well adjusted to your new schedule. Everything is simple enough, and aside from the occasional rude patient, you have little to complain about. The physicians and nurses are nice enough, and they don’t ask too many questions about your life outside of work, and you appreciate that more than anything.

Your check deposits on the first Friday with ease, and you pay for another week of your hotel room up front. You don’t dream, either. Only blissful darkness greets you when you close your eyes, and you’re more grateful for that than anything. Not having to see Peter’s curly brown hair or boyish, lopsided grin as he greets you in your dreams is a blessing.

Those fucking dreams.

It’s too real, his phantom touch lingering on your skin hours after you wake.

You used to wonder who he was before, but it doesn’t really matter, not now. Not now that thing had attached itself to him like a leech. You don’t know what happens when something rides your soul, wears you like a costume, but you don’t want to find out.

I won’t.

Your resolve doesn’t sound as strong as it used to, not even in your own head. It doesn’t help that you’re exhausted, running on fumes with less and less time in between your harrowing escapes. Not for the first time, you cast a narrowed glare upward, not really at your ceiling but beyond it, at whatever cosmic forces had dealt you such a cruel hand.

It’s not everyone that has a mad God after them.

It’s the waiting that’s the hardest.

The first few times you’d been naive. You’d truly believed you had shaken him of your scent—and so you had started fresh. New hair, new clothes, new I.D., new you. Peter would never find you, and his delusions would never again darken your door—at least, that was what you’d believed.

What a fool you had been.

And your shock to see him sitting in your new apartment, his feet perched on the coffee table as he thumbed through your magazines—nothing had ever matched up to it, before or since.

“Hi, princess. I missed you.”

And he’d truly thought he had you then—and so had you, really, until the bus had turned him into a bloody smear on the pavement. You didn’t look back then, and you still don’t now. You don’t know how he’s still alive, how the thing infesting him managed to draw life back into his mangled body, but you do know it means he won’t stop.

He won’t stop ever.

And so you wait. You wait for the tense buzzing in the back of your skull, for the sound of his laughter in the darkness of your dreams—

You wait for him.

__

“He’s looking for you.” The voice makes your head snap up, your fingers tightening on the edge of the reception desk. Mrs. O’Malley is sitting in her wheelchair, her tight, displeased expression flooding you with relief, and then annoyance. Your heart is pounding against your ribs, and you try to slow it as you give her a wan, impatient smile.

“Boris?” You ask, jerking your head towards the slumbering orderly in the corner. Mrs. O’Malley is the sort of woman who likes telling people what to do and how to do it, a habit that you assume has only gotten worse with time, turning her from bossy to battleaxe.

“I don’t think he’s looking for anything except the back of his own eyelids. Is there something I can get for you?”

“Not him,” she snaps, scoffing. “The boy,” she leans close, like she’s telling you a secret. “The one with laurels in his hair.” Your stomach fills with hot lead, and your throat grows painfully tight.

No.

“W-what?” Your thin smile is frozen on your face, but it isn’t a smile anymore, just a terrified grimace that won’t slip from your paralyzed features. “I—your medicine—” You fumble clumsily for the nurse-alert button on your desk, knocking over a cup of pens in the process. Mrs. O’Malley’s voice is like dry, withered reeds, but her grip is like iron when she grips your wrist.

“He’s looking for you,” she repeats, her bony fingers digging into your skin. “The boy with eyes that burn like the sun, bright, bright—” You rip yourself away from her, hissing as her nails rake long, red lines down the skin of your  forearm. You slam your fist down on the button as she launches herself across the desk.

“Stop! Get the fuck off me—” There shouldn’t be this much strength left in Mrs. O’Malley’s arthritis-bent fingers as she tears at the sleeves of your sweater, trying to get a better hold on you.

“Don’t run from him!” She screeches, spittle flecking your cheeks. She’s shaking you like a rag doll, her fingers driving into the meat of your shoulders like needles. “Stop running from him!” Your head is snapping back and forth so hard you think your neck might actually break, and through her shrieking, you can hear the sound of frantic footsteps.

Someone wrestles the old woman off of you, and you lay there, staring dizzily up at the humming fluorescent lights. How could she know that? You aren’t cold, but your skin prickles anyway, like you’re being watched.

The boy with the laurels in his hair.

You don’t wait to watch as the orderlies to wrestle Mrs. O’Malley onto a gurney, strapping her flailing limbs down to the thin mattress while she rages. Her nonsensical shouts echo down the hallway as they wheel her off.

“Don’t run from him! Eyes like the sun!”

By the time Boris turns to check on you, an apologetic smile on his face,  you’re already gone, half running down the darkening street.

—

The lobby of the hotel is as you left it that morning, empty and quiet. The receptionist doesn’t look up from her copy of People as you hurry by, already tallying up your meager belongings in your head. You have escaping down to a science now, a list of steps to take before you can throw yourself into the driver’s seat of your old jeep to race as far as your tank will take you, only to begin it all over again.

You aren’t neat about it, throwing open the door to your hotel room, the thud of the handle meeting the wall mixing easily with the noise of the city nightlife floating in through your window. Before it even closes, you’re already shoving what little clothing you have into a worn duffel bag. You’re chanting in your head, listing all the items you know you can’t forget.

Toothbrush. Phone. Wallet. Laptop.

You leave the scrubs you scavenged from Goodwill over the shower railing, where you’d hung them to dry after a vigorous hand-washing, and you leave your third or fourth hand nurses shoes there too, along with the key-card with your fake name on it. You won’t need those where you’re going.

Where am I going?

The thought makes you pause, your hands stilling on the pair of jeans you’re stuffing into your bag. You’re not sure. You’ve never moved with a plan, any sort of pattern, but that isn’t what makes you stop—no. It’s the larger question, the one that looms constantly over you. Closer to the front when you’re sleeping in the driver’s seat and taking bird baths in truck station bathrooms, but distant when you’re comfortable in hotel beds.

Where is your life going?

You try not to think about it, to push the thought back, back—but it won’t go. It stays stuck in your proverbial craw like toffee, only more unpleasant. Is this all there is? Running and hiding like a fucking rat? Your own grim expression meets your eye when it drifts to the mirror above the dresser.

Is it better than the alternative?

You finish shoving your clothes and most prized possessions into your few bags before shouldering them with a heavy sigh.

“South, maybe,” you say aloud, knowing you won’t go south at all—you’ll go east, to the big cities, to where you can get lost just like all the other souls. You reach for the doorknob and tug it open, stepping out into the hallway—

And right into a solid, warm body.

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize, princess.”

Your blood turns to ice, your chest tightening painfully. It isn’t possible, you know it isn’t—but it is and it must be because he’s here. It’s disgusting how certain you are, even without seeing his face. How sure, because the scent of him hasn’t changed, the piney aftershave and shampoo that’s just so Peter. There’s something warm and spiced underneath it, something that reminds you of warm sun on a summer day.

He smells like this in the dreams, too.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, reaching forward to curl a lock of your hair around his finger. “I missed you.” You’re frozen, unable to react, to move as he releases your hair to draw his knuckle over the curve of your cheek. It’s deceptively soft, almost reverent. “How long’s it been, princess? Two years? Three?”

You don’t have anywhere else to go but back, tripping over the threshold and into the hotel room. Peter follows, stepping gracefully into the room. He wrinkles his nose as he takes in your threadbare surroundings,  his lips pressing into a grim line. Peter kicks at your bags, forgotten on the floor as you’d scrambled away from him.

He takes a step towards you, and you go for the folding knife hidden in your jacket. Peter’s expression doesn’t shift at all, except perhaps to go a bit softer, like the sight of your fear and desperate defense is somehow endearing. You brandish it anyway, holding it like the self-defense teacher in Arizona taught you.

“S-stay back,” you croak, your throat tightening as he disregards your warning with another step. “Peter stop!”

“Or what, princess?” He asks, and his voice sounds… amused. “What? You’ll stab me? You can’t hurt me anymore.” Peter looks down at his own hands, flexing them as if becoming familiar with their function. “Nothing can hurt me anymore.”

Peter stands between you and the door, his brown eyes going molten gold as he stares at you. Your fingers tremble around the handle of your knife.

“You don’t have to do this.” You hate that it comes out as a plea, desperate and weak. “This doesn’t have to be what happens here, Peter—”

“You know what happens now, seer.” It’s Peter’s voice—but not, at the same time. “Look,” he says mockingly. “Tell me what you see.” You don’t want to, not with him there, but you can’t help it. You expect to see possibilities bloom before you like flowers in an open field, but instead, there is only one.

You see yourself. Behind you sprawls a vast estate, overlooking the sea. You blink, and suddenly you are beside yourself, only literally, close enough to feel your own breath on your face. You are swathed in soft, white fabric—Peter always did love you in white—and your belly curves outward through the layers of your dress, easy to see. And at your neck, a wide, shimmering gold necklace emblazoned with the sun. No, not a necklace.

A collar.

Peter’s hand on your chin is what brings you back, his thumb wiping gently at the tears streaming down your cheeks. His smile is wide, manic, as he pries the knife from your trembling fingers before your brain forgets to close them around the handle.

“No!” You gasp, pushing at his hands as you gulp down a lungful of air.  It’s like the scene from your second sight is tattooed on the insides of your eyelids, revealing itself again and again. You can almost feel the heavy gold around your throat, the sun sigil too warm against your skin—

“No, no, no-!” You shriek and struggle in his arms, your eyes wide and fearful. Peter bears it patiently, allowing you to beat at his chest with open palms and then closed fists as your gasps turn to ragged sobs. For all your fight,  Peter only wraps his arms around you tighter.

“Get off, get off me! Fuck you!” You rake one hand down his face, and he doesn’t flinch as you scratch jagged, bloody lines down his cheek. They close up almost as soon as you do it, but you feel satisfaction when he frowns.

“I know you’re upset, princess. You’ve been running so long,” he croons, but you shake your head, still struggling in his iron grip as Peter presses you against the wall. His lips drag along your cheek, and you feel them curve against your skin. He’s pleased. Even as his skin flakes away under your fingernails, he doesn’t care.

You scream.

Long, and loud, and finally, finally Peter stops moving. Your head bangs against the wall as you lean back, staring up at the ceiling as you pant.

“Are you done with the hysterics?” Peter asks, cocking his head. You’re not sure if he means to be cruel, or if it’s just a byproduct of the thing squatting in his skin, but it doesn’t matter because it cuts all the same.

“What are you going to do to me?” You ask, still not looking at him, not bothering to respond to his barb. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m going to give you everything you ever wanted.”

Somehow, it’s the worst thing he could have said.

Peter grasps your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye as he begins inching his hand under the hem of your shirt. This too is familiar—maybe you saw it, maybe you dreamt it, but it doesn’t matter now that Peter—Apollo—is sliding his hand up your shirt, under your bra—

“No one is coming, princess. It’s just me,” he undoes the clasps deftly, “and you.” Peter’s thigh begins to slide up between your own, and you push uselessly at him. He clucks his tongue.

“Princess, this is the deal you made. Sorry you’re sore about it—oooh,” his admonishment becomes a sharp intake of breath as he tugs the collar of your shirt down hard enough to tear it, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He says, his words punctuated by the sound of ripping fabric.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “I’m not her. I didn’t make a deal!” You hiss. You try to go for his face again, but Peter neatly pins your arms above your head. “Peter, Peter please—”

“You are, though,” he says softly, dropping a kiss on the tip of your nose. “You’re her. She’s you. In here,” he shifts your wrists to one and, anchoring them as he drops a finger to the valley between your breasts. Peter brushes the halves of your shirt aside. “I know you know, princess,” he says patiently. “I know you feel it. How heavy your soul is, how many lifetimes its had.” You hate the pitying way he clucks his tongue, the way your stomach tightens with anger and fear because he’s right. You’re heavier than lead—and you hate that he knows it.

“Aren’t you ready to rest?”

You can practically feel it, the collar around your neck. Peter twists your nipple, and when you gasp, he presses his mouth to yours.  He’s warm, like sun filtering down onto your skin. Peter tastes of summer rain as his tongue sweeps over your own. He groans into your mouth, and there’s a sick, terrible tightness that grows in your stomach at the sound.

You’ve never had time for relationships, your lifestyle hasn’t been particularly conducive to romance. Beyond a couple of clumsy, regrettable hookups in bars, your own hands are the only ones to have brought you any pleasure. You don’t like the way your cunt pulses and aches as Peter’s thigh presses into you, the way heat travels like white lightning down your spine when he twists your nipples between his fingertips.

“I hate you,” you grit out against his mouth.  You don’t know why tears gather in your eyes as you say it. “I hate you!”

Peter hums. “I know, princess.” His tongue is soft on the skin of your throat, and when you swallow, he grins again. “But you won’t, always.”

There’s nowhere for you to go, stuck between Peter’s hard chest and the wall. It feels like he wants to touch you forever, caressing your face, pressing his fingers into your hips, cupping your breasts through the torn fabric of your shirt. His questing fingers dip into your panties, moaning softly against your skin when he finds you wet.

“See?” He says with a chuckle. “I think you’re starting to like me a little already.” You can’t help but feel disgusted and betrayed by your body as the little circular motions of his fingertip around your clit coax more wetness from you. You whimper, trying and failing to close your thighs around his hand.

Peter leans away from you, finally releasing your wrists from their position above your head so that he can cup your chin, forcing you to look at him as his other hand works steadily between your thighs. His sweet, chocolate brown eyes are both soft and warm like honey, and yet brilliant and burning suns in his eye sockets, rivulets of gold running down his cheeks as his smile widens.

You’re not sure which is real as your cunt clenches around the invading length of his fingers. It’s not supposed to send heat rushing through you when Peter’s teeth drag down the line of your throat, humming with pleasure as more wetness drips down his wrist, smearing against your inner thighs.

“You’re so tight, princess,” he laughs softly against your skin. The breaths that escape your throat are ragged and hard even to your own ear, each punctuated by the slick, wet noise of him stretching you open around his knuckles. “If I didn’t know you’d already let someone else have was rightfully mine, I’d think no one had fucked you before.”

Peter pulls his fingers from you, holding them in front of your face so that you can see how wet they are before he sucks them between his lips.

“Tastes sweet, too.” His weight lifts from you, and you watch as Peter takes a single step back. “Take it off. All of it.”

“Peter—”

He grabs for you then, patience worn thin at last. You slap at his hands, pushing at them unsuccessfully as Peter wrestles you to his chest, holding you as easily as he would a willful child. He tosses you to the bed, and the air leaves your lungs in a hoarse shout as your back meets the firm mattress. Peter tears your leggings down your thighs, threads snapping and tearing in his grip, and tosses them away, forgotten. Your head is caged between his hands, and there is no place else to look but at him.

“Still running, huh, princess?” His voice is cold as he stares down at you. You don’t know how eyes so bright could be so dark. So empty. “Maybe we should make it so you can’t. I think that would be best for everyone.” You know he isn’t giving you a choice, and your face cracks with horror at his words.

“Peter, please.”

He nudges your thighs apart with his own, the fabric of his jeans scraping against your skin as he slots his hips down against yours. Peter reaches between you, and your eyes widen at the sound of his zipper.

“What are you so afraid of, princess?” He asks, and you swallow a surprised  moan as the hot, heavy length of his cock presses against your slick folds. Peter hisses with pleasure, his head lolling back while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. His chin drops to his chest as Peter fixes you with a knowing look. “That you might like it?”

His cock bumps against your clit with every pass, and you whine, writhing underneath him. You hate that it feels good—better than good, better than your own hand ever has. There is something molten and hot in your veins, and Peter put it there—infected you with the hot pleasure in your belly. He draws back, only to drive forward sharply. His cock pushes against the tightness of your entrance for a moment, and then slides neatly inside.

It punches the air from your lungs in a ragged cry, the burning stretch of his cock inside you driving you to tangle your fingers in the sheets as you gape up at him, wide eyed. You’re so full, every bit of extra space inside of you is full up of Peter, and he groans, drawing out only to sink back in even deeper. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as Peter splits you apart, his cock throbbing.

“That’s it,” he praises you, fingers digging into your left hip as he lays into your swollen, aching cunt. “See, princess your mouth can lie,” Peter pulls out slowly, glorying in the slick noise of his exit. “But this sweet fucking pussy?” You let out a garbled moan as he thrusts back into you with abandon. “She can’t.”

Every thrust jars you, leaves you raw and panting under the onslaught. Peter’s hands are everywhere, pinching and twisting your nipples, holding your hips still as he rocks into you, his cock pushing up against your cervix. You want to resist it, the sharp pleasure building at your core, but every thought is eaten by it, eroded until it’s all you can focus on.

“Feels like you need this,” Peter pants, hooking his arms underneath your thighs as he presses them to your chest. “Needed me.” You keen as his cock punches into you, dragging along your swollen, sensitive walls. You shake your head defiantly, and Peter’s fingers press into the meat of your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“I—don’t—need—you,” you grit out through his thrusts. Peter’s face darkens, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he seems to dig into you deeper, and the pleasure begins bordering on pain.

“It isn’t nice to lie, princess,” Peter says lowly. “I can feel you squeezing me like your life depends on it.” You know he’s right, you can already feel the pleasure building in your blood, tension tightening in your belly. Peter slides a hand between you, his fingers plucking at your clit as you whine.

“N-no-fuck, I—” You try to deny it, but the words devolve into babble. You’re falling, crumbling under his assault as your cunt clenches tightly around him. Pleasure, sickly sweet and unwelcome floods through you, curdling your resistance as you drown in it.

It feels good to let go.

Peter’s hips still against you and he groans low, his head dropping to his chest as his fingers squeeze your hips.

“Don’t worry, princess,” his breath washes over your cheeks as his hand comes to rest on the swell of your belly. “I think the baby will look good on you.”

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Fuck Those Frat Boys

Welcome to the SKZ fraternity, how can we help you?

The SKZ fraternity is a chapter known for their charity work, their lavish parties, their academic prowess...and their members. A group of eyecatching young men who could turn anyone's head.

Which member will turn yours first?

Here you'll find a collection of smutty oneshots born from the fact that Stray Kids have the biggest frat boy energy ever. These can be read as individual stories or all together as part of a set.

Genre: College!au, Fraternity!au, Smut

Pairing: OT8 x Fem!reader (Individual oneshot for each member)

Teaser: SKZ as frat boys

Meet the members of the SKZ fraternity

Bang Chan: The President

"I am going to kill you Christopher Bang!"

"And here I thought you were going to kiss me."

Lee Minho: The Vice President

"And you usually approach random women in grocery stores to tell her that her mangos are unripe Lee Minho?"

"No. I don't approach random people at all usually."

Seo Changbin: The Secretary

"If I get caught with you Changbin I'm dead."

"That's why we don't get caught sweetheart."

Hwang Hyunjin: The Socialite

"How come I've never seen you before?"

"We don't exactly run in the same circles Hyunjin. I'm a scholarship student, remember?"

Han Jisung: The Events Coordinator

"I am not coming to your shirtless car wash Jisung."

"Why not? I'll be shirtless."

Lee Felix: The Recruitment Officer

"You're a frat boy?"

"Yes I am. But I have cookies."

Kim Seungmin: The Treasurer

"We've been dating since we were sixteen Seungmin and you never thought to tell me about this?"

"Because I knew you'd freak out"

Yang Jeongin: The New Pledge

"Your friends sure love to embarras you huh?"

"That doesn't even begin to explain it."

part three: i don’t know where i stand | tom holland x reader

pairing: childhood! best friend! tom holland x reader

summary: it’s summer, and you’ve just moved into a new flat after a bad breakup with your now ex-boyfriend. when a celebratory trip to the nearby pub turns into an awkward meeting with your childhood best friend tom, old feelings you thought were gone gets brought back.    

warnings: mentions and drinking of alcohol

word count: 3.7k

a/n: this part is basically just fluff! as always english is not my first language so if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes, no you didn’t 🤪 feel free to send me an ask or a message if you want to be tagged ☺️ happy reading! 💗

series masterlist

You were awoken by the sun hitting your face, and a loud buzzing. Something heavy was draped over your waist and you felt someone’s breath grazing your neck. Confused you opened your eyes. The sun stinged your eyes and you squinted around the room. I’m in my own home. I’m in my own bed, you thought. When your eyes landed on the empty beer bottles and the empty champagne, your memories flooded back. Tom.

Your hand found Tom’s arm around your waist. You ran it along his upper arm before you rested it over the back of his hand. It must be early, you thought stretching your neck to look out your living room window that you’d left ajar last night. Outside you could glimpse a cover of grey clouds. A cold morning wind rustled the hinges and sent shivers down your body. You were still wearing your clothes from last night, but there’s not much warmth from a skirt and a tee. You shuffled closer to Tom’s chest.

Bbbzzzzz

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pink lines [part eight - final part!]

tom holland x reader

series summary: when you find yourself alone, pregnant and scared, there’s only one person you can turn to. but where do you draw the line between friendship and more…

updates tuesday nights EST ?

warnings for this part: mentions of pregnancy complications, medications, cursing, pregnancy, bit of angst, lots of fluff!

a/n: aaaaah last part!! i truly cannot believe it's here. this is the last official part of this series!! (excluding an epilogue i might post next week) i truly wanna thank you guys from the bottom of my heart for all the love and support you've given this fic. it absolutely means the world to me.

✧･ﾟ: chapter eight ･ﾟ:✧

Tom’s sure the drive from Heathrow airport to his flat has never taken this long. He’s also sure the universe put all this traffic in between you and him just to make the journey more agonizing.

“Mate.” says Harry, interrupting Tom’s daydreaming. “Could you stop tapping your leg for two fucking seconds? You’re stressing me out.”

Tom sighs, stilling his leg on the car floor.

“Sorry. I just really want to get home to Y/N, okay? I just have this weird feeling and seeing her will make me feel better.”

Harry shrinks into the plush leather interior of the car. He knows why Tom feels so stressed, even if Tom himself doesn’t. About a week and a half into the boys’ trip for work, he’d gotten a call from Tuwaine. Apparently you’d gone into some kind of early labour and had spent a day or two in hospital before being sent home. Harry had dashed over to Tom’s trailer to let him know, but his phone rang again just as he was about to knock on the trailer door. Your face had appeared on the call screen, and he swore his heart was about to fall out of his chest as he answered. You’d sworn you were absolutely fine and it was only a little scare, and had begged Harry not to tell Tom. you knew as soon as he heard he’d be packing his bags and on the next flight home, and you really didn’t want to interrupt his last week and a half of promo work before the break he’d decided to take when the baby arrived. It didn’t take long for Harry to agree to keep it from Tom, for his own sake, because let’s face it, you’d always had the Holland boys somewhat wrapped around your finger. The rest of the Holland family were sworn to secrecy too, once they’d established that both you and the baby were okay. Tom could feel that something wasn’t quite right though, perhaps it was the way you were simultaneously slightly subdued and overly exaggerated during your nightly phone chats, or perhaps it was just an instinct you naturally feel when someone you love is struggling.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Love? We’re home!” a voice calls from the front door. You hear some general banging and clashing, heavy footsteps, two suitcases being dragged over the front door and some light bickering from the brothers. You take a deep breath and set down your book on the bedside table when the footsteps get closer, and suddenly a grinning face pops around the corner of the doorframe.

“‘Ello love, how’ve you been?”

You leap up involuntarily, only wincing slightly when your swollen feet meet the bedroom carpet. You absolutely launch yourself into Tom’s arms, breathing in the familiar scent of him.

“Tom!” you shriek into his ear, laughing as he shudders away from you playfully.

“Jesus Christ Y/N, warn a guy before you scream at him aye?”

After Tom lets go of you, he keeps one arm wrapped around your shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. It’s when his smile falters ever so slightly, those telltale crinkles around his eyes smoothing out slightly that you mentally bite your lip. Did he know already?

You giggle.

“Sorry.”

“Love, are you okay? You look a little pale. Are you sick?”

His eyes briefly scan around the room, forehead creasing in worry as he takes in the piles of books, magazines, chargers and snacks littered on the bed. He also spots the small pill bottle, and the pack of cards sat on the bedside table, the ones Paddy had brought over so you two could play things like snap, last card, and go fish while you were on bed rest. You’d also begun teaching him poker, betting on Doritos and mini wrapped chocolates to appease Nikki’s hate for gambling away real money, but Tom didn’t need to know any of this. Until now.

“Y/N, what’s going on? How long have you been in bed?”

You sigh, begrudgingly filling him in on the recent hospital scare and the doctor’s orders to stay in bed and avoid stress for a few weeks until the baby’s due date in early October.

The panic in his eyes is evident as he bundles you back under the covers.

You agree begrudgingly, as honestly, staying in bed a little while longer didn’t seem like the worst plan. After making sure you were comfortable, taking a quick shower to wash off the plane smell and berating Harry briefly for not telling him what had been going on with you (while you defended Harry), Tom settled in beside you, laying back against the pillows.

“You should have called me. I would have come right home.”

You sigh, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on his wrist.

“Exactly. I was fine. And I didn’t want to disrupt you on the promo tour. You’re already taking a break now that the baby’s almost here, I didn’t want to stop you from working those last few weeks.” you say. “I really am sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean to worry you, I truly wanted you to have less worries on your mind.”

Tom gives you a weak smile.

“I always worry about you, love. I just want you and the baby to always be okay.”

Your heart swells in your chest and you snuggle closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“I missed you too.”

“I missed you. So much.”

He nods, pressing a gentle peck to your hairline and gazing longingly at you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

In the final days of September, just before the baby’s due date, Tom was an absolute wreck. He was giving you a migraine with the mixed messages he was sending. For two days he’d spend every minute he could every day by your side, even trying to help you get up and to the bathroom, sitting with his back against the closed bathroom door when you were in the bath, leaning on the counter grinning at you while you brushed your teeth. He waited on you hand and foot, bringing you meals, cups of tea, little chocolate bars he’d picked up as he waited in line at the grocery store. Then he’d do a complete 360°, becoming distant and having Harry come over, asking him to bring you the little snacks he’d gotten you, only replying to your texts with answers that made the Sahara Desert look lush and wet, while he was only sat downstairs in the living room. You had had enough.

“Tom!” you called out as he tried to slip out of the room after leaving a cup of tea on your bedside table while he thought you were napping.

He half turned around with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Come sit. We need to talk.”

He slowly crossed the room, dragging his socked feet across the carpet as he slowly sat down on the edge of your bed. You felt a stinging in your eyes when you noticed he looked down to make sure he wasn’t accidentally touching your resting body.

“Tom, what’s going on? Why are you so normal one day, and then act like you can’t stand me the next? Did I do something?

His head whips up, making eye contact with you for the first time that day.

“No, no, you haven’t done anything,” says Tom, quick to reassure you. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Clearly something’s wrong,” you say, wringing your hands together. “I’m going to pop soon, Tom. We’re going to be parents in a few days, and I need to know if you’re in or not. All in. Because if you’re not, we should go our separate ways. It’s up to you.”

“Y/N I want you to know that I am in. I’m all in.”

You breathe a sigh of relief, though you’re not entirely out of the woods yet.

“So why are you so freaked at the moment? Be honest with me.”

Tom looks down at the floor, staring at his toes. Ever so quietly, he opens his mouth and mumbles under his breath.

“‘Cause I think that when the baby gets here, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

You lean closer, straining to hear him.

“What?”

He clears his throat, looking you in the eyes.

“Because I think that when the baby gets here, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”

You lay one hand on top of where his rests on the bedspread. His hand is ever so slightly shaking and you instinctively give it a loving squeeze.

You swallow, taking a deep breath.

“Pretend what?”

“Pretend that I don’t have feelings for you, Y/N.”

It’s like the world halts on its axis. You swear all of London stops moving, cars freezing on the middle of the roads, people’s words melting on their tongues, birds hovering still in mid-air. The only thing you can be fully sure of is Tom, how he looks into your eyes with a vulnerability that even in your almost twenty years of friendship you’ve never seen. All the past miscommunications, fleeting glances, touches that lingered a little too long between you and Tom flood back into your mind, but they don’t even matter anymore. The only thing you can fully understand is the boy sitting in front of you, hand clasped in yours, telling you he’s in love with you after so many years.

Really, it’s quite funny. Really funny, if you’re being honest. You can’t help but let out a giggle. Then a chuckle. Then you’re just laughing, laughing like you never have before. You rest your free hand on your baby bump and you laugh, tears streaming down your face.

“Are you laughing at me?” Tom is confused.

You laugh even harder, shaking your head.

“Y/N, stop laughing at me,” Tom pouts. “I just poured my heart out to you and you’re laughing at me. It’s not nice.”

“I’m sorry-” you wheeze, trying to catch your breath. “It’s just so funny… I mean you, and me, and I was crying because you didn’t like me the way I liked you- and it’s you- and me-”

“Wait,” says Tom, stroking your hand like it’s some kind of small, fluffy animal. “When were you crying?”

This isn’t even remotely funny anymore, but somehow makes you laugh harder.

“Oh my God, Y/N,” he says, struggling to hide his chuckle when you begin to shake with laughter again. “Don’t start this again.”

He shakes his head, pushing himself off the bed.

“You know what, I’m just gonna go crawl into the freezer and never come out again, just forget I ever said anything-” he says.

“Wait, Tom,” you say, reaching out and grabbing his arm. You push yourself off of the bed and he instinctively wraps an arm around your waist to help you up. You stand, with your baby belly gently brushing against his sweater as he looks into your eyes, pink blush dusted over his cheeks and nose. You know you have to do something before he leaves and you let your chance slip by again. So without thinking (or perhaps with a lot of super speedy overthinking) you reach out and cup his cheek, feeling the heat of embarrassment radiating off of him. You close the gap, gently pressing your lips to his because you think this time, he’ll be okay with it. For a split second he stands shocked, and you have terrible flashbacks of his rejection a few months ago. Just as you begin to pull away a fraction of a centimetre, Tom grabs onto your waist and brings his other hand to tangle in your hair, kissing you back with a desperation of years of unrequited love, and a softness that is only present when you’re with the person who knows you more than anyone in the world.

He pulls back to allow you both to catch your breath, resting his forehead against yours. Neither of you care to try and hide the grins splashed across your faces.

“Love,” he starts. “I think we’re going to be okay.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

taglist: @lexilovesfez @justsomebodyweird @wildxwidow @sraholland @nothoughtsjustwriting @pickle-rick-y @spideyh0lland @myshaahmad77 @tuitiononlivings @wildholland @notanordinaryprincess95 @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @let-me-love-you @harrysharibo @sabnstyles @alwayssandy @livjaynekettle @hqllandxx @rogertherabbitt

permanent tom tags: @tomsbm @mayal0pez

part eight: i don’t know where i stand | tom holland x reader

pairing: childhood!best friend!tom holland x female!reader

summary: it’s summer, and you’ve just moved into a new flat after a bad breakup with your now ex-boyfriend. when a celebratory trip to the nearby pub turns into an awkward meeting with your childhood best friend tom, old feelings you thought were gone gets brought back.

warnings: swearing, mentions of anxiety and fear of abandonment, nsfw, smut (18+ minors dni!!!), protected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, handjob    

word count: 4.2k

a/n: this is the second to last part and i can’t believe it’s almost over! 😢 as always english is not my first language so if you see any spelling/grammar mistakes, no you didn’t 🤪 feel free to send me an ask or a message if you want to be tagged ☺️ happy reading! 💗

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“Do you have to leave?”, you asked as you folded one of Tom’s tees. You were at his house helping him pack for the upcoming Spider-Man press tour. After the wedding you and Tom had hung out almost every day. Most days he’d pick you up after work and you’d go have dinner. Some days you’d eat out at a nice restaurant, other days you’d make dinner together at home. On the weekends, movie nights always turned into sleepovers. It happened so often, that you now had a change of clothes, underwear, and a toothbrush at Tom’s place, while he had the same at your flat. You’d even gone golfing with him, his brothers, and his dad, together with your father one Sunday – like you’d done on occasion back in the day. The keyword here being on occasion.

You weren’t a big fan of golf, and you couldn’t understand why it brought Tom, his family, and your dad so much joy. But you went anyway, and the Sunday ended with your father inviting them all over for dinner. Even if you didn’t love golf, you loved them, and you loved seeing the look on their faces while they did something they loved. You could suffer through a round of golf for that. Even if it took the whole day!

But now, summer had said its last goodbyes, and winter soon to say its first hallo. You were well into October. The leaves had turned from green, to yellow, to orange. The London air had slowly shifted from a warm caress to a biting cold. Short skirts and t-shirts had been swapped with trousers and sweaters. And in storefronts and in front-gardens, Halloween decorations were popping up.

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Summary: tom made a pact with some of his friends to tell his crush how he feels about them at a valentine’s day party… but he isn’t sure if you feel the same way

Warnings: swearing, smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: this was originally written for my kpop blog

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