#There are wonderful things you have yet to see. Friends you have yet to meet.

[leahwllmsn]

toxic till the end

alexia putellas x reader

word count: 3.3k

tw: toxic relationships

You and Alexia are bad news for each other, but you don’t want anyone else.

It’s another day after yet another fight. You already know what’s going to happen next—it’s a routine so ingrained in your life that there’s no room for uncertainty. Alexia will show up at your door, begging for forgiveness, and you will welcome her with open arms. 

This time though, you tell yourself it’s going to be different. You’re going to put a stop to this whole thing.

You’re letting go of Alexia for good.

It’s been years of back and forth and you’re tired. 

You’re on your couch, clutching your phone, battling with yourself about being the first one to text. To break the routine you and Alexia have perfected means breaking this cycle once and for all.

I meant what I said last night. it’s over. we’re done.

Alexia’s response comes not a minute later. How fast she responds gives you more satisfaction than you admit. Her response however… It left an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

A: if that is what you want

No, that’s not what you want at all. But it’s what you need. For your sanity.

I want you out of my life. goodbye, ale

—

You met Alexia through a mutual friend. You liked to go out to clubs and bars, something to get your mind off the stress at work. It was a wonder that you hadn’t met Alexia sooner, but you later realized it must be her job as a football superstar that prevented her from partying every week like you.

When Alexia came up to you, her chin held high, a smirk permanently etched on her face, you knew she was nothing but trouble. It was the way she presented herself, so full of herself—as if she could get anything she wanted, that got you hooked. You loved a confident woman, and Alexia was the most confident woman on earth.

“Hola.” Alexia was the first to greet you, observing you with a curious look. You took her outstretched hand, and you couldn’t help but appreciate how… strong her grip was. Yeah. 

“Hi.”

“I’m Alexia,” she gave you a smile, one that girls must fawn over. Before you could respond, she continued, “And you must be… the prettiest girl in this room.”

Your immediate response was to roll your eyes, but your heart was a mess. You couldn’t believe that something so corny had your cheeks blush a deep shade of red.

“Got anything better than that?” you replied calmly, taking a sip of your drink to hide the way your lips wanted to form a smile.

Alexia hummed in thought, leaning closer to you until her mouth was inches away from your ear. You could smell her perfume now—it was something from Le Labo, the woody one that people liked so much.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘u’ and ‘i’ together.”

It was so bad that it genuinely worked on you. You let out a laugh so loud, ten pairs of eyes turned in your direction. But you didn’t care because Alexia was looking at you with that glimmer in her eyes.

You couldn’t have known what was to come.

—

Despite your wariness about Alexia, you gave her a chance. You gave her multiple chances.

A few months in and you were inseparable. 

The most shocking thing about Alexia was that she was the most loyal person ever. You thought that she was, well, a playgirl. It was the stereotype that came with being a footballer and how charming she was—she could get anyone she wanted.

But all she wanted was you.

It was a huge boost to your ego, you must admit.

Maybe that was why you decided to test the waters. To see whether Alexia really loved you or she was just playing you.

(Looking back, you realized you were the one who started this whole game.)

You didn’t watch football, you had zero interest in it. Alexia loved that she got to be the one to introduce football to you.

So when you begged Alexia to let you meet her teammates, claiming you found a new interest on the team, she was surprised. 

The first thing you did in that locker room was introduce yourself to Patri. Sexy, funny, tattooed Patri, who flirted back the moment you bat your eyelashes at her. To you, it was exhilarating the way Alexia grabbed your wrist and pushed you to the nearest storage closet.

Maybe that was why you loved to push her buttons so much. 

But that wasn’t to say that Alexia didn’t do the same. She was so much more intense, you learned. Maybe even borderline toxic, but you didn’t think too much about it.

You hadn’t been partying every week like you usually would, spending each night with Alexia instead, living in that lovesick bubble. But one night you were bored, and you wanted to go. Alexia had a game tomorrow so you knew she would be staying at home.

“Where are you going, amor?”

You saw Alexia’s reflection in the mirror as you were putting on the final touches of your make-up. You were wearing a dress so tight that it left no room for imagination. “I’m going to Manuelas, baby.”

“What? No, you are not.” Alexia stated. 

You turned around and gave her a questioning look. “I am? Can’t you see that I’m ready?”

“Well, I do not want you to go,” Alexia crossed her arms over her chest, a frown on her face. “Especially with that dress.”

You rolled your eyes at her, scoffing. “I think I can do whatever I want, Ale. I’m going out.”

“So you are just going to leave me here alone? I need you tonight, amor.”

The way her tone changed almost gave you whiplash. She was no longer commanding; she was pleading, her voice trembled as if you leaving to a club would be the worst thing to ever happen to her.

“Please, cariño?” 

You knew the moment she gave you her best puppy-dog eyes, your resolve was crumbling. You’d agree to whatever she wanted, just like always.

“You can come with me,” you suggested, although you knew she couldn’t.

“You know I have a game tomorrow.” Alexia stepped closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing gentle kisses along your exposed neck. “Let’s have a night in. I’m going to give you a better night than your friends could anyway, you know that.”

So you stayed.

You didn’t care when it happened again the week after, letting Alexia undress you was much better than any nightclubs anyway.

When your friends complained that they hadn’t seen you in so long, you made an effort to meet up with them for lunch, but that was cut short when Alexia called and demanded you to come home because she was done with training.

Alexia was possessive, you knew that. You didn’t need your friends to hold an ‘intervention’ for you because they thought Alexia was getting too much.

You loved her possessive attitude. So much so that you intentionally flirted with waitresses and strangers just to see her jealous streak.

You didn’t think anything could break your relationship. You loved each other.

One day, Alexia went too far and you got proven wrong.

You were tired from work, and you wanted nothing more than to get under the covers and sleep. Alexia had other plans. She was wearing a suit, her hair slicked back in a neat ponytail. She looked good. 

“Where are you going, Ale?”

“Oh, hey, mi amor,” Alexia pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, pulling back when you wanted more. Alexia always made you feel better. “I’m going to be late. I have dinner with old friends.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. Alexia never mentioned any dinner with old friends. “Who?”

“Just… some friends I haven’t met in a long time.” You let her go without any more questions because you were seconds away from falling asleep.

When you woke up and found Alexia asleep on the couch instead, you thought nothing of it, going through with your morning routine. When Alexia stretched lazily, flashing you a smile, you returned it without a second thought. But then you caught the lipstick stain on her white collar, a lipstick shade that you would never wear… That was when you started screaming at her.

“I can’t believe you!” “What did I do?”

“What did you do?” You pointed towards the red stain on her collar. “Do you think I’m blind? Stupid? Both?!”

“Oh no no, amor,” Alexia immediately stood up, hands raised defensively as she faced you. “This is not what it looks like. You are misunderstanding!”

“You’re crazy, Alexia. Who’s fucking lipstick is that?!”

“No one’s! You are being paranoid.”

“Stop lying to me!”

“Amor, I would never lie to you, you know that,” Alexia huffed. She had the nerve to shake her in disappointment. “In fact, I am insulted that you think I would do such a thing!”

“Oh yeah? How’s this!” You unclasped the necklace Alexia got you as a gift and threw it at her face. “Fuck you!”

“Amor! That hurts!”

“Fucking cheater!”

“I didn’t kiss her! She kissed me!”

The amount of anger coursing through your veins was a new feeling. You let out a shout before stomping your way out of the apartment. You looked back at your girlfriend, still with that stupid, glaring red stain on her shirt. “I never want to see your face again, Alexia!”

You slammed the front door and left.

That was the start of the cycle.

—

Alexia showed up at your apartment the next day, flowers in hand, eyes swollen from when she cried too much—a rare sight for her. You felt your heart soften at the sight.

“Hola,” Alexia rasped out. “Can I come in?”

Against your better judgement you let her in. You allowed her to explain her side of things, how she claimed that yes, her ex kissed her, but Alexia didn’t return the gesture. You didn’t entirely believe her but you pulled her into your arms anyway.

Alexia repeated how sorry she was over and over again, she told you that she loved you, and she would never intentionally hurt you. 

“I know, Ale,” you kissed the top of her head, your voice softer now compared to the shouts yesterday. Alexia was laying on top of you, her head nestled in the crook of your neck—usually you would be the one in Alexia’s arms, this change felt nice too.

“Do you still love me?”

You didn’t hesitate when you replied. “More than anything.”

Alexia promised that there wouldn’t be anymore fights after that. You didn’t really believe her, and you didn’t think she believed herself either, but you agreed nonetheless.

It was true, you and Alexia went back to the honeymoon phase and didn’t fight at all.

The calm lasted for a few weeks. Barcelona won something, you couldn’t remember, but it was huge. So it called for a celebration.

Alexia, being the captain, was busy being the center of attention. She loved it when people worshipped her, you knew that, so you let her be. You were alone at the bar when someone approached you, offering to buy you a drink. It was Jana—you remembered her from before you met Alexia, through mutual friends. She was definitely your type, but she was five years younger than you and that put you off.

“You do know I’m dating your captain,” you spoke directly in her ear, the music making it harder to hear.

“I’m just being friendly,” Jana shrugged, although the glint in her eyes revealed otherwise.

You took the drink she offered and stayed close to her—too close, because the next thing you knew Alexia was in front of you, a dangerous smile on her lips.

“We are going home.”

“It’s early!” you laughed, passing your drink to your girlfriend. “Have some fun, Ale. Don’t be so uptight.”

Jana giggled and Alexia’s frown deepened. You turned towards the younger brunette and grabbed her arms. “Jana and I are going to dance!”

You left Alexia speechless as you made your way to the dance floor. You could feel her eyes on you the whole time, but all you did was something innocent. There was nothing conspicuous about dancing with a friend. You didn’t kiss her like Alexia kissed someone else.

You didn’t even last five minutes, before Alexia dragged you away and forced you into her car.

You pouted at her the whole ride home. “You are being so ridiculous, Alexia. I was just dancing with a friend.”

“No, you were slutting it up with a friend. There is a difference.”

You were so offended by her words that you demanded she pull over and let you out.

“I am not doing that.”

“Pull over.”

“No.”

“Alexia, pull over or I’ll open this car door and step right into oncoming traffic.”

“Estás loca!” Alexia granted your wish and you were met with the cold, night air as you stepped out of her car. “How are you going to get home now?”

You answered her by slamming her precious car door and flipping a middle finger in her direction. Thankfully it wasn’t that far from your place, you could walk for fifteen minutes. It was fine.

You didn’t get much sleep that night, whether it was because of the anger you were feeling or the anticipation of seeing Alexia the next day. But by morning, all you felt was disappointment, because Alexia didn’t show up. You waited and waited, until it was night time and you decided to send her a text.

do you even care about me?

Alexia showed up five minutes later even though her apartment was almost half an hour away. This time, instead of flowers, she brought your favourite chocolates. Ten boxes of them.

“I am sorry, guapa.” You were sitting on Alexia’s lap, your hands playing with the baby hair on the back of her neck. “I was just jealous because I love you so much.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “I was the one to provoke you.”

Alexia nodded, pecking your lips. “Sí. You provoked me.”

“You don’t have to be jealous, you know,” you assured her. “I’m all yours, Alexia.”

She grinned at you, pulling you even closer until your bodies were flushed against one another. “That’s good to hear, amor. No one can love you like I do.”

—

You stayed with Alexia despite it all. Despite the monthly–if not, weekly–fights, despite the red flags waving at you every time you recalled something Alexia did to your friends.

You didn’t care about any of it as long as you have Alexia.

Your friends stopped trying to meddle. Once, they decided to give Alexia a piece of their minds and that made Alexia ignore you for a few days. So in turn, you gave your friends a piece of your mind and told them to back the fuck off. You were a big girl; you knew what you were getting yourself into.

It went on for years. You and Alexia continued the routine: someone says something they didn’t mean—fight—make up—someone gets jealous—fight again—make up, and so on.

It was incredible how much strength you had in you to put up with it. But you loved Alexia, and she loved you back, so it was worth it.

It wasn’t until a fight got so big that it left you both screaming at each other in an empty park in Barcelona at midnight, and suddenly, you felt so suffocated. For the first time ever, you wondered what would happen if both of you just… stopped this whole thing. You wondered then, if you could survive living without Alexia.

“I do not know what you want me to do, Y/N!”

“Well, for one, I would like you to stop flirting with every girl you see. I’m right here!”

“I was not flirting! You just keep on imagining things!”

“Fuck you, Ale!”

“Sí, you have done that many times,” Alexia shrugged casually, her body language telling you she was unbothered by this whole thing. “We can do it again tonight if you want!”

“Fuck! You!”

You turned to leave, but Alexia grabbed your wrist. “Where are you going?”

You yanked your arm free from her grasp. “I’m leaving! It’s over!”

Alexia let out a mocking laugh. “Over?! I do not think so. Come on, amor, do you really think you can live without me?” 

Alexia was so sure that you couldn’t. You felt like you wanted to prove to her otherwise.

So you held your chin out and held her gaze. “Yes. I can. I’m leaving you.”

Neither of you said anything for a minute. Alexia silently challenged you to take back your words, but you weren’t going to. You decided that you were strong enough to end things.

“You are lying,” Alexia scoffed. “You cannot leave me.”

You glared at her. You hated that she was undermining you. “Watch me.”

As you turned around once again to leave, Alexia suddenly stepped forward and snaked her arms around your waist, her front pressed against your back. You let her hold you—it was going to be the last time anyway.

“Mi amor,” Alexia’s voice trembled. “You cannot leave me. I do not know how to do this without you. Please don’t go. Te amo. Te amo mucho.”

You held back your tears, not expecting Alexia to sound this vulnerable. You placed your hand on top of hers, hesitating for a brief moment before slowly pulling away.

You were finally free.

—

A week passed by without anything from Alexia. Not a phone call, not a text, no flowers on your doorstep, no unannounced visits to your apartment. You realize that this is the longest you’ve gone without hearing Alexia beg for your forgiveness. Alexia is actually respecting your wishes.

She’s no longer bothering you.

You should feel happy, but all you feel is the opposite. You genuinely feel sick at the thought of having Alexia out of your life.

You want her next to you. You want her near you, right now. You don’t care that all you do is fight, that’s what couples do—Alexia once said.

Your friends think it’s a good thing that you cut things off with Alexia, but you don’t think their opinion matters anyway. They’ve always acted like they know your relationship with Alexia better than you.

To get them to back off though, you agreed on a blind date with someone. Just for one night. One night to see what a “perfect girl” looks like.

Her name is Jennifer. What a bland name.

She likes to play tennis and does horse riding. Football is better.

She has a British accent because she grew up in London. Alexia’s accent is much better, way sexier.

An hour in and you could tell that there is nothing wrong with her despite your best efforts at trying to find the worst in everything. But she’s not Alexia.

No one will ever come close.

Before Jennifer gets the chance to order dessert, you fake a stomach ache and leaves.

You walk aimlessly, but deep down you know you have one destination in mind.

It’s been years of back and forth. Yes, you’re tired, but you also crave it.

You crave her.

No matter how much Alexia breaks your heart, you know she’s the only one who can fix it—albeit, not perfectly, she can still patch it up nonetheless.

You don’t mind it. 

If being with Alexia means having a bruised heart full of bandages, you’ll take it.

“Hola, guapa. I missed you.”

[victoria-vd]

Everything

OFFSCREEN POST

// flash warning

Not even the warmth in Victoria's cheeks could combat the Mesagoza winter chill tonight.

The girls had fled the ball to a secluded little plaza off the eastern outskirts of the city. Looking above a lower section of the town, the fenced overlook provided a nice view of the city and everything beyond. Off into the distance, the eastern waterfall ceaselessly roared from afar, nothing more than a whisper from where they sat. Small outdoor tables and chairs adorned the outer edges of the courtyard, and a ring of lanterns illuminated the stone pathway around the miniature park, bathing the circular plaza in an unobtrusive orange glow.

Victoria crossed her arms and shivered in her seat. She'd offered Esper her jacket earlier— it was the chivalrous thing to do, after all— but she couldn't help but wish she had something better to face the January breeze than a white undershirt. But it is better for her to suffer the chill than Esper in her beautiful gown. And yes, "beautiful" was not a word that Victoria often used to describe anything, but she felt there was no better sense of the word than the girl seated across from her. She hadn't even needed to cast so much as a glance in her direction to know that the sparkling gold of her dress captured the lanterns' underglow perfectly, radiating a warmth like the sun even in the dark of night. She didn't need to check to see how her hair glistened in the moonlight like brilliant diamonds or how her eyes sparkled like iridescent pearls. She already knew.

And yet she looked anyway. Because Victoria never grew tired of the sight.

Esper pulled the jacket tighter around her, her cheeks a rosy pink. She caught Victoria's eye and nervously glanced away with a small smile.

The girl couldn't help but smile back at her. The moon and the stars above were the only company to witness their presence. Victoria couldn't help but wonder if her celestial friends felt a sense of deja vu at the scene.  "The moon is beautiful, isn't it?" she asked.

Her friend turned her gaze towards the sky with a hum. "It is, ya. I quite like waning gibbous... it's nice." Tori kind of reminds me of a waning gibbous.

The moon reminded her of...? Victoria snorted to herself in amusement. Of course Esp would think that. Some of her wanted to pry for her reasoning, but would it be too intrusive to respond to her thoughts rather than her spoken words? With careful consideration for wordplay, she decided to respond to both. "Any particular reason why?"

"Mmmm, no reason, really. I just think it's nice," Esper gently rocked her foot back and forth, giving no indication that she heard Victoria's snort. The bright part is Tori's face, the craters her freckles, and the shadow is like her bang, Esper thought to herself as she mentally traced the moon in her mind.

The girl gazed up at the sky, twirling the long bang of her hair around her finger as her cheeks grew warmer. She'd never considered that before, but now that Esper had mentally pointed it out… she couldn't see anything but. There truly was never a dull moment with her, was there? Esper always made her consider the world from a different perspective. With each and every thought in her mind, Victoria saw the world anew. She'd gladly discover it all again from Esper's eyes.

Her friend turned to her with a playful twinkle in her eye, "Well, since you now know my favorite moon phase, do you have a favorite?"

Victoria pondered it for a moment. She hadn't thought of having a favorite moon phase until this point. It'd never been a concern of hers. With a thoughtful hum, she mulled over the options, weighing the pros and cons of each phase. But she knew that trying to come up with an answer based on objective reasoning was futile— what Esper was looking for was heart. And in her heart, Victoria felt... "The new moon," she said, meeting her gaze. "A new moon symbolizes rebirth and renewal. It is the end of a cycle and the beginning of a new one. And in the absence of its light—" Victoria gestured to the sky, "—the stars dominate the night."

Esper nodded along, her eyes following Victoria's hand to look up at the stars. "The new moon is good. And it is nice that the stars get to shine brighter. It's like they're letting their friend rest and letting the moon know that they'll light up the night sky while it does so," the girl smiled warmly. The end and the beginning are always easier with help from those you love."

"So it is," the fool nodded. "So it is."

"And the sun helps the moon during all the other nights too..." Her friend sighed wistfully. "I like to think the moon is well loved... I hope it knows that too."

"I like to think it does," Victoria breathed. Looking up at her celestial mirror in the sky, she added, "Does the sun know it loves it back?"

Esper hummed in response, her hands absentmindedly drifting to pull Victoria's jacket tighter around her shoulders, "I'd like to think it does... during the quiet moments of dawn and dusk where they get to see each other for a few moments before the other dips beneath the earth... I think it does. Or at the very least it likes to think so."

Victoria's gaze fell back to her friend, and her breath caught in her throat. A quiet warmth seemed to hum in her chest, and her spirit rose like a song. The feeling danced in her heart and soul, and the thought dawned upon her: this was the Moment, wasn't it? When the time was right? Nothing had fundamentally changed, but she knew nonetheless. Her heart was filled with a mix of nervousness, anticipation, and a deep longing to express her feelings.

With the moon and the stars as her witness, Victoria would tell her Everything.

She took a deep breath, swallowing back the dread trying to claw her voice back into her throat. "Esper," she nearly croaked out, her heart pounding in her chest. "There's something that— that I'd like to confess." The air was thick with anticipation, and the moon and stars seemed to hold their breath, waiting for her words.

The girl in question turned her gaze to Victoria, her eyes full of curiosity, "Oh? What is it?"

"It's— It's about..." A sudden tightness seized the air in her lungs. "It's about you."

Esper blinked, her head tilting as she spoke, "Go on...?"

"Well, it's—" A growing sense of fear crept into Victoria's chest. The words tried to claw their way past her throat, but her teeth tried to silence her tongue. "It's more about me, but—" Her mouth felt dry and her jaw tense. "But it— It is in relation to you."

"It's okay," Esper tried to reassure her with a warm smile. Take your time." What could possibly have made her so nervous, the girl wondered to herself.

Everything, Victoria internally surmised. She shook her head, struggling to find the courage to speak. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to start with, "These past few weeks I—" but her lips sealed shut and a chill ran up her spine— a deep, primal instinct to retreat.

Her friend tilted her head at her sudden silence, patiently waiting for her to continue.

Swallowing back the nerves in her chest, Victoria tried to pry herself open once again. But every fiber of her being screamed for her to pull back. The individual ribs that guarded her heart threatened to snap shut like the fangs of a scared animal. Every muscle in her body shivered and tensed, desperate to flee. To fight. To freeze.

Her body refused to let itself bleed.

Esper furrowed her brows in worry, her voice soft as she spoke, "Hey, hey, if it's too much for you right now then you can try telling me another time...? Would that help....?"

Victoria shot out of her chair and slammed her hands on the table, shaking her head violently. No! It has to be today! She tried to open her mouth and force the words from her throat, but silence was the only thing to escape from her tongue. The corners of her eyes stung as she tried desperately to claw her way through the walls she had so carefully built around her heart. She had constructed them too well.

Frustrated, she gripped her hands into her hair and lowered her head. How was she supposed to say the words when they felt like knives in her throat? When she couldn't even bring herself to utter them in the confines of her own mind? When she felt as if she were taking talons to the flesh of her torso to expose the bleeding, beating heart within?

"Tori…?"

The girl peeked a pathetic glance at her friend from between the gap in her fingers. Esper deserved to hear the words. She deserved to know the full extent of her feelings. She deserved to know the Everything in her heart as much as words could describe.

Victoria didn't have the words for Everything.

But perhaps... she didn't need them.

Victoria slowly raised her head with a deep, long breath, finally gazing at Esper again. She wordlessly beckoned her friend to stand with her, holding out her hands to ask for hers.

And her friend listened, standing as she took Victoria's bare hands into her own with a confused smile.

A calm warmth flowed through her hands as skin met skin— there was Something on the other side. Something tranquil and familiar like sitting by the hearth on a cold winter night. Something fierce and powerful like a passionately raging wildfire. Something bittersweet like a nostalgic sepia memory, faded and burnt around the edges yet cherished all the same. Something impossibly bright like the sun in the sky, beaming down its heavenly divine light upon a land of white snow. Something beautifully paradoxical yet natural in its existence. There was a taste of Something.

Victoria's eyes met Esper's, a silent question behind them.

Esper simply nodded, her words quiet as she reassured Victoria, "Go on. I'm ready."

Victoria leaned her head forwards, pressed her forehead into hers....

When Victoria pulled back, the first thing she noticed was that tears were in Esper's eyes, threatening to spill down her crimson-red cheeks. Her friend was silent. Fear immediately gripped her heart. She ruined it. It was too much. Her vision began to blur, and she started to back away. She ruined everything. She was too much.

A tear rolled down Esper's face as a lopsided grin forced its way onto her lips. With breathless words, she said, "I love you."

Oh.

All Victoria could do was choke on a sob and nod. Even now, the words refused to escape her. So, instead, she gave Esper's hands three small squeezes.

Her friend's grin grew wider as she spoke, her voice shaking with something akin to warmth, "And you love me too..."

Swallowing her heart back into her throat, Victoria drew their hands closer to her and squeezed them again, giving her a slight, tentative nod.

"Can I... can I give you a hug?"

Victoria finally found enough of her voice to respond, "You— You may."

Esper wrapped her arms around Victoria, holding onto her tightly as she let out a giddy giggle. She then moved back and resumed holding Victoria's hands, a small nervous smile on her face, "Um– Well, uh, now what...?"

"I..." The girl looked down at their hands for a moment, then back up to look at Esper. "I don't... know..."

"Oh! Well! Uh– We... we could..." Esper glanced away from Victoria, her face growing impossibly red as she stuttered out, "We could try... being together... like... like dating..... maybe...... if you want.........."

Victoria couldn't stop the corners of her lips from turning upwards, nor the way her heart soared in her chest. "I'd— I wouldn't mind that."

"I wouldn't mind that either..." The other girl looked at Victoria sheepishly as she swayed back and forth, "I wouldn't mind being your girlfriend one bit..."

"So..." Victoria glanced off to the side and then back at Esper. "Perhaps... girlfriends?"

"Then I think that settles it," her girlfriend giggled. "Perhaps girlfriends."

Scene end.

[jackactuallywrites]

All Seeing, All Knowing, All Loving Part 14

Warning: Cringe texting

Summary: ^

Notes: I love you guys but I’m lazy for formatting don’t hate me (it’s better on ao3)

Word count: 1,204

ao3 link

Several things were becoming abundantly clear to you.

One, you wanted to fuck Ghost.

Two, Ghost knew this.

Three, he thought he had it in the bag. And that, you took issue with. You were going to fuck him, but you wanted him to work for it; you wanted him to be down on his knees begging.

How exactly you were going to achieve this, you hadn’t quite figured out yet. All you knew for sure was that your ego needed a little more flattering and that Ghost’s needed to be taken down a peg.

You had some vague plans, and one of them had come into motion the second you got a text on your phone from the man himself, when you’d woken up for the second time on Sunday, having already had one rude awakening.

‘Unknown Number: New number. Know you missed texting me. ;-)’

Thank God he hadn’t seen the desperation in your texts on his last phone. This was a chance for a clean slate.

‘You: How’s the photo capabilities on your new phone?’

‘Ghost: Dirty bird. I’ll upgrade.’

‘You: For pictures of Soap and Roach you pervert.’

‘Ghost: Sure love.’

God the man was smug. Although, the mere idea of pictures from you had him buying a whole new phone? He wasn’t shy about his desire for you. Not to mention, it hadn’t even been half a day since he’d left your home, and he’d already sent you a text from his new phone? He was definitely down bad. And you were going to take advantage of that. But, for now, you were going to play it cool.

‘You: Anywaysss! How did the medical go?’

‘Ghost: Fit as a butchers dog.’

‘You: ? Are butcher's dogs especially healthy?’

‘Ghost: Ours was. :-)’

That was new.

‘You: You were a butcher?’

‘Ghost: Was a butcher's apprentice before I joined the military.’

You wondered if that was around the time he’d taken the picture for his drivers licence. Simon Riley the butcher. Well, he could keep the moniker; you imagine he did just as much butchering.

‘Ghost: I can show you how to properly handle meat. ;-)’

Of course. However, there was something cute about the fact that he’d sent you another text after you hadn’t replied for a mere minute. Did he even know what double texting was? You doubted that; he didn’t even seem to know how to use emojis. It was fun to go back to a pre-emoji time, like a throwback to your early teen years.

‘You: Yeah, I bet you’re a master at handling meat. Twat.’

‘Ghost: Happy to show you. ;-)’

‘You: In your dreams.’

‘Ghost: Yes. :-)’

You needed to stop. Either he was masterful at drawing you into playful banter, or you were easy. Regardless, you actually had things to do today, so you couldn’t spend all day flirting with Ghost over text.

‘You: I’ve got to get ready to go out. Talk to you later.’

‘Ghost: Think of me. ;-)’

Incorrigible.

Now, it was time for the second part of your first plan. Today, you were meeting the girls in town for a little window shopping and coffee, which gave you a convenient excuse to get dressed up, and you thought you knew who would appreciate a picture of your outfit. You spent far longer than usual picking out your clothes, trying to find the perfect mix of slutty enough to tease him but not slutty enough that your friends would notice. It was a hard bargain.

You figured it out pretty quickly. You could wear a mini skirt if you just stuck a jumper and a big jacket over it. You put your hair up in a bun that took a deceptively long amount of time to look like you’d just thrown it up, with you having to repeat the whole process three times until you finally got something you liked.

By the time you’d got around to doing your makeup, you were already over it, still irritated by your hair's inability to behave, but you stuck with it, giving yourself winged eyeliner, and several coats of mascara. There was no way you were going to faff trying to do your lips, so you just stuck with basic lip balm to complete your look.

With everything finished, you went to the long mirror in your room, having to give it a thorough clean before you could actually take any pictures. Ghost was worth it, that was unquestionable, but it didn’t make it any less of a faff. You were already out of breath, and you hadn’t even really done anything. How were you supposed to get across a slutty vibe with plausible deniability? Upskirt shot was out of the question. For now. Instead, you went with a classic pose, standing in front of the mirror, hand on your waist, resisting the urge to hold it up in a peace sign, your lips slightly pouted. Of course, you took a good dozen photos so you had a good range to choose from, hemming and hawing over which one was best before you finally decided.

From start to the finish, the whole process had taken about three hours, and the entire end result was a simple text that belied none of your efforts.

‘You: what do you think of my outfit? :) (image)’

There was no instant reply from him this time. You frowned at your phone, but it didn’t summon a text from him, so you just stuck it in your handbag and pretended you didn’t care, as though that would make the time until his next message shorter. Never worked before, but never stopped you from trying regardless.

In the time it took for you to put your coat and shoes on, and give Soap and Roach enough fuss that you didn’t feel guilty leaving them behind, you actually did get a response. You liked that about Ghost. He didn’t fuck about with long waiting times. Well, except for the weeks prior, but that didn’t count; his phone was blown up.

‘Ghost: Let me take you out instead. Anywhere you want.’

The offer was tempting. But you weren’t about to ditch your girls for Ghost. Even if it did take every fibre of your strength not to.

‘You: N o. I’m not ditching my mates for you.’

‘Ghost: Tease.’

‘You: Am not! Was just showing my outfit!’

‘Ghost: You know what you do to me.’

Shit, you were going to be late if you kept letting him distract you. There was just something about texting him that made you feel like a smitten teenager again.

‘You: Going out now! Byeeee’

‘Ghost: See you tonight :-)’

‘You: ???’

‘Ghost: I’m giving you a lift home. Just let me know when you need me.’

Oh, you liked that. You hadn’t even kissed him yet, and he was already your personal chauffeur?

‘You: Fine, will let you know.’

‘Ghost: That’s my girl ;-)’

With that, you locked your phone and stuffed it in the deepest recesses of your bag, knowing that you’d succumb to the temptation of texting him all day otherwise, and set out to catch the bus into town, already running late.

[yeonniesblog]

Kuroo x reader x oikawa

Synopsis : After years spent by a certain setter along with a small toddler mending you heart, your life was a just like a blissful movie with a happy ending. But little did you know the person who gave you not only the worst years of your life but also the small ball of sunshine, decided to suddenly make a appearance in your fairytale when fate played a wild

reader's note : this is the last chapter, make sure to read it in order! Sorry for the angst hehe.

Part 1 : meeting you again | Part 2 : wouldn't you | Part 3 : broken promises | Part 4 : where it all went wrong | Part 5 : enough for now (current one)

“she is a fucking psycopath” kenma sighs, putting the car in reverse as he pulls up in his driveway, eyes fixated on the rear view as kuroo watches the irriated expression on his face.

“dude, chill I know you hate kizumi, but I might marry her” kuroo sips his coffee as he lets out a shallow grunt in annoyance too, what was he doing in life.

“no, just think about it, she specifically asked for the ring you bought to propose to y/n, when she knows you could afford to give her much expensive one right now, but, again I repeat. she asked specifically for that ring, only”

the black hair man groans at the explanation, he knows his friend has a point, but he is trying to gaslight himself into believing whatever kizumi explained to him. “i think she just likes it, she was the one who chose it too, all those years ago—” and before kuroo could finish his sentence, the half blonde cuts him off, swiftly taking out his phone from his pocket and muttering something to it “siri, how do you block people in real life”

“yeah, okay, this is a kuroo hate club, I get it” the man sighs, propping his head back on the headrest, closing his eyes. “honestly I know her behavior is weird, but I’m in a tight spot, my only left family is nagging me to marry her, and you know I could care less about marriage” he pauses taking a deep breath. “dad is legit emotionally blackmailing me, sitting at his stupid hospital bed probably faking his disease”

“they want you to marry, doesn't necessarily have to be her” kenma suggests, opening the seatbelt around him. “i cannot marry a stranger, kizumi is a better option, we have been dating on and off for one year” the rooster haired man replies, honestly he really wants to jump off a cliff, but he will suppress the impulsive urges.

“as a rebutal to that, one thing you said was right” kenma sighs finally looking at his friend, kuroo looks tired, or is aged that appropriate word. “her behavior is weird, it's like she has more attachment to y/n than you, she is insecure as fuck of her. you, me and her, we all know she won't ever level up to the place y/n has in your heart, so she trying to become her, its giving me chills” kenma shudders at that thought, physically gagging.

“do you think it's too late for me to get a therapist?” with that kuroo tetsuro groans one more time.

kuroo sits quietly, hands clasped, looking up with hesitant eyes as he watches you put your purse on the table, stoice face, yet so pretty.

he really meant it when he said you got more gorgeous over the years, there were few lines now adorning your face, mature and elegant glow.

even if he sometimes wonders if it would have been better if you both never met at all, if it would have been better if neither of you had to go through the heartbreak, but he knows,

if there was a spell to go back in time, to where he met you, he would do the same thing. he would make a silly chemistry joke and wait for you to laugh at it, not because it was funny, no it was because it was so bad you laughed at it, it was his fault wasn’t it?

to loose the most precious thing in his life, did you feel worse than him, it wasn't a question, nor a comparison, he wanted to know because he will never forget or forgive himself to give you so much pain over the year.

what did you name the kid? did oikawa tooru’ see how your son took the first steps, was he the one who got called father first, what's his favorite food, does he have a birth mark, does he like volleyball? is your son’ tastes similar to what is his? Just like how he saw the little kid adorning your homely baked goods, similar to what he himself used to do.

it pains him, physically pains him to know he wasn't there for anything, he wasn't there to make you food, hold your hair while you threw up during you morning sickness, not hold your hand while you went into labour, he wasn't part of any of it, six years sometimes means nothing and yet to him, now, it means everything, it means every important thing he lost.

“you don't know how much draining this is for me, to be talking to you, or as a matter of fact to talk about what happened, cause honestly you deserve nothing, not the explanation, not to meet me or ruko” you break the silence first, firmly sitting at your place.

and kuroo wishes he could repent on all the thing you said but the only thought in his mind is what you named your son “his name is ruko?”

“his name is oikawa saruko” you firmly state, a small smile tugging at you lips, you were proud your kid had a father like oikawa, cause you can't imagine anyone else being a better father than him.

tetsuro has never wanted to be in someone else's place as much as he wants to be oikawa now, he sighs at your words. “why didn't you tell me, I would get it if you wanted to get away from me, but don't you think I deserved to know the kid was mine?” his voice quivering as he asks you the question, a weird pang in his chest.

“i tried, I tried so many times” your voice quivers slightly “why do you think I asked for your opinion to have a kid?” that silents the man infront of you, his pupil dilated as he realizes how he explained it, and how it sounded like a definite ‘no” from his side.

“not to mention, even after that I was going to tell you, with my parents kuroo and you didn't show up” he relishes at how defeated he feels when you don't even call him by his first name, so the announcement when you called him was with your parents? his legs tenses up and he stops shaking them.

“i know I don't have any excuse but you know there was a storm that night—”

“yet you left me all alone in that storm, tetsuro” his heart breaks into million pieces, do you even know how much he just wants to pull you close and cry, stain your shirt with his tears of sorrow that he made a mistake and couldn't be in your presence and of joy because after years he was able to see you.

“i—y/n” he tries to put his hands over yours but you are swift to pull away, he knows a million reasons of why your reflex action was right, yet he can't help but feel his throat becoming dry “i’m sorry, I assumed you were with your parents, I had no idea, my phone was dead”

“how can you still lie to me?” your voice croaks, finally looking straight into his eyes, you really don't want to care for whatever his action was or what he did but you can't help but feel wronged.

“what do you mean lie?”

“so your phone was dead enough to not respond to my texts but it was working when you reposted on social media with your now girlfriend, her friends commenting how cute you both looked” you scoff pausing in disbelief “or should I say fiance”

“whatever are you sayi-” then it clicks, it suddenly clicks how kizumi’s friend has always shipped him with her, despite knowing he has a girlfriend, despite him saying he doesn't appreciate it, that it straight up makes him uncomfortable.

how kizumi knew, that your birthdate was his password to Instagram, he remembers her saying it was so cute, its laughable to think how dumb he has been, how could he not notice her intention. but he wishes you told him, he wishes he could have cleared off the last misunderstanding and if he could take it all back he would.

hell, he would never breath the same air as kizumi if he could go back in time and fix things. but he cannot, all he has is regret and all he can do his atone for his mistake, he was hoping you'd be kind enough to let him see his son, he hasn't been a great partner but he sure as heck wants to have some influence in your son’s life—

after all, it was a part of you and him, back then if he actually heard you were pregnant he'd probably be scared as shit, but he would still fight every odds to raise the kid you made, how could he ever resent a mini you, kuroo knows he has no right to feel wronged but all those years without the little guy or even acknowledgment of his existence makes feel burnt.

his lips shaky and he doesn't know if a explanation would even help at this point, nothing would change and even if kizumi was in wrong– so was he though. his mouth ran before he could know.

he looks up at her. “I know you don’t owe me anything, but there’s something you need to hear" your eyes held anger and he was scared of that, he wanted to scream please forgive me, over and over again in a chant but he knew he didn't deserve your forgiveness.

you crossed your arms, wary but patient. you had no idea how you still held on. but they say but they say old habits die hard, and even after six year you had the same patience for him, you wanted to laugh at yourself “Go on.”

“It was Kizumi,” he begins, voice low but firm. “She… she’s the reason things fell apart. She was jealous of you, of what we had. She deleted your texts that night—the ones you sent me about the announcement. She posted on my social media to make it look like I was with her. And she—”

"You didn't know?" your eyes widened and you had no idea how to feel after hearing that, conflicted feeling filled your lungs and the wall of resolve you have solidified getting cracks of doubt in them, but you remained firm.

“No,” Kuroo says quickly, his voice thick with regret. “I was blind, stupid, and I didn’t see what was happening. I let her control too much. I thought I could trust her. But I swear, if I’d known—” He stops, realizing that no matter what he says, it won’t erase the past.

you stare at him, your face unreadable, but there was turmoil behind your eyes “So, you’re saying it was all her fault?”

“No. No..no.” Kuroo says firmly, shaking his head. “It was my fault too. I let her into my life, I didn’t listen to you, and I didn’t fight for you when it mattered. That’s on me. I just… I need you to know that I didn’t abandon you on purpose.”

you exhale slowly, looking down at you cup, a closure huh? but what does that change ? you know oikawa is much more important to you now, nothing could change that, nothing could make you ever abandon the perfect family you have right now. “I believe you, Tetsuro. But that doesn’t change what happened. You weren’t there when I needed you, and I had to pick up the pieces alone. Oikawa was there. He’s been there for me and for Ruko.”

even if there is a shaky heartbeat you feel around your past lover you know it was not meant to be. there are so many things unsaid and there will be so many things which will be, you are a mom now and you could never be an careless one. and as much as tears were welling up in your eyes for what could have been, you won't risk anything for what it is now.

Kuroo swallows the lump in his throat. “I know. And I’m glad he’s been good to you both. I just… I missed so much, Y/N. I want to know him. I know I don’t deserve it, but I want to try.”

bonus scene

Kuroo sits on a bench, watching from a distance as you and Oikawa playing with your son, Ruko. The boy—his son, biologically—has Oikawa’s mannerisms but your smile. Kuroo’s chest tightens as he watches the little boy stumble, only for Oikawa to sweep him up, spinning him around while you laugh.

They look like a family. They are a family

Kuroo thinks to himself, maybe this could have been you both if he wasn't consumed by the thought that you both would also be horrible parents much like your families.

you notice him then, your gaze meeting his. There’s no anger in your eyes anymore, just a quiet understanding. you approach him cautiously, arms crossed. “You’re here,” you speak, trying to keep your tone neutral.

“I just wanted to see him,” Kuroo admits. “I won’t interfere much. I just… needed to see him.”

You sit beside him, keeping a respectful distance. “He’s happy, you know. Oikawa’s a good father. He loves Ruko like he’s his own.” and that breaks kuroo's heart, as much as he tries to look positively at this. He can't help but feel his heart become empty, can't help but wish to be where oikawa is right now in your life.

Kuroo nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can see that. He’s a lucky kid.” you glance at him, your expression softening. “I know the truth now, about Kizumi. About what happened. I’m… sorry you were caught in that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Kuroo says, his voice breaking. He knows it's not enough but all he can do is regret it over and over again. “For everything. For not being there, for letting you down. I should’ve fought harder for us.” you look away, your gaze fixed on Oikawa and Ruko. “Maybe. But it’s too late now, Tetsuro. We’ve both moved on.” and he feels a bit happy, you used his first name, God he is so pathetic

“I know,” he whispers, his heart breaking all over again. “But I’ll never stop wishing I could go back and do it right.” and before you are able to say anything you notice a small figure approaching you, you feel at ease when you notice it's your son, oikawa stood a bit away, he felt protective over you both but he doesn't want to snatch away the closure you deserve, and he can't snatch away ruko from his biological dad. so he stays silent cause he knows ruko would pick him for sure, he loves the little guy to death after all.

“Ruko, this is… this is Tetsuro,” you say gently, getting up from the bench only to kneel beside your son.

The boy looks up, curious but cautious. “Hi,” he says softly, clutching his toy dinosaur.

Kuroo crouches down, his heart aching as he gets his first close look at his son. Ruko has Y/N’s eyes and his messy black hair. He smiles faintly. “Hey, buddy. That’s a cool dinosaur you’ve got there. What’s his name?”

“Cupcake,” Ruko replies, holding it up proudly.For a moment, Kuroo wants to giggle, pondering why a dinosaur would be named Cupcake, but he holds back, his lips twitching into a soft smile. “Cupcake, huh? That’s a pretty unique name. Why’d you pick it?”

Ruko beams, his small chest puffing up with excitement. “Well—it’s not weird, okay? It’s ’cause I love dinosaurs and I love Mom’s handmade cupcakes, so I mixed two favorite things at once!”

Kuroo freezes for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. Cupcakes. His gaze flickers briefly to you, you who look away, your expression unreadable. He remembers countless nights when he’d come over to your place, exhausted from work or practice, and the smell of your freshly baked cupcakes would make him feel like he was home. They were his favorite—a sweet, simple treat that reminded him of your warmth.

And now, their son shares that same love.“That’s… that’s actually genius,” Kuroo finally says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Cupcake is the perfect name for a dinosaur. You’ve got great taste.”

Ruko grins proudly, going on to describe Cupcake’s many adventures and how he takes the toy everywhere. Kuroo listens intently, his heart clenching. There’s an ache beneath his chest—a mix of pride, love, and regret. He and Ruko have so much in common, and yet, this is the first time he’s learning it.

The realization stings, and he resents you a bit for that but it also fills him with a bittersweet joy. Ruko is bright, imaginative, and full of life. He’s a part of you and him—a reminder of what you both once had. And kuroo decides he can live with that. That's enough for now isn't it?

Finally ending this series, I get embarrassed whenever I reread it but it was my first series and it has been in my drafts for years. But here I ending, thank you for everyone who waited for this.

Here is the taglist (it's based on people who were waiting for it) : @reikashe @mikaela26sstuff @chita318 @mxrice @freddiemylovelg @glxar @amarinthe @rinsangel @captainchrisstan @gamacha @cheeseriz @pluviophilefangirl @bnha-bakusquad @asaitashi @lordmomourmomoness @missyasmim @macky-attoh @belle643 @on-crows-wings

[kunareads]

i think i like your girlfriend!

satoru x reader x utahime

you love your boyfriend, you really do. but what are you supposed to do when you start to wonder how your best friend tastes?

wc: 10.3k (it was 11k originally so)

this is just pining and porn. it’s also the first thing i’ve ever written

content: smut!!! fluff, pining, switch!reader, fingering, oral (f! and m! receiving), threesome, choking, unprotected piv sex

18+ please i block children <3

+++

she took my spot in the bed, the space in your head that i used to

it starts with a laugh. not just any laugh. it's the kind that makes the air feel lighter, a sound that lingers long after the moment has passed. a laugh you've loved for what feels like forever. satoru's laugh, directed at one of utahime's sharp jabs, catches your attention across the training field.

you observe your boyfriend and your friend from your seat under a tree. your students are taking a break from sparring, their chatter blending into the background like gentle white noise. the sun is unrelenting, casting everything in a golden haze. he looks so effortlessly beautiful, but so does she.

it's not something you mean to dwell on. satoru is always laughing, always flirting, always basking in the attention of anyone willing to play along with him. utahime doesn't just play along. she challenges him, meeting his energy with a rare poise that keeps him on his toes. you love their back and forth. you love that he's met his match in her quiet defiance. you've always loved it.

and yet.

there's something about the way she holds herself, how her voice cuts through the air like a blade but never feels harsh. her confidence isn't loud because it doesn't need to be. she's magnetic. that's all it is. she's magnetic, and you're caught in her pull.

but even as you rationalize it, you can't ignore the ache in your chest — a whisper of something you're not ready to name. your gaze lingers on the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her lips. you wonder what it would be like to get close to her, closer than you've been.

you don't even notice you've been staring until satoru turns his head toward you. you can't see his eyes, but you know him well enough. he looks like he caught you doing something bad (and maybe he did). panic flares in your chest, and you scramble to school your expression into something neutral. he holds your gaze for a moment longer than necessary before sending you a smirk so stupidly him that you want to melt.

he's annoying. and you love him. but even as you roll your eyes and shift your attention back to your students, you feel the weight of utahime's presence pulling you in.

+++

"you're quiet tonight," satoru hums. his voice carries that infuriatingly naughty edge. his arm slips around your waist as he pulls you close, pressing soft kisses to your cheek.

"just tired," you say, your voice barely there. it's not entirely untrue. the weight of your shifting emotions is exhausting.

his lips pause against your temple, and his voice drops to that conspiratorial tone he reserves for you. "it's her, isn't it?"

you tense in his arms, turning just enough to meet his stare. his expression is gentle, curious, not accusatory. you can't hide anything from him.

"you've always liked girls," he continues, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "you've always been awful at hiding it. besides, the two of you have been joined at the hip since high school."

"okay," you admit with a harsh exhale. "maybe. but it's not like i've thought about her that way before. or anyone that way since we've been together."

he laughs, and the sound soothes you. "you know i'd support you, right? whatever happens. just want you to be happy." his fingers trace delicate patterns on your hip. "you should talk to her, if that's what you want."

his words settle over you like a balm, easing the pressure in your chest. he holds you close, his touch steady and familiar, and something shifts. his hand trails upward, fingers ghosting along your ribs.

"let me get you out of your head, baby," he murmurs against your jaw.

before you can ask what he means, he flips you onto your back in one fluid motion. satoru's grin is wicked as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand. his hair falls into his eyes, catching the light filtering through your curtains, and he looks annoyingly perfect.

"you're pretty when you're overthinking," he teases. he leans down to catch your lips in a slow, consuming kiss. the weight of his body against yours makes you feel grounded. satoru has always been your anchor.

but you can't help but push back a little. "you think you're irresistible, don't you?" you ask him, words muffled against his lips.

he pulls back just enough to grin down at you, the devilish glimmer in his eyes making your heart squeeze. "i'm irresistible, but so is she, huh?"

"satoru—" you start, your voice caught between a protest and a plea. he silences you with another kiss, more profound this time.

"say my name like that again," he teases, lips brushing yours. he presses a series of open-mouthed kisses under your jaw.

"you're so full of yourself," you manage.

he smirks when you shiver at his teeth on your skin. "only when you're around to humble me."

he moves away unexpectedly, and you frown. you watch as he props himself against the headboard. you move to straddle him, but he turns you around instead, pulling your back against his chest.

your breath catches when he pushes your hair to the side. his lips find the back of your neck, and one hand wraps around your torso while the other slides up your inner thigh.

he traces slow circles over your panties, grinning against your neck as your hips rise to meet his touch. his free hand presses down on your waist. his name falls from your lips, and his grip tightens. "stay still for me. wanna make you feel good."

you whimper in response, and he lets his hand slip beneath your underwear to find you already desperate for him.

"needed me this bad, baby?" he asks, spreading your slick over your folds. you nod softly, eyes closed. "need an answer." his fingers pause, drawing out a needy whine from you.

"yes, satoru."

he starts to circle your clit torturously slow until you become impatient, arching your back and reaching backward to run your fingers through his hair.

"tell me what you want, princess."

"please put your fingers inside me, 'toru."

"since you asked so nicely," he purrs.

he presses against your entrance a bit, then slides one finger inside you, drawing out a soft moan. "satoru," you whine. and fuck, he thinks that sound would put anyone's favorite song to shame.

"feel good?" he asks, and you nod at him. he curls his finger and starts a rhythm, the wet sounds filling the room as his other hand finds your breast.

"more, please," you breathe.

he chuckles. "anything for you, baby." a second finger joins the first, his thrusts deeper now. his kisses trail your neck as his breathing grows heavy against your ear.

you moan, starting to push back against the hand that's holding your hip down. "it's so good," you tell him, breathless and needy.

he groans, grip tightening enough to bruise. you're dripping, your body is hot to the touch, and you have the prettiest look on your face. he's enamored by you.

"gonna cum for me?" he asks. you already know what he wants.

"please, 'toru, please. wanna cum for you, please—" you're close, trembling as you fight to stay still for him.

"do it, baby. cum for me."

you break with a sob, hips fighting against his grip as bliss overwhelms you, his name falling from your lips repeatedly while he kisses the side of your face. he doesn't stop, not through your orgasm, not even as you collapse against him, panting and whining.

only when you're spent does he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to your lips. "open, princess," he commands softly, watching you.

you do as you're told. he pushes his fingers past your lips, sighing contentedly as you clean them up for him.

"you're so fucking sexy," he whispers with a small laugh, kissing your shoulder. the smile you flash around his fingers makes him wish he could take a picture.

he guides you onto your back, finding your lips again with gentle kisses. you wrap your arms around his neck to keep him close.

he can't help but marvel at how flawless you are, how blessed he feels. he knows you feel guilty, but he can't find it in himself to be jealous, not when it's utahime.

truthfully, he might have seen this coming before you did. you three, with yuki, have been inseparable since your teenage years, finding your way in the jujutsu world together.

you and utahime are different, of course. you're loud and reckless where she's reserved. but something about her complexity reminds him of you. he holds you to his chest and hums contentedly.

"thank you," you breathe, and he grins, meeting your eyes.

"what for, baby?"

"for understanding. i was worried you wouldn't, and i—" he cuts you off with a quick kiss.

"you're thinking too much again."

you pout. "i know. can't help it."

"well, try," he smirks, getting up. you feel your eyelids getting heavy, and you're nearly asleep when he returns with a warm washcloth. he gently cleans between your thighs, and you feel shy despite this having been routine for the two of you for years.

"you've been overthinking all day," he says quietly, brushing hair from your face. "you don't have to do this alone."

"huh?"

"i can help you tell her," he offers, knowing you want to handle it yourself but unable to stop himself from trying to support you.

you blush. "you're ridiculous," you mumble, but it's as close to agreement as he'll get.

as you fall asleep, satoru's warmth makes you brave. your thoughts of utahime still make you shiver, but it's not just nerves anymore. satoru kisses your temple as he holds you closer. "get some sleep, baby."

+++

i'm not gonna pretend, think i like your girlfriend

it's sunday afternoon, nearly a week later, and you feel somewhat back to normal. your shared apartment with satoru is alive with chatter, the kind of easy atmosphere that feels like a reward after a week of missions, teaching, and everything in between. satoru is in his element, weaving stories with dramatic gestures, his laughter infectious.

choso sits cross-legged on the floor, drink in hand and watching the antics with a faint smirk. nanami is at the dining table, flipping through mission reports with the occasional eye roll. yuki lounges on the floor by the coffee table, scrolling through her phone with the casual disinterest you've come to associate with her over the years.

utahime is perched on the armrest with her usual pointed expression. every so often, she cuts through satoru's theatrics with a well-timed quip, her wit landing effortlessly. maybe you're tired, or you've had too much to drink, but you find yourself drawn to her. again. the shape of her lips when she puts on her little smirk, or how she sees right through satoru's antics. and yours. when she catches you looking, her lips curve into a knowing smile. your pulse quickens and your laugh falters mid-sound.

"what's so funny?" utahime asks with a raised brow. her tone is light, but the way she's looking at you roots you in place.

"you're more entertaining than him," you blurt out before you can stop yourself. your voice carries the casual tone you were going for, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

satoru pouts dramatically, clapping a hand to his chest. "you wound me, princess," he complains with a wild grin, "here i thought i was the star of the evening."

utahime's smile widens, her gaze flicking to him before settling back on you. "maybe next time, gojo."

choso's chuckle draws your attention. you notice his eyes moving between the three of you, assessing quietly. nanami and yuki, absorbed in their activities, seem blissfully unaware of the tension.

you excuse yourself to the kitchen, the need for air pushing you to your feet. the clink of bottles fills the silence as you open the fridge, and you're grateful for a moment alone, but the sound of footsteps pulls your focus. you turn to find utahime leaning against the doorway. the space suddenly feels smaller.

"are we still on for friday night? yuki just confirmed," she asks, her voice softer now, the sharpness from earlier melting into something gentler.

"yeah, it's on my calendar," you reply, carefully setting some beer bottles on the counter. "satoru's dropping me off."

utahime steps closer, reaching behind you for a bottle. her fingers brush against your arm, the touch sending sparks through you. your breath hitches before you can stop it, and you don't know if you want her to back up or come closer.

"girls' night tradition stays sacred," she says. "wine and bad movies. don't forget your pajamas."

you manage a smile, though your voice shakes slightly. "i'll bring my best ones."

her smile lingers, her eyes locking onto yours for a moment that feels too long and not long enough. "good," she says. "wouldn't expect anything less."

when you both return to the living room, satoru is already looking in your direction, that grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. you sit beside him and he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"did i miss anything?" he questions, voice low and teasing. his tone is light, but he looks briefly at utahime, the smile he wears too knowing for your liking.

"don't start," you reply, rolling your eyes with a smile, but he sees through your feigned exasperation.

his laugh sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. he leans closer, lips ghosting against your ear. "for the record," he whispers, "you're the most entertaining one here."

utahime's expression is unreadable, save for the slight upward twitch on her lips. she's so pretty it makes your head hurt.

+++

it's crazy, she just called me baby, i don't know how this ends

it's friday evening, and you're standing outside utahime's apartment with a bottle of wine in hand, wearing your favorite pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved top under your coat. satoru had dropped you off on his way to meet suguru and choso at a bar, looking ridiculously attractive as he teased you.

utahime opens the door almost immediately, her hair loose around her shoulders and a soft sweater hanging off one shoulder. she looks cozy in a way that makes your heart stutter.

"you're early," she smiles, stepping aside to let you in. her apartment smells like lavender, the same way it always has. "yuki bailed," she adds, shutting the door behind you. "it'll just be us tonight."

your stomach flips, but you can't tell if it's nerves or excitement. "that's fine," you shrug, setting the wine on the counter and pulling off your coat. "more for us."

utahime laughs, grabbing two glasses and filling them. "exactly."

most of the evening feels normal, and you almost forget what you've been so worried about. you sit on the couch with a cheesy movie playing in the background, sipping wine and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

the warmth of the alcohol helps you relax, but after some time, it also enhances your observations. the way her fingers curl around her glass, the delicate curve of her collarbone where her sweater slips slightly. you hadn't expected to feel this way about anyone after you started dating satoru. still, something about her draws you in just as much.

at some point, utahime gets up to grab another bottle of wine, leaving the room briefly. she sits closer to you when she returns, her knee brushing against yours. it's the slightest touch, but the air suddenly feels heavy, charged with something unspoken. you're hyper-aware of the lack of space between you.

"you're quiet tonight," utahime says, her voice gentle but probing.

"just tired," you say automatically, though the words sound hollow.

"is that all?" she presses, tilting her head. her hair falls over one shoulder, and your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out. you think she may as well have the six eyes with the way she sees right through you.

you swallow hard, building up your courage. "no," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "not really."

utahime doesn't say anything at first. she shifts, picking her legs up and sitting on her calves to face you fully. her hand rests lightly on your arm, her touch warm. "you can tell me," she says softly. the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. your heart pounds, and you're sure she can hear it. "i…" you start, but the rest of the sentence doesn't come. instead, you meet her gaze, and something about how she's looking at you makes you move before you can second-guess it.

you lean in, and your lips meet hers in a soft, tentative kiss, testing the waters. you pull back almost immediately, your cheeks warm as you search her face. "was that okay?" you ask, struggling to find your voice.

her eyes soften, and her lips curve into a playful smile. "more than okay," she hums. her hand slides up to cup your cheek, and before you can fully process her words, she leans in and kisses you again. it's more deliberate this time. there's no hesitation. your hands slide into her hair, your lips parting as her tongue brushes against yours. she tastes like wine and everything you haven't let yourself admit wanting.

the kiss grows more heated, the tension between you breaking like a tidal wave. utahime shifts again, this time straddling your lap. her arms wrap around your neck, coming in close, and you lose yourself in the feeling.

her fingers thread through your hair, sighing when your hands find her waist. it feels like something out of a dream, and you half expect to wake up at any moment. but her weight in your lap, the heat of her mouth against yours, is all too real.

her eyes are dark with desire when she pulls back, her lips swollen and wet. the sight makes your heart skip a beat.

you lean in again, unable to resist her pull. you kiss her slowly and deeply, and you can feel her smile against your lips. it drives you crazy. she shivers when your hand slips under her sweater. you're breathing heavier now, and she lets out a sweet whine.

you can feel the heat rising between your bodies, and you get an abrupt thought about where this might lead. the thought thrills and terrifies you. you pull away slightly, and she places her forehead against yours, uneven breaths fanning against your face. utahime looks at you, a question in her eyes. "what about gojo?"

your stomach clenches at the thought of him. he prompted you to explore this, but you can't quell the doubt that burns in your stomach. what if he regrets his choice? you hesitate. you could walk away now and go back to pretending this never happened, but when she looks at you like that, you know there's no going back.

"we talked about it," you say, sounding more sure than you feel. "he encouraged this."

utahime's lips curve into a smile that's both understanding and wicked. "been thinking about this for a while?" she teases. you want to hide your face from her.

without warning, she closes the distance between you again, kissing you more desperately now. her hands slip under your shirt, tugging it up and off.

you dip your head into the crook of her neck, sucking lightly on the soft skin there. she smells so good. a soft moan escapes her lips and you wonder why you didn't do this before.

utahime pulls back and takes off her sweater. the sight of her bare skin makes your heart race. she's perfect and inviting and she's all you can focus on.

you're trailing kisses down the front of her throat, past her collarbones, down between her breasts. you're lost in each other, the world around you forgotten. the only thing that matters is the heat between you, the way she feels in your arms, the pretty sounds she's making just for you.

she swerves her hips, grinding down against you. the friction is enough to make you groan. her hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of your pants. "can we take these off?" she questions, sounding desperate.

you smile at her, savoring this, when you hear your phone buzz on the coffee table.

you glance over and see satoru's face on your screen. "don't answer," utahime pleads, pressing her lips to your neck.

you groan, leaning into her touch. "he's probably on his way to pick me up," you say.

"two minutes," she pleads, her eyes full of mischief. "not done yet."

"two minutes," you agree, your resolve crumbling. you have the brief thought that you were doomed the moment you walked in here.

utahime smirks, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. she leans in, her breath hot against your ear.

"make them count," she murmurs, and your stomach flips. the mischief in her voice reminds you of satoru. it's strange and sexy and you love it.

"i intend to," you say, and then she's kissing you again, her lips hot and demanding. your hands slide down her body, resting on her hips as she grinds into you.

you want her so bad. she kisses like a hurricane, and you're caught in the eye of the storm. her fingers find your hair, and the world narrows to her, her, her.

you're lost in her, in the feel of her skin under your fingertips. and then, all too soon, the buzzing of your phone snaps you out of it. utahime groans, pressing her forehead to yours. "i hate that thing," she mutters, and you laugh softly.

"it's okay," you soothe. "we can pick this up another time."

"i'm gonna hold you to that," she says, and the look in her eyes sends a thrill through you.

you grab your phone and answer, with utahime still on top of you, resting on your shoulder.

"hello?" you say, your voice a little hoarse.

"hey, baby," satoru says, sounding a bit tipsier than he did when he dropped you off. "ready to go?"

"um…" you glance at the beautiful woman in your arms. "yes?"

there's a pause, and that bubbly laughter you love fills the line. "oh my god," he says, sounding like he's been holding it in. "did i interrupt something?"

you blush, smiling at the ceiling and thankful he can't see you. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"uh-huh," he says, unconvinced. "i'll be there in five."

the call ends, and you let out a sigh. it's quiet until you ask, "was that too much?"

utahime smiles at you like you're the sun, and your stomach does a somersault. "no," she says. "that was perfect."

you let out a relieved breath. "good," you say. "i'm glad."

the silence settles over you again, and it's different this time. less tense. you move to get dressed and finish your wine. not long after, you hear satoru honking outside.

"come on," utahime says, grabbing her jacket and keys. "i'll walk you out."

the cold hits you when she opens the building door, and you shiver. you give satoru a little wave from the doorway, but utahime grabs your arm to get your attention. she pulls you into one last kiss, lingering before stepping back. when you both pull back, she looks right at him.

you turn to see satoru looking smug. he gives her a wave and a wink, and she doesn't hesitate to flip him off.

+++

she wants to go slow in your camaro

you climb into the passenger seat, and satoru doesn't waste a second. "sooo," he says, his voice teasing. "how was girls' night?"

your face flushes, and you try not to let him see. "fine," you say, playing innocent.

"uh-huh," he says, not buying it for a second. "tell me everything."

you roll your eyes, but there's no malice behind it. "fine," you concede. you lean back against the seat. "but no interruptions."

"you have my word," he says eagerly.

you take a deep breath and dive in as he drives, telling him everything. and when you're done, he's silent for a moment. then, without warning, he pulls over and throws the car in park.

"what are you doing?" you ask, confused.

he turns to look at you, and something in his face takes your breath away. "i'm really proud of you," he says, his voice mild.

you feel the warmth extending through you at his words. it takes a moment to find your voice. "thanks," you say quietly. you swallow the lump in your throat, squeezing his hand. "i love you," you say, the words feeling heavy with meaning.

"i love you too, beautiful," he says, his smile inviting. he leans over and kisses you slowly. he pulls back and is looking at you with so much love that it sends a shiver up your spine. you're already needy from your schoolgirl make-out session with utahime, and he's not helping.

"satoru," you whine.

"yeah, baby?" he asks, grinning.

"need you."

"i'm all yours." before you can process his words, he's unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning over the center console. his lips are on yours in an instant, hungry and demanding.

he unbuckles you, and his hand slips under your shirt. you arch into his touch and let a soft moan escape you. he kisses you like a man possessed, grunting softly and biting down on your bottom lip.

your breath hitches when his fingers brush against the underside of your breast. he smirks, his touch becoming more intentional. his thumb grazes your nipple and you gasp, arching into his touch.

he breaks the kiss, his breath hot against your ear. "there she is," he whispers. "let me hear those pretty noises."

you've never been able to resist him, much less in your current state. his lips trail down your neck, teeth nipping at your skin. you grip his shoulders and maneuver yourself to straddle his lap in the driver's seat. his touch is everywhere, lighting up every nerve in your body.

you feel him growing hard against your center, and it's maddening. you grind down hard against him, earning a low groan from him.

"fuck, baby," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips. "so eager for me."

you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair. you rock your hips against him, chasing the delicious friction.

he captures you in another searing kiss, his hand sliding between your bodies and rubbing slow circles against your clit, making your hips buck.

"you ruined your pretty panties, baby," he purrs, his voice low and amused. the fact that you're this wet and it's not just his doing this time turns him on.

"want you so bad, 'toru," you whine, desperate for him now.

he slips his hand inside and pushes two fingers inside you, curling them as he pumps in and out.

"so fucking messy," he huffs, his eyes fixed on yours. he feels you clenching around his fingers. "so nasty. "

you whimper as he pulls his fingers out too soon and sucks them clean, his gaze never leaving yours.

"taste so good," he mumbles, his hands returning to your hips. he pulls you closer, his cock straining against his pants. "gonna let me fuck you, princess?"

but you're already pressing the button to move the seat backward and make room for yourself. "need to taste you first," you say, sinking between his legs.

your hands fumble with his belt. you're both a little desperate now, and his usual finesse is nowhere to be found. he helps you pull down his pants, freeing his cock.

"fuck, princess," he breathes, watching as you press kisses to the head. "always so pretty for me like this."

you swirl your tongue around the head, earning a groan from him. you sink your mouth on his cock, taking him inch by inch. "shit," he hisses, his hips jerking. "feels so good."

you work your way up and down his shaft, savoring the taste of him. his cock pulses in your mouth, and when you look up at him, his eyes are dark with desire.

"you're so perfect," he strains, his grip on the console tightening, knuckles going white.

you suck harder, bobbing your head faster. you can tell he's trying to hold back, but the way his jaw is clenched makes you think he's about to bust down your throat.

"c'mere."

you pull off of him with one last teasing lick. you climb back onto his lap and sink onto him. the stretch of him is addictive, and you can't help the airy moan that escapes your lips.

"look at you," he coos, his hands resting on your hips. "you take me so well, sweetheart."

you rock your hips, his dick buried deep inside you. you feel so full, and the friction is heavenly. "love fucking you like this," he groans, his voice rough. "love watching you ride me."

he studies you intently, loving your faces and the moans that escape you.

"so beautiful," he coos, thrusting his hips to meet yours. "my perfect girl."

you whine, grinding faster. you slide both your hands across the back of his head, one removing his blindfold and the other tugging his hair lightly.

"fuck," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips. "do that again."

you pull his hair harder, earning a growl from him. he snaps his hips, driving his cock deeper, making you cry out.

you put two fingers in his mouth. the only thought in your head is that he looks so pretty like this. "suck," you order.

he looks up at you, his eyes clouded with lust. he has this lovestruck smile on his face, and you think he looks so fucking sexy with his head tilted back where you're pulling his hair and your fingers between his lips.

he swirls his tongue around your fingers, sucking and licking greedily. you watch, transfixed, as his eyes flutter closed. you feel the vibration of his groan as you push your fingers deeper.

"fuck, 'toru," you whimper, your eyes fixed on his face. "you like that?" he moans around your fingers, eyebrows furrowing, eyes closed, and hips bucking involuntarily. you want him to see what he's doing to you.

"fucking look at me," you breathe, your voice hoarse. his eyes fly open, his gaze locking with yours.

"so pretty like this," you murmur, watching as he writhes beneath you. his eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed. you rock your hips against him, and he gasps, his tightening grip sure to leave you sore.

"that's it, baby," you encourage, pulling your fingers out of his mouth. "take what you need."

he holds you up slightly and thrusts his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over. you moan loudly, your eyes fluttering closed.

"feels so good, baby," he moans, his breath hot against your ear. "so fucking wet for me."

he reaches up and places one hand around your waist, the other on the back of your neck. he brings you even closer, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. you moan into his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls back to look at you with those devastatingly beautiful eyes.

"i wanna make you cum," he purrs. "can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

your hips jerk, a low whine escaping your lips. you feel yourself teetering on the edge, your orgasm building with every thrust of his hips.

"yes," you breathe, putting your head on his shoulder and grinding down on him again. "oh god, yes."

"there we go," he coos, kissing your forehead and cradling you. "cum for me, baby."

you cry out, your body trembling. he lets you ride it out, singing praises in your ear. when your legs grow weak, his hands slide to your ass to hold you steady. sucking light marks into your neck, he begins to thrust up into you again, drawing out your orgasm.

"love you, 'toru," you whimper, arms wrapped around him now.

he whines, his movements growing erratic. "i love you, i love you," he sighs. his cock twitches inside you, his rhythm stuttering. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a loud moan as his orgasm rushes through him and into you.

he relaxes after a few moments, leaning back against the seat and taking you with him. his arms stay locked around you, grip almost possessive.

once he feels your breathing regulate against him, he lets out a little giggle, kissing the top of your head. "fuck, baby," he mumbles, a content smile spreading across his face.

you hum in response, burying your face in his neck. it takes a minute for your brain to start functioning correctly again.

"we're parked on the side of the road," you complain, reluctant to move. it's a secluded area, and the windows are deeply tinted, but still.

"let's go home," he concedes, running a hand through your hair.

you sit up and kiss him, adoration clouding your mind. he smiles into you. his eyes are full of adoration when you pull away, and your heart skips a beat.

you move off him and he hands you the roll of paper towels he keeps in his car (for this purpose, you started to suspect early in your relationship, though he never admitted it).

he puts the car in drive and pulls off once you're both ready, immediately reaching to hold your hand and rubbing circles onto it with his thumb.

+++

our girlfriend's got a hell of a stare

the sunday night air in your shared apartment is warm and familiar. everyone else has already filtered out, leaving you, satoru, and utahime.

satoru lounges on the couch, one arm draped over the armrest, his body occupying the entire length. utahime sits cross-legged in the armchair opposite him, holding a glass of wine and studying a stack of paperwork. "so, utahime," he drawls, his voice dripping with mischief, "how was girls' night? i hear it was… eventful."

utahime's lips twitch into a smirk as she raises a brow at you. "eventful? did she tell you that?"

you shoot him a glare from your spot on the floor. "subtle," you mutter, sipping your wine to buy yourself time. but satoru's gaze doesn't waver, and utahime's eyes stay fixed on yours.

satoru laughs, not a care in the world. "she might have mentioned a thing or two," he says, sitting up to rest his elbows on his knees.

"satoru," you warn, but utahime only hums, a smile tugging at her lips. she leans back in her seat, her posture relaxed, eyes locked on yours. the room's energy shifts, and you think you may be out of your depth here.

your heart stutters under the weight of her gaze. "you know," satoru begins, drawing out the words, "if we're all going to dance around this, it's going to get boring fast."

"and what are we dancing around, exactly?" she retorts. you love their back and forth, but this is making you restless.

satoru sits up and fixes his eyes on utahime, challenging her. "you and my girlfriend have been looking at each other like a pair of love-struck teenagers all day."

you groan, covering your face with your hands. "oh my god, satoru."

utahime chuckles, and you know she's not about to back down. she holds his gaze, unflinching. she leans back in her chair, the movement slow and deliberate. "he's not wrong," she says simply.

satoru smirks, pleased with himself. his eyes meet yours, and there's pride there. you roll your eyes, unable to fight the smile that creeps onto your face.

"honesty is a good look on you both," he comments.

utahime's suddenly in front of you on the floor, close enough that you can see the light flush coloring her cheeks. she reaches out, her fingers brushing yours, and the simple contact sends a spark through you. her eyes are intense, and she leans in, her lips ghosting over yours. "can i kiss you?" she asks, sounding calm.

you nod, your throat too tight to speak. she cups your cheek, grounding you, and leans in. the kiss is tentative, but the world seems to fall away when your lips meet. you want to lose yourself in her, the taste of wine on her lips, the way her fingers tangle in your hair. she tastes and smells exactly how she did a couple of days ago.

the kiss is gentle, but the desire in the room is palpable. the anticipation has been building since the moment utahime walked in the door. and now, with satoru's gaze burning into you, you feel more exposed than ever.

her lips are flushed and swollen when you pull back slightly. and satoru, the little shit, grins and sips his wine like he's enjoying a show.

"what about him?" utahime whispers, peeking over your shoulder.

you turn to look at satoru, who's watching the two of you with an expression that's equal parts amused and aroused. "what about me?" he asks. "you're doing great."

utahime huffs a soft chuckle, her attention shifting back to you. "your boyfriend is insufferable," she tells you.

you bite back a smile. the situation is absurd, yet you still find yourself drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

you lean in, closing the distance again. the kiss is ardent this time. you pull her on top of you, leaning back against the couch. you're reminded of the other night in her apartment when she straddles you.

utahime deepens the kiss, her hands roaming over your body. her touch is electric, lighting up every nerve ending. she trails kisses down your neck, and her hands find their way under your shirt, fingertips ghosting over your skin. you gasp, arching into her touch. satoru lets out a low whistle, the sound making you shiver. the idea of him watching you two makes you dizzy with want.

you reach for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head. you find the bare skin of her waist and lower back with your hands. her lips return to yours, the kiss insistent now.

satoru sighs, his eyes full of desire. "such a pretty picture."

utahime's lips curve into a sinful smile, trailing her tongue along your jawline. "i bet he loves watching," she whispers so that only you can hear. the heat of her voice in your ear makes you keen.

you cup her face with a gentle hand and press your mouth to the side of her neck, kissing her the way you know she likes. you press your lips down her neck, across her collarbone, and down her chest. her breathing is heavy, her sounds becoming needier. you pause at the swell of her breast, glancing up at her.

"keep going," she says, her voice breathy. you shift your weight to lay her back, and satoru, helpful as ever, places a pillow on the ground right before her head can land. you pause to glance at him, and his face is flushed, his eyes dark with desire, but he resumes his place on the couch.

you turn back to utahime, kissing and licking and sucking down her stomach. you can't help but take your time, savoring the feeling of her skin beneath your lips.

when you reach the waistband of her pants, she lifts her hips, allowing you to slide them down her legs. you leave her underwear on, teasing her by kissing the skin just above the band. she lets out a slight whine, her hands gripping the pillow.

"more," she breathes, her hips bucking. you comply, slipping a finger underneath the fabric and tugging it down.

your heart is pounding, and the air is thick with anticipation. the sight of her spread out in front of you is hot. you kiss her inner thigh, and the skin is warm and soft. she inhales sharply.

you look up, and she looks ruined, her eyes dark and her lids heavy. she's watching you with bated breath and swollen lips.

you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to her center. she gasps, her hips bucking. you swirl your tongue, earning a moan from her. the sound sends a shiver through you, and you continue to lap and suck at her.

you reach up and tease a nipple between your fingers, making her arch into the touch. you can't help but think that you just want to give her what she wants. you move a hand down and let your fingers slide between her folds. she lets out another strangled moan, her hips rocking.

you hear a low groan from the couch and glance over to see satoru with a hand in his pants, his eyes fixed on the two of you. he gives you a wink and a debauched grin, his tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.

you turn back to utahime, pushing a finger into her slowly. she gasps, head thrown back, hands fisting the pillow. "so beautiful," you breathe out.

"more, please, fuck," she pants, her voice strained. you comply, adding another finger and picking up the pace. she lets out a long moan, her hips bucking against your hand. you're lost in her. you lean down, licking and sucking at her clit. you can't get enough.

you let out a groan and focus on keeping your movements steady. her hips jerk against your mouth. "so good, fuck, so good," she chants.

"fuck, princess," you hear satoru breathe from the couch, his voice thick with desire. the sound makes you clench around nothing. "so fucking sexy," he murmurs, his fingers wrapped tight around his cock.

you curl your fingers, hitting the spot that makes her writhe beneath you. her moans are loud and unrestrained, and the sounds she's making are enough to drive you wild. you look up, locking eyes with utahime, mouth still on her. her eyes are glazed, her lips are parted.

you love the way her walls flex around your fingers. she's close. you lick and suck at her clit, picking up the pace of your fingers a bit. it's all you can do to hold on as she fucks your face and squeezes your head between her thighs.

"yes, yes, yes," she cries, her voice breaking. her entire body trembles and the sound of her coming apart is nearly enough to send you over the edge. her body convulses as you moan into her, her orgasm slamming through her.

"oh god, oh god, oh fuck," she chants, her grip on your head tightening. you pull your fingers away, squeezing her thighs reassuringly and giving her soft licks over her clit and hole.

after a moment, her grip relaxes, her body going slack. you press one last kiss to her clit before moving up to place a small kiss on her lips. she whines when she tastes herself on you.

satoru is sitting up now, his hand still wrapped around himself, watching intently. utahime turns to look at him, her eyes hazed with lust. she gives him her most mischievous grin before turning back to you. she reaches out and kisses you again, slow, sensual, and wet. satoru lets out a wistful sigh. you pull away from the kiss and look up at him. he looks like he's ready to burst.

"can you stop touching yourself for me, 'toru?" you ask innocently. he swallows hard, his hand slowing. "anything for you, princess," he rasps, his voice strained.

you watch him adjust himself as you stand and move over to him. you lean down over the armrest and put your fingers in his mouth, the same ones you just fucked utahime with. his eyes flutter closed and he whimpers quietly, his tongue swirling around your fingers.

"look at him," you request, facing utahime. she's sprawled on the floor, but her eyes are locked on the two of you. "he's so good for me," you say, pleased. you remove your fingers and kiss his lips softly. he whines, his fingers digging into the couch. you can see his dick jump under his boxers.

"fuck," he breathes, his voice desperate. "i need—"

you smile, tracing fingers down his hard chest. "i know what you need, baby," you tell him. "let's go to bed."

satoru nods, his breathing labored. you help utahime off the floor, leading her to your bedroom, satoru following. she makes herself comfortable on your side of the bed. you hope it smells like her later. satoru grabs the hem of his shirt and tugs it off. "so eager," utahime comments, amused.

he flashes her a grin, his eyes glowing. "you have no idea."

he leans down, holding your face and capturing your lips in a searing kiss. you pull away, looking up at him. his face is flushed, his eyes full of desire.

"on the bed," you tell him, a thrill going through you at the sound of your own voice. satoru wastes no time, laying himself out on the empty side of your bed.

you turn back to satoru and crawl onto the bed. his eyes follow your every movement, his hands reaching for you. you lean down, kissing him deeply.

"are you gonna be good for me, baby?" you ask, pulling away and looking down at him. he nods with wide eyes. "use your words," you demand, pushing his hair away from his eyes.

"yes," he keens, his voice shaky.

you smile, trailing a hand over his biceps, his chest, his abs. "what do you want, satoru?"

he lets out a groan, his hips bucking. "want your mouth," he breathes. you smirk, leaning down to kiss his neck. "where?"

"my cock," he chokes out, his eyes fluttering closed.

you smile at him, moving lower. you tease the waistband of his boxers and he groans, lifting his hips.

you pull them down, taking a moment to appreciate the sight before you. he's so gorgeous, and his cock is straining against his stomach, the tip leaking.

"fuck," utahime blurts, her eyes roaming over his body.

you run your fingers over his length, a thrill going through you. he moans, his hips rocking. you wrap your hand around his cock, giving it a few strokes. he's always so sensitive for you.

you lean down and press a kiss to his tip. a strangled moan escapes him when you swirl your tongue to clean up the precum you find there.

his hands find their way into your hair as you sink your mouth onto him. he's moaning and panting, his hips rocking against your mouth.

the sounds he's making are vulgar. you love the weight of his dick in your mouth. you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper.

"yes, fuck, yes," he moans, his grip on your hair tightening. he's thrusting his hips now, the sensation overwhelming.

you pull away with ragged breaths. "not yet," you tell him, kissing the tip of his cock. he whines, his hips bucking.

utahime sits up, leaning closer to watch. "she's such a tease," she says, sounding delighted at his struggle.

satoru chuckles, his breathing labored. "tell me about it."

you giggle, kissing the side of his cock. "be patient, baby."

"please, princess," he breathes.

"you're so good for me, 'toru," you praise, licking a stripe up his length. he shudders.

you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, licking and sucking up the sides. he moans, his back arching.

the sight of him is breathtaking.

satoru looks at you, his eyes full of want. "need to cum, fuck," he chokes out.

"what's the magic word, baby?" you ask smoothly, pressing a kiss to his tip again.

"please, please," he sighs, his voice rough.

you smile, taking him back into your mouth. you relax your throat and bob your head for him, and he thrusts his hips. "yes, yes, yes," he moans, his voice breaking. "gonna cum," he warns, his eyes closing.

he's moaning and panting, hips bucking. "gonna cum, fuck, gonna cum," he chokes out.

he thrusts, hands gripping the sheets. "fuck, fuck, fuck," he groans. his entire body goes tense, and his hips jerk erratically. he lets out a series of loud moans, sending his orgasm down your throat in spurts. you swallow, his cum hot on your tongue.

you pull away, panting. satoru looks wrecked, his hair mussed, his face flushed. his breathing is heavy, his eyes closed, and his head thrown back against the headboard. you sit up, eyes on him. "so beautiful," you remark, reaching out and running a hand through his hair. he leans into the touch, a lazy smile tugging at his lips when you kiss him.

utahime shifts on the bed, and you look over at her. her gaze is hungry, her lips parted. she moves closer when you sit back. she begins kissing down your jaw. you tilt your head back for her when she starts roaming her hands over your body. "so pretty," she praises, her hand reaching to cup your breast. a thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can't help but lean into the touch.

"touch me," you murmur, the words escaping before you can stop them.

she smiles at you. "i can do that," she says. she reaches down, her fingers ghosting over where you need her. you whine for her. she leans in and kisses you.

you wrap your arms around her and pull her flush against you. you can't get enough. you moan into the kiss before breaking it, tugging your shirt over your head. she moves her attention to your neck and you can't help but let out a soft moan, tilting your head back. her teeth graze the skin of your throat, sending heat to your core.

she moves lower, lips tracing a line down your chest. she pauses to look up at you with a mischievous smile. tugging your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion, her eyes roam over your body. "god, you're gorgeous," she breathes, leaning in and sucking on your bottom lip.

you tangle a hand into her hair. a hand finds its way back between your legs, her fingers teasing at your entrance. you let out a whine. she smirks, slipping a finger inside. "so wet," she notes, curling her finger.

"please," you whisper, your voice hoarse.

she adds another finger, her movements unhurried. "so impatient," she replies, her breath searing against your ear. your grip on her hair tightens, and she moans softly.

"fuck, 'hime," you gasp, your hips bucking as she thrusts. the heel of her palm brushes against your clit, sending a jolt through you. her lips move down your neck again, her teeth grazing your skin.

utahime pulls her hand back, making you pout. she throws one leg over yours, and the sensation of her slick against your cunt makes you wanna cry. when she starts grinding, the friction makes you gasp. "oh my god," you whimper, your head falling back.

satoru smiles at you, and you look at him. "so beautiful," you hear, but you don't think he even knows he said it out loud.

"look at me," utahime demands, catching your face and turning it in her direction.

you lift your gaze and lock eyes with her. her expression is full of lust. you move your hands to her hips, pushing and pulling just to keep feeling the glide of her slick cunt against yours.

she lets out a loud moan, head falling back and hands cupping her breasts as you continue to grind her against yourself, increasing your pace. you think you'll get addicted to this, to her, if you're not careful. utahime whines needily, her body trembling on you. "don't stop," she mewls, her hips moving in time with yours.

the scene is filthy. satoru is panting, his eyes fixed on the two of you. his cock is half-hard, his eyes filled with lust. he's sitting closer to you now, studying your movements but not touching.

utahime's moans grow louder, her movements more erratic. "don't stop, don't stop, please don't stop," she chants, her hips rocking.

your heart is racing, your body tensing. "so close," you sigh, your voice ragged.

she leans forward, capturing your lips in a messy kiss. you moan into her mouth, your hips rocking. "so fucking close," she gasps, her voice thick with desire.

"come for me, 'hime," you plead into her mouth.

she lets out a piercing moan, her body going taut. her entire frame shudders, and her eyes squeeze shut. her orgasm crashes over her, and you can feel the way her cunt flutters over yours.

you're right there with her, your orgasm taking you. you moan and grind your hips against her, your head falling back. utahime lets out a whimper as she collapses onto you.

satoru's eyes are wide, his breathing heavy.

utahime rolls over onto the bed next to you after a moment, her chest heaving. "fuck," she exhales, her face flushed.

you nod, your breathing labored. the room is quiet, the only sound the rustle of sheets. satoru hands you a bottle of water, which you accept gratefully. you share with utahime, who's still trying to catch her breath.

you take a moment to admire her, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her face flushed. she looks gorgeous, and you'd like to remember this. she catches you staring, a smirk tugging at her lips. "see something you like?"

you nod, smiling back. you take some time to catch your breath, and then satoru leans in, placing a kiss on your forehead.

"you trust me?" he asks you quietly, his voice husky. you nod curiously, not trusting your voice.

"wanna try something," he murmurs, looking at utahime now.

she raises an eyebrow at him, her eyes dancing. it's that same look satoru gets when he's up to something, and it's making your heart rate spike all over again.

satoru grins, bringing his lips to your ear. "turn around," he whispers.

you turn, an arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you against him. he leans the both of you slightly backward, sitting on his calves, and utahime kneels in front of you, her lips finding yours.

you can't help but melt into her immediately. her hands find their way into your hair, tugging gently. satoru kisses down your neck. the sensation is electrifying, and you let out a soft moan.

utahime leans down to pull your nipple into her mouth and satoru shifts, his length sliding between your legs. you're sensitive, unable to hold your gasp in. "good?" he whispers into your ear, holding you close against him.

"so good," you whine, arching into him.

satoru groans, his hips rocking. his cock rubs against your folds, the sensation driving you wild. "so fucking wet."

utahime's tongue swirls around your nipple. the feeling is indescribable. you try not to lose your mind.

satoru moves his cock, the tip pressing against your entrance. you whine, your hips bucking.

utahime moves south, kissing down your stomach. she stops just in front of your cunt, her eyes finding his. you're entirely at their mercy, the sensation consuming you.

a wicked smile tugs at her lips. "together," she tells him.

you feel satoru nod against you, his grip on you tightening. he thrusts his hips, his cock sinking into you. you cry out at the stretch as utahime draws your clit into her mouth, swirling around the sensitive bud. you feel so full, and it's taking all your resolve not to lose yourself here.

"fuck, princess," satoru groans, his fingers digging into your skin.

utahime sucks on your clit and the combination of sensations is driving you insane. you can feel yourself losing control, the sensation too much to handle.

"oh, god, please," you gasp, your hips rocking. utahime runs lithe fingers over the outline of satoru's dick at your entrance, making him drop his head onto your shoulder.

"not yet," satoru growls, his voice thick with lust. he raises a hand to your throat, squeezing lightly.

you cry out, your eyes rolling back and fluttering closed. "please, please," you whine, the sensation driving you wild. you're not even sure what you're begging for.

utahime pulls away, and you can't help but pout. she laughs airily as she kneels back on the bed and gets in your face.

satoru pulls out and slides back in at a torturous pace. he presses a kiss to your cheek and then uses one hand to tilt your head toward utahime. "look at her, princess," he commands, voice tense.

you look up to find her breathing heavily, her face flushed. you reach for her, tears welling in your eyes. you pull her into a messy kiss, your hips rocking.

"you're so good," satoru hums, sounding strained. he's moving faster now, hitting the perfect spot. "you're so fucking good."

utahime groans, reaching between the two of you to play with your slick. "fuck, fuck, fuck," you gasp, your body going tense.

"you like that, pretty?" utahime questions, her voice laced with desire. you nod, your eyes rolling back.

satoru tightens his grip on your throat when utahime presses a chaste kiss to your lips, then your cheek, and then behind you to satoru's lips. you watch them, and the sight draws a sound out of you that you didn't even know you were capable of.

"i can feel how close she is," he warns against her lips, his voice dripping with lust.

utahime pulls away, a mischievous smile on her lips. "then let her come," she breathes.

the fact that they're talking about you like you're not even in the room makes you want to let go. "oh god, oh god, oh my god," you cry. satoru groans, snapping his hips. his cock hits the perfect spot, and you can feel your orgasm building.

"come for us, baby," utahime murmurs, moving back down to press kisses to your pretty pussy and see the way it flexes around satoru. it sets you off, and you cry out to them, the earth stuttering on its axis as your orgasm shocks you.

your legs are shaking as utahime sucks on your clit, her tongue swirling. your walls squeeze tight around satoru's cock, and you hear her let out a hum.

satoru's fucking you through it, his hips moving faster. you start to dissolve, and the sensation is almost too much, drool escaping your mouth. you can't even remember to feel embarrassed.

he's thrusting harder, his grip on you tightening. he leans in, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. satoru moans, his cock pulsing. "fuck, fuck," he chokes out, his hips stuttering. his goes still suddenly and his entire body goes tense, his cock twitching inside of you. "fuck, so fucking perfect, i love you, i love you," he babbles, strong arms wrapping around you.

your heart is racing, and your breathing is ragged. utahime pulls away, a smug smile on her lips. she comes up to give you a small kiss, breath heavy, face flushed. "so perfect," she parrots, her hand caressing your cheek.

you lean into her touch, a lazy smile tugging at your lips, eyelids drooping.

satoru nuzzles your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin. you can't help but giggle, the sensation ticklish. "so good for us, princess," he mumbles.

utahime lets out a content sigh as she lies back, her eyes closing. you yawn, your body softening.

satoru pulls out, making you whine. he chuckles as he sets you down next to utahime. "be right back," he murmurs, his fingers swiping over your cheek.

you nod, too exhausted to even ask him to stay.

satoru gets up and heads to the bathroom, the sound of running water following.

utahime rolls on her side, her hand finding yours.

"good?" she asks, her eyes fluttering open.

you nod, still catching your breath. "you?"

she nods back at you with an endearing smile.

satoru returns, two wet towels in hand. he takes a seat next to you, handing one to utahime. he leans down and presses a kiss on your cheek.

"you did so good," he says, a faint smile on his lips as he cleans you up.

none of you speak for a while, but the silence isn't heavy. you all lay there, your head resting on satoru's bicep while you play with utahime's hair.

after a while, satoru speaks. "i didn't know you could be this quiet, 'hime," he says, amusement coloring his tone.

utahime rolls her eyes, her gaze flicking over to him. "i'm just enjoying the moment. this is nice," she says.

he grins, his eyes twinkling. "nice? utahime, i'd say this is revolutionary."

she throws him a withering glare, her nose wrinkling. "you'd call a walk in the park revolutionary if it suited you."

satoru shrugs, not denying the accusation.

utahime rolls her eyes at him, but there's a softness to her expression that you haven't seen before. "you're impossible," she tells him, though her tone has no venom.

"and yet, here you are," satoru quips, leaning back and sighing cheerfully. "admit it, 'hime. you've grown fond of me."

she scoffs, but the corner of her mouth twitches upward. "don't push your luck, gojo."

you smile. "i'm just glad you two can be in the same room without outright arguing for once."

satoru hums thoughtfully. "oh, we'll argue. just not tonight."

"not tonight," utahime agrees, her voice soft.

[zihua-art]

A tiefling’s best friends ~ Xerxes and his actual fave Companions: Scratch and owlbear cub 💙🐕🦉💙

Commissions on HOLIDAY SALE open

Name: Xerxes

Race/class: draconic tiefling sorcerer

Gender/sex: (cis) male

Age: late 20s

Background: This tiefling is probably one of the friendliest you’ll meet - coz he really loves to make friends! He’s generally nice and morally good, wanting to help people as much as he can, buuuut occasionally willing to break a few eggs to make omelettes. He doesn’t try to go on a murderous rampage if he can help it, but when opportunity strikes, he’ll take it - then loot it all! But Xerxes won’t do stuff simply for the money or glory, he just wouldn’t say no if you offer it 😂

He adores animals very much and will take every opportunity to play with and pet his furry and feathered buds whenever he returns to camp. His companions have gotten used to hearing “Who’s a good boy~? Yes you are, Scratch! Aww, you’re so sweet, little owlbear! You brought a wonderful gift again, thank you~” every night, but it’s endearing to hear such friendly, playful words coming from his low yet gentle voice.

He’s strong leaning towards gay (pref for men and masc presenting/leaning people) BUT Karlach seems to have won his heart as the exception! Xerxes finds his fellow tiefling very adorable and sweet, her energetic personality very contagious, and he just loves her little fidgety dances. She always gets a smile from him when they talk and he loves seeing her eyes light up in happiness from good stuff, so he tries to keep that light shining always. He’s nice to all his companions, but he especially cares for Karlach. As of right now, even if the future’s unclear for the two of them as a pair, Xerxes would be happy with whatever times he can get to spend with his heart 💙🔥

-

Ahh BG3, the one thing my entire household of 4 loves haha 😌 With good reason! This game is a gem for even me, who doesn’t game much at all yet has gotten very deep into the characters and world - and of course, as an OC creator, the character designing hehe~

This Tav is my partner’s, so I can’t go into a ton of detail on his backstory but everything is based off what I’ve observed during playthroughs (and headcanons lol) I am kinda curious about what my other housemates have for theirs, but I’m currently at the point where I’m mostly interested in the design *coughilikeattractivecharacterscough* so I’m not entirely up to draw a Tav if it’s more meme’d (like my one mate made a literal Oompa Loompa 🤣🤣🤣) soooo this is technically fanart for my partner because Xerxes is hot (but also a sweetheart 😌) haha

It’s funny how contrasting Xerxes is with my character Areum lol (who’s not me btw, I like to see how my OCs would fare in BG3 with their personalities rather than playing as my chaotic self 🤣). I was remarking with my partner how kinda opposite they are. Xerxes being a tiefling may seem intimidating at first (and he’s tall!), but he’s a softie, loves animals, is morally good, and his expressions are usually neutral and accurate to the situation. He looks generally friendly out of combat. Meanwhile, my Areum being a (half) elf may appear as not scary for her race, but while she is morally good, she often has resting b*tch face haha. Her few times smiling or wide-eyed curiousity are so cute I’m like why can’t you look like that more often instead of seeming judgy of everything and everyone even when they’re your friends 😭😭 I blame her father for the genetics, I canNOT get that man to smile without a gigantic bribe 🥲😂

I do wanna draw our Tavs together sometime 🤔 Wonder how Areum would feel about this social tiefling hehe~ But I’m sure Xerxes will enjoy meeting her - and especially her feathery siblings ☺️

[stars4noah]

HALLEY'S COMET- seven.

{WARNINGS}: swearing, wee bit of arguing, LOVE CONFESSION YAY

w.c- 1,379

a.n- SURPRISEEEE SHAWTAYYY!

{TAGLIST}: @lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @chey-h @rumoured-whispers @oobleoob @dontwantthemoney @n0n3xsisting

i sat in my bunk for the rest of the night, trying to fall asleep but i couldn't. instead, i drew in my notebook and wrote down the occasional lyric that popped into my mind.

fuck. this was going to be good.

READER'S POV.

today was another day, which meant yet another unbearable show with noah. i decided to make the most of it, though. i wasn't going to let anything bring me down.

he'd been in a bitchy mood all day, but it really wasn't my place to investigate or stick my nose where it didn't belong. instead, i walked around the arena as i fiddled with my camera, adjusting the settings and making sure it was ready for the show tonight. like always, i wasn't paying a lick of attention to where i was going. despite that, i could feel noah's eyes on me. staring me down like a hawk.

before i knew it, he was approaching me with that scowl on his face.

"why are you so happy today? it's making me sick." he spat.

i raised an eyebrow, stopping in my tracks and looking up at him. "why are you so grumpy?"

"doesn't matter. do you have to be so happy all the time? it's getting on my nerves."

"yes, because unlike someone here, i actually enjoy life." i countered.

"i enjoy life, thank you very much." he said, looking down at me as he crossed his arms. "i just hate hearing you hum and seeing you wandering around like a lost puppy. you're gonna drive me into insanity."

"right." i said, looking back down at my camera.

"why can't you just be miserable like the rest of us?" noah mumbled as he moved closer to me. he was practically towering over me at this point, being at least a foot taller than me.

"not everybody is as miserable as you." i corrected. "and i prefer to focus on the good parts of life rather than the bad."

"what if there aren't any good parts?" he asked. he was being serious, he always saw the world in a negative view. he hated the way things were going, and i could tell.

i raised an eyebrow. "don't sound so miserable. there's not one good part in your life?" i asked.

he rolled his eyes. "it's called depression, sweetheart. ever heard of it?"

"course i have, idiot. what about your parents?"

noah rolled his eyes again. "you think they care? they're part of the reason i ended up like this."

"okay... what about your friends?"

he sighed, looking over at folio, nicholas, and jolly. "i mean— my bandmates are fine. they just don't know how to read a person."

he pointed to folio. "he's too damn happy." he pointed to nicholas. "he doesn't understand sarcasm half the time." he pointed to jolly. "and he's the sweetest guy that you'll ever meet. too damn sweet. "they don't know what I'm going through, or what I'm feeling."

"then tell them." i suggested. "nobody's gonna know what you're going through or if you need help if you keep it bottled up inside all the time."

noah scoffed. "seriously? telling my feelings will make me look weak. they wont understand, anyways. i'll just sound stupid and dramatic."

i furrowed my brows, crossing my arms. "that's not true. you're not stupid or dramatic for asking for help."

he sighed and looked at me again. "you don't know anything about me, okay? you don't know what i'm going through. what i've been through."

"oh, i wonder why? maybe because you refuse to talk about it. grow up, noah. i'm trying to help you, and you're blatantly pushing me away and refusing it." i scoffed.

he frowned deeply. "i am grown. and i didn't ask for your help anyways."

"yes, you're grown physically. mentally? no."

he scowled. "and who are you to tell me these things? you don't know what's going on in my head. don't act like you know me."

"i'm not. i'm trying to help you. let me help you for once." i said, my eyes softening. i knew he was hurting, i knew he was in pain. but i couldn't do anything about it if he didn't let me in.

"well i don't want your help." he snapped back. "i don't need you or your shitty advice. i'm fine on my own."

i shrugged, trying to pretend his words didn't hurt me. "okay." i said, walking off just like that. he didn't want my help? he wouldn't have it.

i could hear him call my name for me to come back, but i ignored him. i was tired and hungry and really not in the mood to deal with his bullshit.

before i knew it, he was coming up behind me, grabbing my wrist. i sighed, turning around. "what?"

he looked at the ground, biting his lip. "i didn't mean it.." he said.

i furrowed my brows. "which part?"

"um.. everything, actually."

i was beyond confused. what the hell was he talking about? he took a deep breath, and i could tell shit was about to go down.

NOAH'S POV.

i stood in front of her, looking at the ground. i knew that if i looked at her, her eyes would be all it took for me to spill everything i ever thought. which i ended up making the mistake of doing. my breath caught in my throat as i looked at her.

"Y/N, i... fuck how do i say this?" i mumbled, running a hand over my face.

"spit it out, noah. i don't have all day."

i took a deep breath, looking back at her. "the real reason i broke it off with bailey.. it because i'm in love with someone else. i knew that bailey couldn't give me what i wanted. she couldn't give me the life i wanted to live, the happiness i know i deserve." i said.

"and how does this come back to me?" she asked.

"you're that someone else." i said.

she froze, looking at me with wide eyes. fuck. i just messed it all up. all because i couldn't keep my mouth shut and i just had to tell her how i felt. good job noah, now you just ruined everything.

which is what i thought before i felt her lips on mine.

oh.

oh.

she feels the same.

i melted into the kiss, my eyes closing as i gently cradled her face. i knew i didn't deserve this. i didn't deserve her love or her patience or anything about her. how could i? i'd been nothing but a huge dick to her for years. how could she ever feel the same?

she pulled away and i looked down at her, breathing slightly heavy. "how..."

"because i know you, noah. i know you never meant to hurt anybody. you just didn't know any better. you didn't know how to confront these feelings. you were confused. and that's okay. it's okay." she said softly.

i could feel tears well in my eyes, and for the first time in a while, i didn't feel so alone. i felt loved. i felt happy. i knew that this was what i wanted for the rest of my life. to be with her. to be loved by her. maybe a marriage and a few kids to top it all off.

woah, too fast.

i took a deep breath, wrapping my arms around her in a tight hug. "thank you.." i whispered.

"for what?" she asked.

"for loving me, despite how i treated you."

she pulled away with that smile i loved oh so much, cradling my face. "don't thank me. thank yourself for deciding to open up. you don't have to be scared, noah. i'm not her." she said softly, and that just made me tear up even more.

i knew she wasn't bailey. bailey couldn't even compare to the way Y/N made me feel. but the reassurance was the only thing i needed to be so sure about the way i felt.

i loved her. and i needed her. more than i needed air.

"now come on," she began. "we have a show to get ready for. then we can pick up right where we left off."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Good morning, Sleepyhead.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[demaparbat-hp]

How does that first encounter go down between them in your Spitfire AU? I imagine some real conflicting emotions on all sides!

I would love to hear you ramble!! ❤️

*cracks knuckles* Alright, let's do this.

As far as the world is concerned, Lu Ten II doesn't exist and the Royal Bloodline ends with Princess Azula. The little kid that follows Prince Zuko everywhere? That's Ten Ten, an orphaned stowaway his Crew found and adopted for some weird reason no-one ever questions—the kid is just that lovable.

(It helps, honestly, that Lu Ten II is a carbon-copy of poor, forgotten Ursa. No one would ever think to connect him with Fire Lord Ozai, long may he reign.)

Little Ten Ten loves to run off when the Crew is on shore leave. He gets into trouble sometimes, but only because of his chronic inability to look away from people who need help (it makes Zuzu both so proud and so shouty-because-he's-worried. It's fun until it isn't).

By now the Crew knows not to panic when the kid goes missing for a couple of hours in a harbor town—which is why no one noticed Ten Ten's disappearance until it was too late.

"Could someone please explain to me," what starts as a mutter becomes a shout as anxiety takes over Sokka, "why on earth did we go into town to buy necessary, highly specific supplies, and returned—not only with a stolen waterbending scroll—stolen! From pirates, Katara!—but with a Fire Nation-looking KID?!"

While Ten Ten is having the time of his life goofing with Aang, out-sassing why-is-this-happening-to-me Sokka, and melting Katara's heart—Zuko is losing his mind, sanity, and temper because how on Agni's name do you lose a Prince of your nation?

But, sir, he's like three-feet-tall—

HOW, JEE?!

Needless to say, the pirates kidnap the pretty waterbending thief and her kid with the sharp tongue and fancy-looking clothes. Which turns out to be a Bad Idea™ because, well, a skinny guy from the watertribes and his way-too-young-to-be-bald companion? They can absolutely deal with them.

A Crew's worth of murderous Fire Nation soldiers lead by the unforgiving, terrifying, bloodthirsty Prince?

They are not ready for that.

[neverendingford]

.

[luveline]

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

Things between you and Peter change with the seasons. [17k] 

c: friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, loneliness, peter parker isn’t good at hiding his alter ego, fluff, first kisses, mutual pining, loved-up epilogue, mention of self-harm with no graphic imagery

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

Fall 

Peter Parker is a resting place for overworked eyes, like warm topaz nestled against a blue-cold city. He waits on you with his eyes to the screen of his phone, clicking the power button repetitively. A nervous tic. 

You close the heavy door of your apartment building. His head stays still, yet he’s heard the sound of it settling, evidence in his calmed hand. 

“Good morning!” You pull your coat on quickly. “Sorry.” 

“Good morning,” he says, offering a sleep-logged smile. “Should we go?” 

You follow Peter out of the cul-de-sac and into the street as he drops his phone into a deep pocket. To his credit, he doesn’t check it while you walk, and only glances at it when you’re taking your coat off in the heat of your favourite cafe: The Moroccan Mode glows around you, fog kissing the windows, condensation running down the inner lengths of it in beads. You murmur something to do with the odd fog and Peter tells you about water vapour. When it rains tonight, he says it’ll be warm water that falls. 

He spreads his textbook, notebook, and rinky-dink laptop out across the table while you order drinks. Peter has the same thing every visit, a decaf americano, in a wide brim mug with the pink-petal saucer. You put it down on his textbook only because that’s where he would put it himself, and you both get to work. 

As Peter helps you study, you note the simplicity of another normal day, and can’t help wondering what it is that’s missing. Something is, something Peter won’t tell you, the absence of a truth hanging over your heads. You ask him if he wants to get dinner and he says no, he’s busy. You ask him to see a movie on Friday night and he wishes he could. 

Peter misses you. When he tells you, you believe him. “I wish I had more time,” he says. 

“It’s fine,” you say, “you can’t help it.”

“We’ll do something next weekend,” he says. The lie slips out easily. 

To Peter it isn’t a lie. In his head, he’ll find the time for you again, and you’ll be friends like you used to be. 

You press the end of your pencil into your cheek, the dark roast, white paper and condensation like grey noise. This time last year, the air had been thick for days with fog you could cut. He took you on a trip to Manhattan, less than an hour from your red-brick neighbourhood, and you spent the day in a hotel pool throwing great cupfuls of water at each other. The fog was gone just fifteen miles away from home but the warm air stayed. When it rained it was sudden, strange, spit-warm splashes of it hammering the tops of your heads, your cheeks as you tipped your faces back to spy the dark clouds. 

Peter had swam the short distance to you and held your shoulders. You remember feeling like your whole life was there, somewhere you’d never been before, the sharp edges of cracked pool tile just under your feet. 

You peek over the top of your laptop screen and wonder if Peter ever thinks of that trip. 

He feels you watching and meets your eyes. “I have to tell you something,” he says, smiling shyly. 

“Sure.” 

“I signed us up for that club.” 

“Epigenetics?” 

“Molecular medicine,” he says. 

The nice thing about fog is that it gives a feeling of lateness. It’s still morning, barely ten, but it feels like the early evening. It’s gentle on the eyes, colouring the whole room with a sconced shine. You reach for Peter’s bag and sort through his jumble of possessions —stick deodorant, loose-leaf paper, a bodega’s worth of protein bars— and grab his camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m cataloguing the moment you ruined our lives,” you say, aiming the camera at his chin, squinting through the viewfinder. 

“Technically, I signed us up a few days ago,” he says. 

You snap his photo as his mouth closes around ‘ago’, keeping his half-laugh stuck on his lips. “Semantics,” you murmur. “And molecular medicine club, this has nothing to do with the estranged Gwen Stacy?”

“It has nothing to do with her. And you like molecular medicine.”

“I like oncology,” you correct, which is a sub-genre at best, “and I have enough work without joining another club. Go by yourself.” 

“I can’t go without you,” he says. Simple as that. 

He knew you’d say yes when he signed you up. It’s why he didn’t ask. You’re already forgiven him for the slight of assumption. 

“When is it?” you ask, smiling. 

—

Molecular medicine club is fun. You and a handful of ESU nerds gather around a big table in a private study room for a few hours and read about the newer discoveries and top research, like regenerative science and now taboo Oscorp research. It’s boring, sometimes, but then Peter will lean into your side and make a joke to keep you going. 

He looks at Gwen Stacy a lot. Slender, pale and freckled, with blonde hair framing a sweet face. Only when he thinks you’re not looking. Only when she isn’t either. 

—

“Good morning,” you say. 

Peter holds an umbrella over his head that he’s quick to share with you, and together you walk with heads craned down, the umbrella angled forward to fight the wind. Your outermost shoulder is wet when you reach the café, your other warm from being pressed against him. You shake the umbrella off outside the door and step onto a cushy, amber doormat to dry your sneakers. Peter stalks ahead and order the drinks, eager to get warm, so you look for a table. Your usual is full of businessmen drinking flat whites with briefcases at their legs. They laugh. You try to picture Peter in a suit: you’re still laughing when he finds you in the booth at the back. 

“Tell the joke,” he says, slamming his coffee down. He’s careful with yours. He’s given you the pink petal saucer from the side next to the straws and wooden stirrers. 

“I was thinking about you as a businessman.” 

“And that’s funny?” 

“When was the last time you wore a suit?” 

Peter shakes his head. Claims he doesn’t know. Later, you’ll remember his Uncle Ben’s funeral and feel queasy with guilt, but you don’t remember yet. “When was the last time you wore one?” he asks. “I don’t laugh at you.” 

“You’re always laughing at me, Parker.” 

The cafe isn’t as warm today. It’s wet, grimy water footsteps tracking across the terracotta tile, streaks of grey water especially heavy near the counter, around it to the bathroom. There’s no fog but a sad rattle of rain, not enough to make noise against the windows, but enough to watch as it falls in lazy rivulets down the lengths of them.

Your face is chapped with the cold, cheeks quickly come to heat as your fingers curl around your mug. They tingle with newfound warmth. When you raise your mug to your lips, your hand hardly shakes.

“You okay?” Peter asks. 

“Fine. Are you gonna help me with the math today?” 

“Don’t think so. Did you ask nicely?” 

“I did.” You’d called him last night. You would’ve just as happily submitted your homework poorly solved with the grade to prove it —you don’t want Peter’s help, you just wanted to see him. 

Looking at him now, you remember why his distance had felt a little easier. The rain tangles in his hair, damp strands curling across his forehead, his eyes dark and outfitted by darker eyelashes. Peter has the looks of someone you’ve seen before, a classical set to his nose and eyes reminiscent of that fallen angel weeping behind his arm, his russet hair in fiery disarray. There was an anger to Peter after Ben died that you didn’t recognise, until it was Peter, changed forever and for the worse and it didn’t matter —he was grieving, he was terrified, who were you to tell him to be nice again— until it started to get better. You see less of your fallen, angry angel, no harsh brush strokes, no tears. 

His eyes are still dark. Bruised often underneath, like he’s up late. If he is, it isn’t to talk to you. 

You spend an afternoon working through your equations, pretending to understand until Peter explains them to death. His earphones fall out of his pocket and he says, “Here, I’ll show you a song.” 

He walks you home. The song is dreary and sad. The man who sings is good. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. It feels like Peter’s trying to tell you something —he isn’t, but it feels like wishing he would. 

“You okay?” you ask before you can get to your street. A minute away, less. 

“I’m fine, why?” 

You let the uncomfortable shape of his earbud fall out of your ear, the climax of the song a rattle on his chest. “You look tired, that’s all. Are you sleeping?” 

“I have too much to do.” 

You just don’t get it. “Make sure you’re eating properly. Okay?” 

His smile squeezes your heart. Soft, the closest you’ll ever get. “You know May,” he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulders to give you a short hug, “she wouldn’t let me go hungry. Don’t worry about me.” 

—

The dip into depression you take is predictable. You can’t help it. Peter being gone makes it worse. 

You listen to love songs and take long walks through the city, even when it’s dark and you know it’s a bad idea. If anything bad happens Spider-Man could probably save me, you think. New York’s not-so-new vigilante keeps a close eye on things, especially the women. You can’t count how many times you’ve heard the same story. A man followed me home, saw me across the street, tried to get into my apartment, but Spider-Man saved me. 

You’re not naive, you realise the danger of walking around without protection assuming some stranger in a mask will save you, but you need to get out of the house. It goes on for weeks. 

You walk under streetlights and past stores with CCTV, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re not thinking. You feel sick and heavy and it’s fine, really, it’s okay, everything works out eventually. It’s not like it’s all because you miss Peter, it’s just a feeling. It’ll go away. 

“You’re in deep thought,” a voice says, garnering a huge flinch from the depths of your stomach.

You turn around, turn back, and flinch again at the sight of a man a few paces ahead. Red shoulders and legs, black shining in a webbed lattice across his chest. “Oh,” you say, your heartbeat an uncomfortable plodding under your hand, “sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry? I scared you.”

“I didn’t realise you were there.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t come any closer. You take a few steps in his direction. You’ve never met before but you’d like to see him up close, and you aren’t scared. Not beyond the shock of his arrival. 

“Can I walk you to where you’re going?” Spider-Man asks you. He’s humming energy, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot. 

“How do I know you’re the real Spider-Man?” 

After all, there are high definition videos of his suit on the news sometimes. You wouldn’t want to find out someone was capable of making a replica in the worst way possible. 

You can’t be sure, but you think he might be smiling behind the mask, his arms moving back as though impressed at your questioning. “What do you need me to do to prove it?” he asks. 

He speaks hushed. Rough and deep. “I don’t know. What’s Spider-Man exclusive?” 

“I can show you the webs?” 

You pull your handbag further up your arm. “Okay, sure. Shoot something.” 

Spider-Man aims his hand at the streetlight across the way and shoots it. He makes a severing motion with his wrist to stop from getting pulled along by it, letting the web fall like an alien tendril from the bulb. The light it produces dims slightly. A chill rides your spine. 

“Can I walk you now?” he asks. 

“You don’t have more important things to do?” If the bitterness you’re feeling creeps into your tone unbidden, he doesn’t react. 

“Nothing more important than you.” 

You laugh despite yourself. “I’m going to Trader Joe’s.” 

“Yellowstone Boulevard?” 

“That’s the one…” 

You fall into step beside him, and, awkwardly, begin to walk again. It’s a short walk. Trader Joe’s will still be open for hours despite the dark sky, and you’re in no hurry. “My friend, he likes the rolled tortilla chips they do, the chilli ones.” 

“And you’re going just for him?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Not really. I mean, yeah, but I was already going on a walk.” 

“Do you always walk around by yourself? It’s late. It’s dangerous, you know, a beautiful girl like you,” he says, descending into an odd mixture of seriousness and teasing. His voice jumps and swoons to match. 

“I like walking,” you say. 

Spider-Man walking is a weird thing to see. On the news, he’s running, swinging, or flying through the air untethered. You’re having trouble acquainting the media image of him with the quiet man you’re walking beside now.

”Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seem sad.” 

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

“Maybe I am sad,” you confess, looking forward, the bright sign of Trader Joe’s already in view. It really is a short walk. “Do you ever–” You swallow against a surprising tightness in your throat and try again, “Do you ever feel like you’re alone?” 

“I’m not alone,” he says carefully.

“Me neither, but sometimes I feel like I am.” 

He laughs quietly. You bristle thinking you’re being made fun of, but the laugh tapers into a sad one. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world,” he says. “Even here. I forget that it’s not something I invented.” 

“Well, I guess being a hero would feel really lonely. Who else do we have like you?” You smile sympathetically. “It must be hard.” 

“Yeah.” His head tips to the side, and a crash of glass rings in the distance, crunching, and then there’s a squeal. It sounds like a car accident. Spider-Man goes tense. “I’ll come back,” he says. 

“That’s okay, Spider-Man, I can get home by myself. Thank you for the protection detail.” 

He sprints away. In half a second he’s up onto a short roof, then between buildings. It looks natural. It takes your breath away. 

You buy Peter’s chips at Trader Joe’s and wait for a few minutes at the door, but Spider-Man doesn’t come back. 

—

I don’t want to study today, Peter’s text says the next day. Come over and watch movies? 

The last handholds of your fugue are washed away in the shower. You dab moisturiser onto your face and neck and stand by the open window to help it dry faster, taking in the light drizzle of rain, the smell of it filling your room and your lungs in cold gales. You dress in sweatpants and a hoodie, throw on your coat, and stuff the rolled tortilla chips into a backpack to ferry across the neighbourhood. 

Peter still lives at home with his Aunt May. You’d been in awe of it when you were younger, Peter and his Aunt and Uncle, their home-cooked family dinners, nights spent on the roof trying to find constellations through light pollution, stretched out together while it was warm enough to soak in your small rebellion. Ben would call you both down eventually. When you’re older! he’d always promise. 

Peter’s waiting in the open door for you. He ushers you inside excitedly, stripping you out of your coat and forgetting your wet shoes as he drags you to the kitchen. “Look what I got,” he says. 

The Parker kitchen is a big, bright space with a chopping block island. The counters are crowded by pots, pans, spices, jams, coffee grounds, the impossible drying rack. There’s a cross-stitch about the home on the microwave Ben did to prove to May he could still see the holes in the aida. 

You follow Peter to the stove where he points at a ceramic Dutch oven you’ve eaten from a hundred times. “There,” he says. 

“Did you cook?” you ask. 

“Of course I didn’t cook, even if the way you said that is offensive. I could cook. I’m an excellent chef.” 

“The only thing May’s ever taught you is spaghetti and meatballs.” 

“Hope you like marinara,” he says, nudging you toward the stove. 

You take the lid off of the Dutch oven to unveil a huge cake. Dripping with frosting, only slightly squashed by the lid, obviously homemade. He’s dotted the top with swirls of frosting and deep red strawberries. 

“It’s for you,” he says casually. 

“It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know. You like cake though, don’t you?” 

You’d tell Peter you liked chunks of glass if that was what he unveiled. “Why’d you make me a cake?” 

“I felt like you deserved a cake. You don’t want it?” 

“No, I want it! I want the cake, let’s have cake, we can go to 91st and get some ice cream, it’ll be amazing.” You don’t bother trying to hide your beaming smile now, twisting on the spot to see him properly, your hands falling behind your back. “Thank you, Peter. It’s awesome. I had no idea you could even– that you’d even–” You press forward, smushing your face against his chest. “Wow.” 

“Wow,” he says, wrapping his arms around you. He angles his head to nose at your temple. “You’re welcome. I would’ve made you a cake years ago if I knew it was gonna make you this happy.” 

“It must’ve taken hours.” 

“May helped.” 

“That makes much more sense.” 

“Don’t be insolent.” Peter squeezes you tightly. He doesn’t let go for a really long time. 

He extracts the cake from the depths of the Dutch oven and cuts you both a slice. He already has ice cream, a Neapolitan box that he cuts into with a serrated knife so you can each have a slice of all three flavours. It’s good ice cream, fresh for what it is and melting in big drops of cream as he gets the couch ready.

“Sit down,” he says, shoving the plates with his strangely great balance onto the coffee table. “Remote’s by you. I’m gonna get drinks.” 

You take your plate, carving into the cake with the end of a warped spoon, its handle stamped PETE and burnished in your grasp. The crumb is soft but dense in the best way. The ganache between layers is loose, cake wet with it, and the frosting is perfect, just messy. You take another satisfied bite. You’re halfway through your slice before Peter makes it back. 

“I brought you something too, but it’s garbage compared to this,” you say through a mouthful, hand barely covering your mouth. 

Peter laughs at you. “Yeah, well, say it, don’t spray it.” 

“I guess I’ll keep it.” 

“Keep it, bub, I don’t need anything from you.” 

He doesn’t say it the way you’re expecting. “No,” you say, pleased when he sits knee to knee, “you can have it. S’just a bag of chips from Trader–”

“The rolled tortilla chips?” he asks. You nod, and his eyes light up. “You really are the best friend ever.” 

“Better than Harry?” 

“Harry’s rich,” Peter says, “so no. I’m kidding! Joking, come here, let me try some of that.” 

“Eat your own.” 

Peter plays a great host, letting you choose the movies, making lunch, ordering takeout in the evening and refusing to let you pay for it. This isn’t that out of character for Peter, but what shocks you is his complete unfiltered attention. He doesn’t check his phone, the tension you couldn’t name from these last few weeks nowhere to be felt. You’re flummoxed by the sudden change, but you missed him. You won’t look a gift horse in the mouth; you won’t question what it is that had Peter keeping you at arm’s length now it’s gone.

To your annoyance, you can’t stop thinking about Spider-Man. You keep opening your mouth to tell Peter you talked to him but biting your tongue. Why am I keeping it a secret? you wonder. 

“Have something to tell you.” 

“You do?” you ask, reluctant to sit properly, your feet tucked under his thigh and your body completely lax with the weight of the Parker throw. 

“Is that surprising?” 

“Is that a trick question?” 

“No. Just. I’ve been not telling you something.” 

“Okay, so tell me.” 

Peter goes pink, and stiff, a fake smile plastered over his lips. “Me and Gwen, we’re really done.” 

“I know, Pete. She broke up with you for reasons nobody felt I should be enlightened right after graduation.” Your stomach pangs painfully. “Unless you…”

“She’s going to England.” 

“She is?” 

“Oxford.” 

You struggle to sit up. “That sucks, Peter. I’m sorry.” 

“But?” 

You find your words carefully. “You and Gwen really liked each other, but I think that–” You grow in confidence, meeting his eyes firmly. “That there’s always been some part of you that couldn’t actually commit to her. So. I don’t know, maybe some distance will give you clarity. And maybe it’ll break your heart, but at least then you’ll know how you really feel, and you can move forward.” You avoid telling him to move on. 

“It wasn’t Gwen,” he says, which has a completely different meaning to the both of you. 

“Obviously, she’s the smartest girl I’ve ever met. She’s beautiful. Of course it’s not her fault,” you say, teasing.

“Really, that you ever met?” Peter asks. 

“She’s the best girl you were ever gonna land.“ 

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.” After a few more minutes of quiet, he says, “I think we were done before. I just hadn’t figured it out yet. Something wasn’t right.” 

“You were so back and forth. You’re not mean, there must’ve been something stopping you from going steady,” you agree. “You were breaking up every other week.”

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head against the back couch. 

“Which, it’s fine, you don’t–” You grimace. “I can’t talk today. Sorry. I just mean that it’s alright that you never made it work.” You worry that sounds plainly obvious and amend, “Doesn’t make you a bad person. You’re never a bad person, Peter.” 

“I know. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. You don’t need me to tell you.” 

“It’s nice, though. I like when you tell me stuff. I want all of your secrets.” 

You should say Good, because I have something unbelievable to tell you, and I should’ve said it the moment I got home. 

Good, because last night I met the bravest man in New York City, and he walked me to the store for your chips. 

Good, because I have so much I’m keeping to myself.

You ruffle his hair. Spider-Man goes unmentioned. 

— 

He visits with a whoop. You don’t flinch when he lands —you’d heard the strange whip and splat of his webs landing nearby. 

“Spider-Man,” you say. 

“What’s that about?” 

“What?” 

“The way you said that. You laughed.” Spider-Man stands in spandexed glory before you, mask in place. He’s got a brown stain up the side of his thigh that looks more like mud than blood, but it’s not as though each of his fights are bloodless. They’re infamously gory on occasion.

“Did you get hurt?” you ask. You’re worried. You could help him, if he needs it. 

“Aw, this? That’s a scratch. That’s nothing, don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse from that stray cat living outside of 91st.” 

You look at him sharply. 91st is shorthand for 91st Bodega, and it’s not like you and Peter made it up, but suddenly, the man in front of you is Peter. The way he says it, that unique rhythm. 

Peter’s not so rough-voiced, you argue with yourself. Your Peter speaks in a higher register, dulcet often, only occasionally sarcastic. Spider-Man is rough, and cawing, and loud. Spider-Man acts as though the ground is a suggestion. Peter can’t jump off the second diving board at the pool. Spider-Man rolls his shoulders back in front of you with a confidence Peter rarely has. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Sorry. You just reminded me of someone.” 

His voice falls deeper still. “Someone handsome, I hope.” 

You take a small step around him, hoping it invites him to walk along while communicating how sorely you want to leave the subject behind. When he doesn’t follow, you add, “Yes, he’s handsome.” 

“I knew it.”

“What do you look like under the mask?”

Spider-Man laughs boisterously. “I can’t just tell you that.” 

“No? Do I have to earn it?” 

“It’s not like that. I just don’t tell anyone, ever.” 

“Nobody in the whole world?” you ask. 

The rain is spitting. New York lately is cold cold cold, little in the way of sunshine and no end in sight. Perhaps that’s all November’s are destined to be. You and Spider-Man stick to the inside of the sidewalk. Occasionally, a passerby stares at him, or calls out in Hello, and Spider-Man waves but doesn’t part from you. 

“Tell me something about you and I’ll tell you something about me,” Spider-Man says. “I’ll tell you who knows my identity.” 

“What do you want to know about me?” you ask, surprised. 

“A secret. That’s fair.” 

“Hold on, how’s that fair?” You tighten your scarf against a bitter breeze. “What use do I have for the people who know who you are? That doesn’t bring me any closer to the truth.” 

“It’s not about who knows, it’s about why I told them.” Spider-Man slips around you, forcing you to walk on the inside of the sidewalk as a car pulls past you all too quickly and sends a sheet of dirty rainwater up Spider-Man’s side. He shakes himself off. “Jerk!” he shouts after the car. 

“My secrets aren’t worth anything.”

“I doubt that, but if that’s true, that makes it a fair trade, doesn’t it?” 

He sounds peppy considering the pool of runoff collecting at his feet. You pick up your pace again and say, “Alright, useless secret for a useless secret.” 

You think about all your secrets. Some are odd, some gross. Some might make the people around you think less of you, while others would surely paint you in a nice light. A topaz sort of technicolor. But they aren’t useless, then, so you move on. 

“Oh, I know. I hate my major.” You grin at Spider-Man. “That’s a good one, right? No one else knows about that.” 

“You do?” Spider-Man asks. His voice is familiar, then, for its sympathy. 

“I like science, I just hate math. It’s harder than I thought it would be, and I need so much help it makes me hate the whole thing.” 

Spider-Man doesn’t drag the knife. “Okay. Only three people know who I am under the mask. It was four, briefly.” He clears his throat. “I told one person because I was being selfish and the others out of necessity. I’m trying really hard not to tell anybody else.”

“How come?” 

“It just hurts people.” 

You linger in a gap of silence, not sure what to say. A handful of cars pass you on the road. 

“Tell me another one,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know, just tell me one.” 

“How do I know you aren’t extorting me for something?” You grin as you say it, a hint of flirtation. “You’ll know my face and my secrets and even if you tell me a really gory juicy one, I have no one to tell and no name to pair it with.” 

“I’m not showing you anything,” he warns, teasing, sounding so awfully like Peter that your heart trips again, an uneven capering that has you faltering in the street. 

Peter’s shorter, you decide, sizing him up. His voice sounds similar and familiar but Peter doesn’t ask for secrets. He doesn’t have to. (Or, he didn’t have to, once upon a time.) 

“Where are you going?” Spider-Man asks. 

“Oh, nowhere.” 

“Seriously, you’re out here walking again for no reason?” 

“I like to walk. It’s not like it’s dark out yet.” You’re not far at all from Queensboro Hill here. Walking in any direction would lead you to a garden —Flushing Meadows, Kew Gardens, Kissena Park. “Walk me to Kissena?” you ask. 

“Sure, for that secret.” 

You laugh as Spider-Man takes the lead, keeping time with him, a natural match of pace. It’s exciting that Spider-Man of all people wants to know one of your useless secrets enough to ask you twice. The attention of it makes searching for one a matter of how fast you can find one rather than a question of why you’d want to. It slips out before you can think better of it. 

“I burned my wrist a few days ago on a frying pan,” you confess, the phantom pain of the injury an itch. “It blistered and I cried when I did it, but I haven’t told anyone about it.” 

“Why not?” he asks. 

He shouldn’t use that tone with you, like he’s so so sorry. It makes you want to really tell him everything. How insecure you feel, how telling things feels like asking for someone to care, and half the time they don’t, and half the time you’re embarrassed. 

You walk past the bakery that demarcates the beginning of Kissena Park grounds across the way. “I didn’t think about it at first. I’m used to keeping things to myself. And then I didn’t tell anyone for so long that mentioning it now wouldn’t make sense. Like, bringing it up when it’s a scar won’t do much.” It’s a weak lie. It comes out like a spigot to a drying up tree. Glugs, fat beads of sound and the pull to find another thing to say.

“It was only a few days ago, right? It must still hurt. People want to know that stuff.” 

“Maybe I’ll tell someone tomorrow,” you say, though you won’t. 

“Thanks for telling me.”

The humour in spilling a secret like that to a superhero stops you from feeling sorry for yourself. You hide your cold fingers in your coat, rubbing the stiff skin of your knuckles into the lining for friction-heat. The rain has let up, wind whipping empty but brisk against your cheeks. Your lips will be chapped when you get home, whenever that turns out to be. 

“This is pretty far from Trader Joe’s,” he comments, like he’s read your mind. 

“Just an hour.” 

“Are you kidding? It’s an hour for me.” 

“That’s not true, Spider-Man, I’ve seen those webs in action. I still remember watching you on the News that night, the cranes. I remember,” —you try to meet his eyes despite the mask— “my heart in my throat. Weren’t you scared?”

“Is that the secret you want?” he asks. 

“I get to choose?” 

Spider-Man throws his gaze around, his hand behind his head like he might play with his hair. You come to a natural stop across the street from Kissena Park’s playground. Teenagers crowd the soft-landing floor, smaller children playing on the wet rungs of the climbing frame. 

“If you want to,” he says. 

“Then yeah, I want to know if you were scared.” 

“I didn’t haveI time to be scared. Connors was already there, you know?” He shifts from one foot to the other. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it before. I wasn’t scared of the height, if that’s what you mean. I already had practice by then, and I knew I had to do it. Like, I didn’t have a choice, so I just did it. I had to save the day, so I did.” 

“When they lined up the cranes–”

“It felt like flying,” Spider-Man interrupts. 

“Like flying.”

You picture the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the catch of your weight so high up and the pressure of being flung between the next point. The idea that you have to just do something, so you do. 

“That’s a good secret.” You offer a grateful smile. “It doesn’t feel equal. I burned myself and you saved the city.” 

“So tell me another one,” he says. 

—

Maybe you started to fall for Peter after his Uncle Ben passed away. Not the days where you’d text him and he’d ignore you, or the days spent camping outside of his house waiting for him to get home. It wasn’t that you couldn’t like him, angry as he was; there’s always been something about his eyes when he’s upset that sticks around. You loathe to see him sad but he really is pretty, and when his eyelashes are wet and his mouth is turned down, formidable, it’s an ache. A Cabanel painting, dramatic and dark and other. 

It was after. When he started sending Gwen weird smiles and showing up to the movies exhilarated, out of breath, unwilling to tell you where he’d been. Skating, he’d always say. Most of the time he didn’t have his skateboard. 

You’d only seen them kiss once, his hand on her shoulder curling her in, a pang of heat. You were curdled by jealousy but it was more than that. Peter was tipping her head back, was kissing her soundly, a fierceness from him that made you sick to think about. You spent weeks afterwards up at night, tossing, turning, wishing he’d kiss you like that, just once, so you could feel how it felt to be completely wrapped up in another person. 

You’d always held out for Peter, in a way. It was more important to you that he be your friend. You were young, and love had been a far off thing, and then one day you suddenly wanted it. You learned just how aching an unrequited love could be, like a bruise, where every time you saw Peter —whether it be alone or with Gwen, with anyone— it was like he knew exactly where to poke the bruise. Press the heel of his hand and push. The worst is when he found himself affectionate with you, a quick clasp of your cheek in his palm as he said goodbye. Nights spent in his twin bed, of course you’ll fit, of course you couldn’t go home, not this late, May won’t care if we keep the door open —the suggestion that the door being closed might’ve meant something. His sleeping arm furled around you. 

Now you’re nearing the end of your second semester at ESU, Gwen is going to England at the end of the year, and Peter hasn’t tried to stop her, but he’s still busy. 

“Whatever,“ you say, taking a deep breath. You’re not mad at Peter, you just miss him. Thinking about him all the time won’t change a thing. “It’s fine.” 

“I’d hope so.” 

You swing around. “Don’t do that!”

Spider-Man looks vaguely chastened, taking a step back. “I called out.” 

“You did?” 

“I did. Hey, miss, over there! The one who doesn’t know how to get a goddamn taxi!” 

“I like to walk,” you say. 

“Yeah, so you’ve said. Have you considered that all this walking is bad for you? It’s freezing out, Miss Bennett!” 

“It’s not that bad.” You have your coat, a scarf, your thermal leggings underneath your jeans. “I’m fine.” 

“What’s wrong with staying at home?” 

“That’s not good for you. And you’re one to talk, Spider-Man, aren’t you out on the streets every night? You should take a day off.” 

“I don’t do this every night.” 

“Don’t you get tired?”

Spider-Man’s eyelets seem to squint, his mock-anger effusive as he crosses his arms across his chest. “No, of course not. Do I look like I get tired?” 

“I don’t know. You’re in a full suit, I can’t tell. I guess you don’t… seem tired. You know, with all the backflips.” 

“Want me to do one?” 

“On command?” You laugh. “No, that’s okay. Save your strength, Spider-Man.” 

“So where are you heading today?” he asks. 

There’s a slip of skin peeking out against his neck. You’re surprised he can’t feel the cold there, stepping toward him to point. “I can see your stubble.” 

He yanks his mask down. “Hasty getaway.” 

“A getaway, undressed? Spider-Man, that’s not very gentlemanly.” 

You start to walk toward the Cinemart. Spider-Man, to your strange pleasure, follows. He walks with considerable casualness down the sidewalk by your left, occasionally letting his head turn to chase a distant sound where it echoes from between high-rises and along the busy street. It’s cold and dark, but New York is hectic no matter what, even the residential areas. (Is there such a thing? The neighbourhoods burst with small businesses and backstreet sales, no matter the time.)

“Luckily for you, crime is slow tonight,” he says. 

“Lucky me?” You wonder if your acquainted vigilante flirts with every girl he stalks. “You realise I’ve managed to get everywhere I’m going for the last two decades without help?” 

“I assume there was more than a little help during that first decade.” 

“That’s what you think. I was a super independent toddler.” 

Spider-Man tips his head back and laughs, but that laugh is quickly squashed with a cough. “Sure you were.” 

“Is there a reason you’re escorting me, Spider-Man?” you ask. 

“No. I– I recognised you, I thought I’d say hi.” 

“Hi, Spider-Man.” 

“Hi.” 

“Can I ask you something? Do you work?” 

Spider-Man stammers again, “I– yeah. I work. Freelance, mostly.” 

“I was wondering how you fit all the crime fighting into your life, is all. University is tough enough.” You let the wind bat your scarf off of your shoulder. “I couldn’t do what you do.” 

“Yeah, you could.” 

He sounds sure. 

“How would you know?” you ask. “Maybe I’m awful when you’re not walking me around. I hate New York. I hate people.” 

“No, you don’t. You’re not awful. Don’t ask me how I know, ‘cos I just know.” 

You try not to look at him. If you look at him, you’re gonna smile at him like he hung the moon. “Well, tonight I’m going to be dreadfully selfish. My friend said he’d buy my movie ticket and take me out for dinner, a real dinner, the mac and cheese with imitation lobster at Benny’s. Have you tried that?” 

Spider-Man takes a big step. “Tonight?” he asks. 

“Yep, tonight. That’s where I’m going, the Cinemart.” You frown at his hand pressing into his stomach. “Are you okay? You look like you’re gonna throw up.” 

“I can hear– something. Someone’s crying. I gotta go, okay? Have fun at the movies, okay?” He throws his arm up, a silken web shooting from his wrist to the third floor of an apartment complex. “Bye!” he shouts, taking a running jump to the apartment, using his web as an anchor. He flings himself over the roof. 

Woah, you think, warmth filling your cold cheeks, the tip of your nose. He’s lithe.  

Peter arrives ten minutes late for the movie, which is half an hour later than you’d agreed to meet. 

“Sorry!” he shouts, breathless as he grabs your hands. “God, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. You should beat me up. I’m sorry.” 

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, not particularly angry, only relieved to see him with enough time to still catch the movie. “You’re sweating like crazy, your hair’s wet.” 

“I ran all the way here, Jesus, do I smell bad? Don’t answer that. Fuck, do we have time?” 

You usher Peter inside. He pays for the tickets with hands shaking and you attempt to wipe the sweat from his forehead with your sleeve. “You could’ve called me,” you say, content to let him grab you by the arm and race you to the screen doors, “we could’ve caught the next one. Why were you so late, anyways? Did you forget?” 

“Forget about my favourite girl? How could I?” He elbows open the doors to let you enter first. “Now shh,” he whispers, “find the seats, don’t miss the trailers. You love them.” 

“You love them–”

“I’ll get popcorn,” he promises, letting the door close between you. 

You’re tempted to follow, fingers an inch from the handle. 

You turn away and rush to find your seats. Hopefully, the popcorn line is ten blocks long, and he spends the night punished for his wrongdoing. My favourite girl. You laugh nervously into your hand. 

—

Winter 

Spider-Man finds you at least once a week for the next few weeks. He even brings you an umbrella one time, stars on the handle, asking you rather politely to go home. He offers to buy you a hot dog as you’re walking past the stand, takes you on a shortcut to the convenience store, and helps you get a piece of gum off of your shoe with a leaf and a scared scream. He’s friendly, and you’re getting used to his company. 

One night, you’re almost home from Trader Joe’s, racing in the pouring rain when a familiar voice calls out, “Hey! Running girl! Wait a second!” 

Him, you think, as ridiculous as it sounds. You don’t know his name, but Spider-Man’s a sunny surprise in a shitty, wet winter, and you turn to the sound with a grin.

He jogs toward you. 

You feel the world pause, right in the centre of your throat. All the air gets sucked out of you. 

“Hey, what are you doing out here? Did you get my texts?” 

You blink as fat rain lands on your face. 

“You okay?” Peter asks, Peter, in a navy hoodie turning black in the rain and a brown corduroy jacket. It’s sodden, hanging heavily around his shoulders. “Come on, let’s go,” —he takes your hand and pulls until you begin to speed walk beside him— “it’s freezing!” 

“Peter–”

“Jesus Christ!” 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice an echo as he drags you into the foyer of your apartment building. 

Rain hammers the door as he closes it, the windows, the foyer too dark to see properly. 

“I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?” 

“No.” 

Peter takes your hand. You look down at it, and he looks down in tandem, and it is decidedly a non-platonic move. “No?” he asks, a hair’s width from murmuring. 

“Shit, my groceries are soaked.” 

“It’s all snacks, it’s fine,” he says, pulling you to the stairs. 

You rush up the steps together to your floor. Peter takes your key when you offer it, your own fingers too stiff to manage it by yourself, and he holds the door open for you again to let you in. 

Your apartment is a ragtag assortment to match the one next door, old wooden furniture wheeled from the street corners they were left on, thrifted homeward and heavy blankets everywhere you look. You almost slip getting out of your shoes. Peter steadies you with a firm hand. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook, prying the damp hoodie over his head and exposing a solid length of back that trips your heart as you do the same. 

“Sorry I didn’t ask,” Peter says. 

“What, to come over? It’s fine. I like you being here, you know that.” 

All your favourite days were spent here or at Peter’s house, in beds, on sofas, his hair tickling your neck as credits run down the TV and his breath evens to a light snore. You try to settle down with him, changing into dry clothes, his spare stuff left at the bottom of your wardrobe for his next inevitable impromptu visit. You turn on the TV, letting him gather you into his side with more familiarity than ever. Rain lays its fingertips on your window and draws lazy lines behind half-turned blinds. You rest on the arm and watch Peter watch the movie, answering his occasional, “You okay?” with a meagre nod. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks eventually. “You’re so quiet.” 

Your hand over your mouth, you part your marriage and pinky finger, marriage at the corner, pinky pressed to your bottom lip, the flesh chapped by a season of frigid winds and long walks. “‘M thinking,” you say. 

“About?” 

About the first night in your new apartment. You got the apartment a couple of weeks before the start of ESU. Not particularly close to the university but close to Peter, your best, nicest friend. You met in your second year of High School, before Peter got contacts, ‘cos he was good at taking photographs and you were in charge of the school newspapers media sourcing. You used to wait for Peter to show up ten minutes late like clockwork, every week. And every week he’d barge into the club room and say, “Fuck, I’m sorry, my last class is on the other side of the building,” until it turned into its own joke. 

Three years later, you got your apartment, and Peter insisted you throw a housewarming party even if he was the only person invited. 

“Fuck,” he’d said, ten minutes late, a cake in one hand and a whicker basket the other, “sorry. My last class is on–”

But he didn’t finish. You’d laughed so hard with relief at the reference that he never got the chance. Peter remembered your very first inside joke, because Peter wasn’t about to go off to ESU and meet new friends and forget you. 

But Peter’s been distant for a while now, because Peter’s Spider-Man. 

“Do you remember,” you say, not willing to share the whole truth, “when you joined the school newspaper to be the official photographer, and you taught me the rule of thirds?” 

“So you didn’t need me,” he says. 

“I was just thinking about it. We ran that newspaper like the Navy.” 

Peter holds your gaze. “Is that really what you were thinking about?” 

“Just funny,” you murmur, dropping your hand in your lap and breaking his stare. “So much has changed.” 

“Not that much.” 

“Not for me, no.” 

Peter gets a look in his eyes you know well. He’s found a crack in you and he’s gonna smooth it over until you feel better. You’re expecting his soft tone, his loving smile, but you’re not expecting the way he pulls you in —you’d slipped away from him as the evening went on, but Peter erases every millimetre of space as he slides his arm under your lower back and ushers you into his side. You hold your breath as he hugs you, as he looks down at you. It’s really like he loves you, the line between platonic and romantic a blur. He’s never looked at you like this before.

“I don’t want you to change,” he whispers. 

“I want to catch up with you,” you whisper back. 

“Catch up with me? We’re in the exact same place, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, are we?” 

Peter hugs you closer, squishing your head down against his jaw as he rubs your shoulder. “Of course we are.” 

Peter… What is he doing? 

You let yourself relax against him. 

“You do change,” he whispers, an utterance of sound to calm that awful bruise he gave you all those months ago, “you change every day, but you don’t need to try.” 

“I just… feel like everyone around me is…” You shake your head. “Everyone’s so smart, and they know what they’re doing, or they’re– they’re special. I don’t know anything. So I guess lately I’ve been thinking about that, and then you–”

“What?” 

You can say it out loud. You could. 

“Peter, you’re…” 

“I’m what?” he asks. 

His fingers glide down the length of your arm and up again. 

If you're wrong, he’ll laugh. And if you’re right, he might– might stop touching you. Your head feels so heavy, and his touch feels like it’s gonna put you to sleep. 

He’s Spider-Man. 

It makes sense. Who else could have a good enough heart to do that? Of course it’s Peter. It explains so much about him, about Peter and Spider-Man both. Why Peter is suddenly firmer, lighter on his feet, why he can help you move a wardrobe up two flights of stairs without complaint; why Spider-Man is so kind to you, why he knows where to find you, why he rolls his words around just like Pete. 

Spider-Man said there are reasons he wears his mask. And Peter doesn’t tell you much, but you trust him. 

You won’t make him say anything, you decide. Not now. 

You curl your arm over his stomach hesitantly, smiling into his shirt as he hugs you tighter. 

“I was thinking about you,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re quieter lately. I know you’re having a hard time right now, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I’m here for you whenever you need me.” 

“Yeah?” you ask.

“You used to sit on my porch when you knew May wouldn’t be home to make sure I wasn’t alone.” Peter’s breath is warm on your forehead. “I don’t know what you’re worried about being, but I’m with you,” he says, “‘n nothing is gonna change that.” 

Peter isn’t as far away as you thought. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

He kisses your forehead softly. Your whole world goes amber. He brings his hand to your cheek, the thought of him tipping your head back sudden and heart-racing, but Peter only holds you. You lose count of how many minutes you spend cupped in his hand. 

“Can I stay over tonight?” he utters, barely audible under the sound of the battering rain. 

“Yeah, please.” 

His thumb strokes your cheek. 

—

Two switches flip at once, that night. Peter is suddenly as tactile as you’ve craved, and Spider-Man disappears. 

He’s alive and well, as evidenced by Peter’s continued survival and presence in your life, but Spider-Man doesn’t drop in on your nightly walks. 

You take less of them lately, feeling better in yourself. Your spirits are certainly lifted by Peter’s increasing affection, but now that you know he’s Spider-Man you were waiting to see him in spandex to mess with his head. Nothing mean, but you would’ve liked to pick at his secret identity, toy with him like you know he’d do to you. After all, he’s been trailing you for weeks and getting to know you. Peter already knows you. Plus, you told Spider-Man secrets not meant for Peter Parker’s ears. 

You find it hard to be angry with him. A thread of it remains whenever you remember his deception, but mostly you worry about him. Peter’s out every night until who knows what hour fighting crime. There are guns. He could get shot, and he doesn’t seem scared. You end up watching videos on the internet of the night he ran to Oscorp, when he fought Connors’ and got that huge gash in his leg. His leg is soiled deep red with blood but banded in white webbing. He limps as he races across a rooftop, the recording shaky yet high definition. 

It’s not nice to see Peter in pain. You cling to what he’d said, how he wasn’t scared, but not being scared doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurting. 

You chew the tip of a finger and click on a different video. Your computer monitor bears heat, the tower whirring by your thigh. Your eyes burn, another hour sitting in the same seat, sick with worry. You don’t mind when Peter doesn’t answer your texts anymore. You didn’t mind so much before, just terrified of becoming an irrelevance in his life and lonely, too, maybe a little hurt, but never worried for his safety. Now when Peter doesn’t text you back you convince yourself that he’s been hurt, or that he’s swinging across New York City about to risk his life.

It’s not a good way to live. You can’t stop giving into it, is all. 

In the next video, Spider-Man sits on a billboard with a can of coke in hand. He doesn’t lift his mask, seemingly aware of his watcher. You laugh as he angles his head down, suspicion in his tight shoulders. He relaxes when he sees whoever it is recording. 

“Hey,” he says, “you all right?” 

“Should you be up there?” the person recording shouts. 

“I’m fine up here!” 

“Are you really Spider-Man?” 

“Sure am.” 

“Are you single?” 

Peter laughs like crazy. How you didn’t know it was him before is a mystery —it couldn’t sound more like him. “I’ve got my eye on someone!” he says, sounding younger for it, the character voice he enacts when he’s Spider-Man lost to a good mood.  

Your phone rings in the back pocket of your jeans. You wriggle it out, nonplussed to find Peter himself on your screen. You click the green answer button. 

“Hello?” Peter asks. 

You bring the phone snug to your ear. “Hey, Peter.” 

“Hi, are you busy?” 

“Not really.” 

“Do you wanna come over? I know it’s late. Come stay the night and tomorrow we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

“Is Aunt May okay with that?” 

“She’s staring at me right now shaking her head, but I’m in trouble for something. May, can she come over, is that allowed?” 

“She’s always allowed as long as you keep the door open.”

You laugh under your breath at May’s begrudging answer. “Are you sure she’s alright with it?” you ask softly. “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

“You never, ever could be. I’m coming to your place and we’ll walk over together. Did you eat dinner?” 

“Not yet, but–”

“Okay, I’ll make you something when you get here. I’ll meet you at the door. Twenty minutes?” 

“I have to shower first.” 

“Twenty five?” 

You choke on a laugh, a weird bubbly thing you’re not used to. Peter laughs on the other side of the phone. “How about I’ll see you at seven?” 

“It’s a date,” he says. 

“Mm, put it in your calendar, Parker.” 

—

Peter waits for you at the door like he promised. He frowns at your still-wet face as he slips your backpack from your shoulder, throwing it over his own. “You’re gonna get sick.” 

“I‘ll dry fast,” you say. “I took too long finding my pyjamas.” 

“I have stuff you can wear. Probably have your sweatpants somewhere, the grey ones.” Peter pulls you forward and wipes your tacky face. “I would’ve waited,” he says. 

“It’s fine.“

“It’s not fine. Are you cold?” 

“Pete, it’s fine.” 

“You always remind me of my Uncle Ben when you call me Pete,” he laughs, “super stern.” 

“I’m not stern. Look, take me home, please, I’m cold.” 

“You said it wasn’t cold!” 

“It’s not, I’m just damp–” Peter cuts you off as he grabs you, sudden and tight, arms around you and rubbing the lengths of your back through your coat. “Handsy!”

“You like it,” he jokes back, his playful warming turning into a hug. You smile, hiding your face in his neck for a few moments. 

“I don’t like it,” you lie. 

“Okay, you don’t like it, and I’m sorry.” Peter gives you a last hug and pulls away. “Now let’s go. I gotta feed you before midnight.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Apparently, nothing is.” 

Peter links your arms together. By the time you get to his house, you’ve fallen away from each other naturally. May is in the hallway when you climb through the door, an empty laundry basket in her hands. 

“I see Peter hasn’t won this argument yet,” you say in way of greeting. Peter’s desperate to do his own laundry now he’s getting older. May won’t let him. 

“No, he hasn’t.” She looks you up and down. “It’s nice to see you, honey. And in one piece! Peter tells me you’ve been walking a lot, and I mean, in this city? Can’t you buy a treadmill?” she asks. 

“May!” Peter says, startled. 

“I like walking, I like the air,” you say.

“Can’t exactly call it fresh,” May says. 

“No, but it’s alright. It helps me think.” 

“Is everything okay?” May asks, putting her hand on her hip. 

“Of course.” You smile at her genuinely. “I think starting college was too much for me? It was hard. But things are settling now, I don’t know what Peter told you, but I’m not walking a lot anymore. You know, not more than necessary.”

She softens her disapproving. “Good, honey. That’s good. Peter’s gonna make you some dinner now, right?” 

“Yeah, Aunt May, I’m gonna make dinner,” Peter sighs, pulling a leg up to take off his shoes. 

Peter shouldn’t really know that you’ve been walking. He might see you coming back from Trader Joe’s or the bodega on his way to your apartment, but you haven’t mentioned any of your longer excursions, and everybody in Queens has to walk. That’s information he wouldn’t know without Spider-Man. 

He seems to be hoping you won’t realise, changing the subject to the frankly killer grilled cheese and tomato soup that he’s about to make you, and pushing you into a chair at the table. “Warm up,” he says near the back of your head, forcing a wave of shivers down your arms.

He makes soup in one pan, grilled cheese in the other, two for him and two for you. Peter’s a good eater, and he encourages the same from you, setting a big bowl of tomato soup (from the can, splash of fresh cream) down in front of you with the grilled cheese on a plate between you. You eat it in too-hot bites and try not to get caught looking at him. He does the same, but when he catches you, or when you catch him, he holds your eye and smiles. 

“I can do the dishes,” you say. You might need a breather. 

“Are you kidding? I’m gonna rinse them, put them in the dishwasher.” Peter stands and feels your forehead with his hand. “Warmer. Good job.” 

You shrug away from his hand. “Loser.” 

“Concerned friend.” 

“Handsy loser.” 

”Shut up,” he mumbles. 

As flustered as you’ve ever seen, Peter takes your empty dishes to the kitchen. When he’s done rinsing them off you follow him upstairs to his bedroom and tuck your backpack under his bed. 

You look down at your socks. Peter’s room is on the smaller side, but it’s never been as startlingly small as it is when Peter’s socked feet align with yours, toe to toe. Quick recovery time, this boy. 

“There’s chips and stuff on my desk. Or I could run to 91st for some ice cream sandwiches if you want something sweet,” he says. 

You lift your eyes, tilt your head up just a touch, not wanting him to think you’re in his space no matter how strange that might be, considering he chose to stand there. “I’m all right. Did you want ice cream? We can go if you want to, but if you want to go ’cos you think I do then I’m fine.” 

“That’s such a long answer,” he says, draping an arm over your shoulder. “You don’t have to say all of that, just tell me no.” 

“I don’t want ice cream.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” he asks. 

“Well, no, it wasn’t. Saying no to you is like saying no to a puppy.” 

“Because I’m adorable?” 

“Persistent.” 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” He drapes the other arm over you. The soap he used at the kitchen sink lingers on his hands. 

“Peter…?” you murmur. 

“What?” he murmurs back. 

You touch a knuckle to his chest. “This– You…” Every quelled thought rushes to the surface at once —Peter doesn’t like you as you desire, how could he, you aren’t beautiful like he is, aren’t smart, aren’t brave, no exceptional kindness or goodness to mark you enough for him. It’s why his being with Gwen didn’t hurt; she made sense. And for months now you’ve wondered what it is that made him struggle to be with her. And sometimes, foolishly, you wondered if it was you. But it’s not you, it’s never you, and whatever Peter’s trying to do now–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, taking your face into his hand. 

“What are you doing?” 

“What?” He pushes his hand back to hold your nape, thumb under your ear. “I can’t hear you.”  

You raise your voice. “Why did you invite me over tonight?” 

“‘Cos I missed you?” 

“I used to think you didn’t miss me at all.” 

Peter winces, hurt. “How could you think that? Of course I miss you. What you said to May, about college being hard? It’s like that for me too, okay? I miss you all the time.” 

You bite the inside of your bottom lip. “…College isn’t hard for you.” 

“It’s not easy.” He frowns, the fallen angel, his lips an unsure brushstroke. “What’s wrong? Did I say the wrong thing?” 

You’re being wretched, you know, saying it isn’t hard for him. “You didn’t. Really, you didn’t.” 

“But why are you upset?” he implores, dark eyes darker as his eyebrows tug together.

“I’m not–”

“You are. It’s okay, you can be upset. I just want you to feel better, you know that?” He settles his hands at the tops of your arms. Less intimate, but something warm remains. “Even if it takes a long time.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“How would you know?” you finally ask. 

Peter stares at you. 

“I know you,” he says carefully, “and I know you aren’t struggling like you were, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen or that you have to be a hundred percent better now.” 

“I didn’t realise that I was,” you say, licking your lips, “‘til now. I didn’t get that it was on the surface.”

Peter pulls you in for a gentle hug. “I’m here for you forever, and I’ll make it up to you for not noticing sooner,” he says, scrunching your shirt in his hand.

After the hug, he tells you to change and make yourself comfortable while he showers. So you put on your pyjamas and climb into Peter’s bed, head pounding as though all your energy was stolen in a fell swoop. You press your nose to his pillow and arm wrapped around his comforter, gathering it into a Peter sized lump. The shower pump whines against the shared wall. 

Things aren’t meant to be like this. You thought Peter touching you —holding you— was the deepest of your desires, but you feel now exactly as you had before he started blurring the line, needing Peter to kiss you so badly it becomes its own kind of nausea. Why are you still acting like it’s an impossibility?

When he comes back, you’ll apologise. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He does keep a secret, but don’t you keep one too? He’s Spider-Man. You’ve had deep, complicated feelings for him for months. They are secrets of equal magnitude, and are, more apparently, badly kept. 

You wish you could fall asleep. Your heart ticks in agitation.

Peter returns as perturbed as earlier. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair. A towel hangs around his neck. 

“I’m sorry for being weird.” 

“You’re not weird,” Peter says, bringing the towel to his hair to scrub ruthlessly. 

“It’s just ‘cos things have been different between us.” And, you try to say, that scares me no matter how bad I wanted it. because you’re not just Peter anymore, you’re Spider-Man. I’m only me, and I can’t do anything to protect you.

Peter gives his hair a long scrub before draping the towel on his desk chair. He rakes it messily into place and sits himself at the end of the bed. You sit up. 

“Yeah, they have been. Good different?” he asks hesitantly. 

“I think so,” you say, quiet again. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t want to be here. I just worry about you.” 

Peter uses his hands to get higher up the bed. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, “Jesus, please don’t. That’s the last thing I want from you, I hate when people worry about me.” 

You curl into the lump of comforter you’d made. Peter lets himself rest beside you, his back to the bedroom wall, tens of Polaroids above him shining with the light of the hallway and his orange-bulbed lamp. His skin is glowing like it’s golden hour, dashes of topaz in his eyes, his Cupid’s bow deep. How would it feel to lean forward and kiss him? To catch his Cupid's bow under your lips?

You brush a damp curl tangled in another onto his forehead. 

You lay there for a little while without talking, listening to the sound of the washing machine as it cycles downstairs. 

“Am I going too fast?” Peter murmurs. 

You press your lips together, shaking your head minutely. 

“Is it something else?” 

You don’t move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

“No.”

Peter rewards you with a smile, his hand on your arm. “Alright. Let me get this blanket on you the right way. You’re still cold.” 

You resent the loss of a shape to hold when Peter slips down beside you and wrangles the comforter flat again, spreading it out over you both, his hand under the blankets. His knuckles brush your thigh. 

He takes a deep breath before turning and wrapping his arm over your stomach, asking softly, “Is this alright?” 

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a look and then lifts his head to slot his nose against your temple. “Please don’t take this in a way that I don’t mean it, but sometimes you think about things so much I worry you’re gonna get stuck in your head forever.” 

“I like thinking.” 

“I hate it,” he says quickly, a fervent, flirting cadence to his otherwise dulcet tone, “we should never do it ever again.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

“Would you? For me?” 

You laugh into his shirt, feeling the warmth of your breath on your own nose. “I’ll do my best.” 

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you got lost in that nice head of yours.” 

You relax under his arm. You aren’t sure what all the fuss was about now that he's hugging you. “I’d miss you too.”

May comes up the stairs about an hour later. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch when she finds you and Peter smushed together watching a DVD on his old TV. He’s holding your arm, and you’re snoozing on his shoulder, half-aware of the world, fully aware of his nice smells and the shapes of his arms. 

“Door open,” she says. 

“Not that either of us want it closed, May, but we’re adults.” 

“Not while I’m still washing your clothes, you’re not.” 

He snorts. “Goodnight, Aunt May. The door isn’t gonna close, I promise.” 

“I know that,” she says, scornful in her pride. “You’re a good boy.” She lightens. “Things are going okay?” 

Peter covers your ear. “Goodnight, Aunt May.” 

”I have half a mind to never listen to you again. You talk my ear off and I can’t ask a simple question?” 

“I love you,” Peter sing-songs. 

“I love you, Peter,” she says. “Don’t smother the girl.” 

“I won’t smother her. It’s in my best interest that she survives the night. She’s buying my breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Peter Parker.” 

“I’m kidding,” he whispers, petting your cheek absentmindedly. “Just messing with you, May.” 

You smile and curl further into his arms. His voice is like the sun, even when he whispers.  

—

To your surprise, Spider-Man comes to find you after class one evening. A guest lecturer had talked to your oncology class about click chemistry and other molecular therapies against cancer, and the zine book she’d given you is burning a hole in your pocket. Peter is going to love it. 

You pull it out and pause beside a bench and a silver trash can, the day grey but thankfully without rain. The pages of your little book whip forcefully in the wind. It’s chemistry, sure, but it’s biology too, wrapping your and Peter’s interests up neatly. If it weren’t for Peter you doubt you’d love science as much as you do. He’s always been good at it, but since you started college he's been a genius. Watching him grow has encouraged you to work harder, and understanding the material is satisfying, if draining. You take a photo of the middle most pages and tuck the book away, writing a quick text to Peter to send with it. 

Look! it says, LEGO cancer treatment!! 

The moment you press send a beep chimes from somewhere close behind you, all too familiar. You turn to the source but find nobody you know waiting. Coincidence, you think, shaking yourself and beginning the trek to the subway. 

But then you hear the tell tale splat and thwick of Spider-Man’s webbing. 

You wait until you’re at the alleyway between Porto’s Bakery and the key cutting shop and turn down to stop by one of the dumpsters. 

“Spider-Man?” you ask, shoulders tensed in case it’s not who you think. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You gasp as he hops down in front of you, his suit shiny with its dark web-pattern caught by the grey sunshine passing through the clouds overhead. “Shit, don’t break your ankles.” 

“My ankles?” He laughs. He sounds so much like Peter that you can only laugh with him. What an idiot he is for thinking you don’t know; what a fool you’d been for falling for his put upon tenor. “They’re fine. What would be wrong with my ankles?” 

“You just dropped down twenty feet!” 

“It’s more like thirty, and I’m fine. You understand the super part of superhero, don’t you?” 

“Who said you’re a superhero?” 

“Nice. What are you doing down here?” 

“I was testing my theory. You’re following me.” 

“No, I’m visiting you, it’s very different,” he says confidently. 

“You haven’t come to see me for weeks.” 

“Yes, well, I–” Spider-Peter crosses his arms across his chest. “Hey, you’re the one who told me to take a day off.” 

“I did tell you to take a day off. It’s not nice thinking about you trying to save the world every single night. That’s a lot of responsibility for one person to have.” 

“But it’s my responsibility,” he says easily. “No point in a beautiful girl like you wasting her time worrying about it. I have to do it, and I don’t mind it.” 

“Do you flirt with every girl you meet out here in the city?” you ask, cheeks hot. 

“No,” he says, fondness evident even through the mask, “just you.” 

“Do you wanna walk me home? I was gonna take the subway, but it’s not that far.” 

Spider-Man nods. “Yeah, I’ll walk you back.” 

He doesn’t hide that he knows the way very well. He takes preemptive turns, crosses roads without you telling him to go forward. You can’t believe him. Smartest guy at Midtown High and he can’t pretend to save his life. 

“Are you having a good semester?” he asks. 

“It’s getting better. I’m glad I stuck with it. I love biology, it’s so fucking hard. I used to think that was a bad thing, but it makes it cooler now. Like, it’s not something everyone understands.” You give him a look, and you give into temptation. “My best friend got me into all this stuff. I used to think math was hopeless and science was for dorks.” 

“It’s definitely for dorks.” 

“Right, but I love being one.” You offer a useless secret. “I like to think that it’s why we’re such great friends.” 

“Me and you?” Spider-Man asks hoarsely. 

“Me and Peter.” You elbow him without force. “Why, do you like science?” 

“I love it…” 

“You know, I really like you, Spider-Man. I feel like we’ve been friends for a long time.” You’re teasing poor Peter. 

He doesn’t speak for a while. He stops walking, but you take a few steps without him. When you realise he’s stopped, you turn back to see him. 

Peter’s gone so tense you could strike him with a flint and catch a spark. It’s the same way Peter looked at you when he told you about his Uncle, a truth he didn’t want to be true. Seeing it throws a spanner in the works of all your teasing: you’d meant to wind him up, not make him panic. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Can you hear something?” 

“No, it’s not that…” He’s masked, but you know him well enough to understand why he’s stopped. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Spider-Man.” You take a step toward him. “It’s fine.”

He presses his hands to his stomach. The sun is setting early, and in an hour, the dark will eat up New York and leave it in a blistering cold. “Do you remember when we first met, the second time, we swapped secrets?” 

“Yeah, I remember. Useless secret for another. I told you I hated my major. It’s not true anymore, obviously. I was having a bad time.” 

“I know you were,” he says, emphasis on know, like it’s a different word entirely. 

“But meeting you really helped. If it weren’t for you, for Peter,” —you give him a searching look— “I wouldn’t feel better at all.” 

“It wasn’t his fault?” he asks. “He was your friend, and you were lonely.” 

“No–”

“He didn’t know what was going on with you, he didn’t have a clue. You hurt yourself and you felt like you couldn’t tell anybody, and I know it wasn’t an accident, so what was his excuse?” His voice burns with anger. “It’s his fault.” 

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Is that what you think?” You shake your head, panicked by the bone-deep self loathing in his voice, his shameful dropped head. “Yes, I was lonely, I am lonely, I don’t know many people and I– I– I hurt myself, and it wasn’t as accidental as I thought it was, but why would that be your fault?” 

“Peter’s fault,” he says, though his head is lifted now, and he doesn’t bother enthusing it with much gusto. 

“Peter, none of it was your fault.” You cringe in your embarrassment, thinking Fuck, don’t let me ruin this. “I was in a weird way, and yes, I was lonely, and I really liked you more than I should have. You didn't want me and that wasn’t your fault, that’s just how it was, I tried not to let it get to me, just there were a lot of things weighing on me at once, but it really wasn’t as bad as you think it was and it wasn’t your fault.” 

“I wasn’t there for you,” he says. “And I’ve been lying to you for a long time.” 

“You couldn’t tell me, right? Spider-Man is your secret for a reason.” 

“…I didn’t even know you were lonely until you told him. He was a stranger.” 

You hold your hands behind your back. “Well, he was a familiar one.” 

Peter reaches out as though wanting to touch you, but your arms aren’t in his reach. “It’s not because I didn’t want you.” 

“Peter,” you say, squirming. 

He steps back. 

“I have to go,” he says. 

“What?” 

“I have to– I don’t want to go,” he says earnestly, “sweetheart, I can hear someone calling out, I have to go. But I’ll come back, I’ll– I’ll come back,” he promises. 

And with a sudden lift of his arm, Peter pulls himself up the side of a building and disappears, leaving you whiplashed on the sidewalk, the sun setting just out of view.

—

You fall asleep that night waiting for Peter. When you wake up, 5AM, eyes aching, he isn’t there. You check your phone but he hasn’t texted. You check the Bugle and Spider-Man hasn’t been seen. 

You aren’t sure what to think. He sounded sincere to the fullest extent when he said he’d come back, but he didn’t, not ten minutes later, not twenty. You made excuses and you went home before it got too dark to see the street, sat on the couch rehearsing what you’d say. How could Peter think your unhappiness was his fault? Why does he always put the entire world on his shoulders?

Selfishly, you worried what it all meant for his lazy touches. Would he want to curl up into bed with you again now he knows what it means to you? It’s different for him. It isn’t like he’s in love with you… you’d just thought maybe he could be. That this was falling in love, real love, not the unrequited ache you’d suffered before. 

But maybe you got everything wrong. All of it. It wouldn't be the first time. 

—

You and Peter found The Moroccan Mode in your senior year at Midtown. The school library was small and you were sick of being underfoot at home. When you started at ESU, you explored the on campus coffeehouse, the Coffee Bean, but it was crowded, and you’d found yourself attached to the Mode’s beautiful tiling, blues and topaz and platinum golds, its heavy, oiled wooden furniture, stained glass lampshades and the case full of lemony treats. The coffee here is better than anywhere else, but the best part out of everything is that it’s your secret. Barely anybody comes to the Mode on purpose. 

You hide in a far corner with a book and an empty cup of decaf coffee, a slice of meskouta on the table untouched. Decaf because caffeine felt a terrible idea, meskouta untouched because you can’t stomach the smell. You push it to the opposite end of the table, considering another cup of coffee instead. It’s served slightly too hot, and will still be warm when it gets to your chest. 

The sunshine is creeping in slowly. It feels like the first time you’ve seen it in months, warming rays kissing your fingers and lining the walls. You turn a page, turn your wrist, let the sun warm the scar you gave yourself those few months ago, when everything felt too big for you. 

Looking back, it was too big. Maybe soon you’ll be ready to talk about it.  

The author in your book is talking about bees. They can fly up to 15 miles per hour. They make short, fast motions from front to back, a rocking motion. Asian giant hornets can go even faster despite their increased mass. They consider humans running provocation. If you see a giant hornet, you’re supposed to lay down to avoid being stung. 

You put your face in your hand. Next year, you’ll avoid the insect-based electives. 

Across the cafe, the bell at the top of the door rings. Laughter falls through it, a couple passing by. The register clashes open. A minute later it closes. 

You don’t raise your head when footsteps draw near. A plate is placed on the table, pushed across to you, stopping just shy of your coffee. 

“Did you eat breakfast?” Peter asks quietly. 

His voice is gentle, but hoarse. 

You tense. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, not waiting for your answer to either question. “You don’t look like yourself. Your eyes are red.” 

You lift your head. Wet with the beginnings of tears, you see Peter through an astigmatic blur. 

“What are you reading?” He frowns at you. “Please don’t cry.” 

You shake your head. Your smile is all odd, nothing like his, no inherent warmth despite your best effort. “I’m okay.” 

He nudges you across the booth seat and sits beside you. His arm settles behind your shoulders. He smells like smoke and soap, an acrid scent barely hidden. “Can you tell me you didn’t wait long for me?” 

“Ten minutes,” you lie. 

“Okay. I’m sorry. There was a fire.” He rubs your arm where he’s holding you. “I’m sorry.” 

“Will you go half?” you ask, nodding to the sandwich he’s brought you. It’s tough sourdough bread, brown with white flour on the crusts and leafy greens poking between the slices. You and Peter complain about the price. You’ve never had one. He passes you the bigger half, holding the other in his hand without eating. 

“I know you’re hungry,” you say, tapping his elbow, “just eat.” 

You eat your sandwiches. Now that Peter’s here, you don’t feel so sick —he’s not upset with you. The dull pang of an empty stomach won’t be ignored. 

Peter puts his sandwich down, which is crazy, and wipes his fingers on the plates napkin. You’ve never seen him stop before he’s done.

“It was in the apartments on Vernon. I– I think I almost died, the smoke was everywhere.” 

You choke around a crust, thrusting the rest of your half onto the plate. “Are you hurt?” you ask, coughing. 

He moves his head from side to side, not a shake, but a slow no. “How long have you known it was me?” he asks, curling his hand behind your back again, fingers spread over your shoulder blade, a fingertip on your neck. 

You savour his touch, but you give in to your apprehension and stare at his chest. “The night you caught me outside in the rain in November. You called me ‘running girl’. The way you said it, you sounded exactly like him. I turned around expecting,” —you whisper, weary of the quiet cafe— “Spider-Man, and I realised it’s him that sounds like you. That he is you.��� 

“Was that disappointing?” 

“Peter, you’re, like, my favourite person in the world,” you whisper fervently, your smile making it light. You laugh. “Why would that be disappointing?” 

“I thought maybe you think he’s cooler than me.” 

“He is cooler than you, Peter.” You laugh again, pleased when he scoffs and draws you nearer. “I guess you’re the same person, right? So he’s just as cool as you are. But why would being cool matter to me? You know I like you.” 

“You flirted pretty heavily with Spider-Man.”

“Well, he flirted with me first.” 

You chance a look at his face. From that moment you can’t look away, not from Peter. You like when he wears that darkness in his eyes, the hint of his rarer side so uncommonly seen, but you love this most of all, Peter like your best memory, the way he’s looking at you now a picture perfect copy of that moment in a swimming pool in Manhattan with cracked tile under your feet. His arms heavy on your shoulders. You didn’t get it then, but you’re starting to understand now.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” he says softly, the trail his hand makes to the small of your back leaving a wake of goosebumps. “I haven’t been honest with you.” 

“I haven’t, either.” 

“I want to ask you for something,” Peter says, a fingertip trailing back up. He smiles when you shiver, not teasing, just loving. “You can say no.” 

“You’re hard to say no to.” 

“I need you to talk to me more,” —and here he goes, Peter Parker, flirting and sweet-talking like his life depends on it, his face inching down into your space— “not just because I love your voice, or because you think so much I’m scared you’ll get lost, but I need you to talk to me. We need to talk about real things.”

We do, you think morosely. 

“It’s not your fault,” he adds, the hand that isn’t holding your back coming up to cup your cheek, “it’s mine. I was scared of telling you for stupid reasons, but I shouldn’t have let it be a secret for so long.” 

“No, I doubt they’re stupid,” you murmur, following his hand as he attempts to move it to your ear. “It’s not easy to tell someone you’re a hero.”

His palm smells like smoke. 

“That’s not the secret I meant,” he says. 

You take his hand from your face. Peter looks down and begins pressing his fingers between yours, squeezing them together as his thumb runs over the back of your hand.

“So tell me.”

The sunshine bleeds onto his cheek. Dappled orange light turning slowly white as time stretches and the sun moves up through a murky sky. “You want to trade secrets again?” he asks. 

“Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, but I don’t have as many as you do,” he warns. 

“I find that hard to believe.” 

“I don’t. It’s not a real secret, is it? I’ve been trying to show you for weeks, we…”

He tilts his head invitingly. 

All those hand-holds and nights curled up in bed together. Am I going too fast? You know exactly what he means; it really isn’t a secret.

“I’ll go first,” he says, lowering his face to yours. You try not to close your eyes. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.” He closes his eyes so you follow, your breath not your own suddenly. You hold it. Let it go hastily. “What’s your secret?” 

“Sometime I want you to kiss me so badly I can’t sleep. It makes me feel sick–”

“Sick?” he asks worriedly. 

You touch the tip of your nose to his. “It’s like– like jealousy, but…” 

“You have no one to be jealous of,” he says surely. He cups your cheek, and he asks, “Please, can I kiss you?” 

You say, “Yes,” very, very quietly, but he hears it, and his smile couldn’t be more obvious as he closes the last of the distance between you to kiss you.

It isn’t the sort of kiss that kept you up at night. Peter doesn’t hook you in or tip your head back, he kisses gently, his hand coming to live on your cheek, where it cradles. It’s so warm you don’t know what to make of him beyond kissing him back —kissing his smile, though it’s catching. Kissing the line of his Cupid’s bow as he leans down. 

“I’m sorry about everything,” he mumbles, nose flattened against yours. 

You feel sunlight on your cheek. Squinting, you turn into his hand to peer outside at the sudden abundance of it. It’s still cold outside, but the Mode is warm, Peter’s hand warmer, and the sunshine is a welcome guest. 

Peter drops his hand. “Oh, wow. December sun. Good thing it didn’t snow, we’d be blind.”

“I can’t be cold much longer,” you confess. “I’m sick of the shitty weather.” 

“I can keep you warm.” 

He smiles at you. His eyelashes tangle in the corners of his eyes, long and brown. 

“Did you want my meskouta?” you ask. 

Peter plants a fat kiss against your brow. 

You let the sunshine warm your face. Two unfinished sandwich halves, a mouthful of coffee, and a round slice of meskouta, its flaky crumb and lemon drizzle shining on the table. You would ask Peter for his camera if you’d thought he brought it with him, to take a picture of your breakfast and the carved table underneath. You could turn it on Peter, say something cheesy. This is the moment you ruined our lives, you’d tease.

“You never told me you met Spider-Man, you know.” 

You watch Peter lick the tip of his finger without shame. “They could make a novella of things I haven’t told you about,” you murmur wryly. 

Peter takes a bite of meskouta, reaching for your knee under the table. He shakes your leg a little, as if to say, Well, we’ll work on that. 

—

Spring

“Sorry!”

“No, it’s–”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m– shit!”

“–okay! All legs inside the ride?”

“I couldn’t find my purse–”

“You don’t need it!” Peter leans over the console to kiss your cheek. “You don’t have to rush.” 

“Are you sure you can drive this thing?” 

“Harry doesn’t mind.” 

“I don’t mean the car, I mean, are you sure you can drive?” 

“That’s not funny.” 

You grin and dart across to kiss his cheek, too. “Nothing ever is with us.” 

Peter grabs you behind the neck —which might sound rough, if he were capable of such a thing— and pulls you forward for a kiss you don’t have time for. “If we don’t check in,” —you begin, swiftly smothered by another press of his lips, his tongue a heat flirting with the seam of your lips— “by three, they said they won’t keep the room–” He clasps the back of your neck and smiles when your breath stutters. You squeeze your eyes closed, kiss him fiercely, and pull away, hand on his chest to restrain him. “And then we’ll have to drive home like losers.” 

Peter sits back in the driver's seat unbothered. He fixes his hair, and he wipes his bottom lip with his knuckle. You’re rolling your eyes when he finally returns your gaze. “Sorry, am I the one who lost her purse?” 

“Peter!” 

“I can’t make us un-late,” he says, turning the key slowly, hands on the wheel but his eyes still flitting between your eyes and your lips. 

“Alright,” you warn. 

He reaches for your knee. “It’s a forty minute drive. You’re panicking over nothing.” 

“It’s an hour.” 

Your drive from Queens to Manhattan is entirely uneventful. You keep Peter’s hand hostage on your knee, your palm atop it, the other hand wrapped around his wrist, your conversation a juxtaposition, almost lackadaisical. Peter doesn’t question your clinging nor your lazy murmurings, rubbing a circle into your knee with his thumb from Forest Hill to Lenox Hill. There’s so much to do around Manhattan; you could visit MoMA, Central Park, The Empire State Building or Times Square, but you and Peter give it all a miss for the little known Manhattan Super 8. 

It’s been a long time since you and Peter first visited. You took the bus out to Lenox Hill for a med-student tour neither of you particularly enjoyed, feeling out future careers. It’s not that Lenox Hill isn’t one of the most impressive medical facilities in New York (if not the northeastern USA), it’s that all the blood made him queasy, and you were panicking too much about the future to think it through. He got over his aversion to blood but chose the less hands-on science in the end, and you worked things through. You’re a little less scared of the future everyday. 

You and Peter were supposed to get the bus straight back home for a sleepover, but one got cancelled, another delayed, and night closed in like two hands on your neck. Peter sensed your fear and emptied his wallet for a night in the Super 8. 

The next morning it was beautifully sunny. The first day of summer that year, warm and golden. The pool wasn’t anything special but it was invitingly cool, blue and white tiles patterned like fish below; you clambered into the water in shorts and a tank top and Peter his boxers before a worker could see and stop you. 

It was one of the best days of your life. When you told Peter about it last week, he’d looked at you peculiarly, said, Bub, you’re cute, and let you waste the afternoon recounting one of your more embarrassing pangs of longing. A few days later he told you to clear your calendar for the weekend, only spilling the beans on what he’d done when you’d curled over his lap, a hand threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring, Tell me, tell me, tell me. 

He’d hung his head over you and scrunched up his eyes. Cheater.

The best thing about having a boyfriend is that he always wants to listen to you. Peter was a good listener as a best friend, but now he has his act together and the secrets between you are never anything more than eating the last of the milk duds or not wanting to pee in front of him, he’s a treasure. There’s no feeling like having Peter pull you into his lap so he can ask about your day with his face buried in your neck, sniffing. Sometimes, when you text one another to meet up the next day, you’ll accidentally will the hours away babbling about school and life and things without reason. Peter has a list on his phone of your silliest tangents; blood oranges to the super moon, fries dipped in ice cream to the world record for kick flips done in five minutes. It’s like when you talk to one another, you can’t stop. 

There are quiet moments. You wake up some mornings to find him awake already, an arm behind you, rubbing at your soft upper arm, fingertip displacing the fine hairs there and trailing circles as he reads. He bends the pages back and holds whatever novel he’s reading at the bottom of his stomach, as though making sure you can see the words clearly, even when you’re sleeping. 

There are hectic, aching moments —vigilante boyfriends become blasé with their lives and precious faces. You’ve teetered on the edge of anxiety attacks trying to pick glass from his cheek with a tweezers, lamented over bruises that heal the next day. It’s easier when Peter’s careful, but Spider-Man isn’t careful. You ask him to take care of himself and he’s gentle with himself for a few days, but then someone needs saving from an armed burglar or a car swerves dangerously onto the sidewalk and he forgets. 

He hadn’t patrolled last night in preparation for today. 

“Did you know,” he says, pulling Harry’s borrowed car into a parking spot just in front of the Super 8 reception, “that today’s the last day of spring?” 

“Already?” 

“Tonight’s the June equinox.” 

“Who told you that?” 

“Aunt May. She said it’s time to get a summer job.” 

You laugh loudly. “Our federal loans won’t last forever.” 

“Harry’s gonna get me something, I think. Do you want to work with me? It could be fun.” 

You nod emphatically. It’s barely a thought. “Obviously I want to. Does Oscorp pay well, do you think?” 

Peter lets the engine go. The car turns off, engine ticking its last breath in the dash. “Better than the Bugle.” 

You get your key from the reception and find your room upstairs, second floor. It’s not dirty nor exceptionally clean, no mould or damp but a strange smell in the bathroom. There’s a microwave with two mugs and a few sachets of instant coffee. Peter deems it the nicest motel he’s ever stayed in, laughing, crossing the room to its only window and pulling aside the curtain. 

“There it is, sweetheart,” he says, wrapping his arm around you as you join him, “that’s what dreams are made of.” 

The blue and white tiled pool. It hasn’t changed. 

It’s about as hot as it’s going to get in June today, and, not knowing if it’ll rain tomorrow, you and Peter change into your swim suits and gather your towels. You wear flip flops and tangle your fingers, clanking and thumping down the rickety metal stairs to the pool. There’s nobody there, no lifeguard, no quests, and the pool is clean and cold when you dip your toes. 

Peter eases in first. Towels in a heap at the end of a sun lounger, his shirt tumbling to the floor, Peter splashes in frontward and turns to face you as the water laps his ribs. “It’s cold,” he says, wading for your legs, which he hugs. 

“I can feel it,” you say, the cool waters to your calves where you sit on the edge. 

“You won’t come in and warm me up?” he asks. 

You stroke a tendril of hair from his eyes. He attempts to kiss your fingers. 

“I’m trying to prepare myself.” 

“Mm, you have to get used to it.” He puts wet hands on your thighs, looking up imploringly until you lean down for a kiss. The fact that he’d want one still makes you dizzy. “Thank you,” he says. 

“You’ll have to move.” 

Peter steps back, a ripple of water ringing behind him, his hands raised. He slips them with ease under your arms and helps you down into the water, laughing at your shocked giggling —he’s so strong, the water so cold. 

Peter doesn’t often show his strength. Never to intimidate, he prefers startling you helpfully. He’ll lift you when you want to reach something too tall, or raise the bed when you’re on his side to force you sideways. 

“Oh, this is the perfect place to try the lift!” he says. 

“How will I run?” you ask, letting your knees buckle, water rushing up to your neck. 

Peter pulls you up. He touches you easily, and yet you get the sense that he’s precious with you, too. There’s devotion to be found in his hands and the specific way they cradle your back, drawing your chest to his. “I don’t need you to do a running start, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I’ll just lift you.” 

“Last time I laughed so much you dropped me.” 

“Exactly, you laughed, and this is serious.” 

The world isn’t mild here. Car horns beep and tyres crunch asphalt. You can hear children, and singing, and a walkie talkie somewhere in the Super 8’s parking lot. The pool pumps gargle and Peter’s breath is half laughter as he pulls you further from the sidelines, ceramic tiles slippery under your feet. In the distance, you swear you can hear one of those songs he likes from that poor singer who died in the Wolf River. 

He’s a beholden thing in the sun; you can’t not look at him, all of him, his sculpted chest wet and glinting in the sun, his eyes like browning honey, his smile curling up, and up. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. 

You rest an arm behind his head. “The rash guard is a good look?” 

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t look cuter,” he says, hands on your waist, pinky on your hip. “I wish you’d mentioned these shorts a few days ago. I would’ve prepared to be a more decent man.” 

“You’re decent enough, Parker.” 

“Maybe now.” 

“Well, if things get too hot, you can always take a quick dip,” you say. 

You’re teasing, but Peter’s eyes light up with mischief as he calls, “Oh, great idea!” and lets himself drop backwards into the water. You pull your arm back rather than go with him. You can’t avoid the great burst of water as he surges to the surface. 

He shakes himself off like a dog. 

“Pete!” you cry through laughs, wiping the water from your face before the chlorine gets in your eyes. 

“It just didn’t help,” he says, pulling you back into his arms, “you know, the water is cold, but you’re so hot, and I actually got a pretty good look at them when I was under, and you’re just as pretty as I remembered you being ten seconds ago–”

“Peter,” you say, tempted to roll your eyes. 

Water runs down his face in great rivers, but with the dopey smile he’s sporting, they look like anything but tears. “Tell me a secret?” he asks, dripping in sunshine, an endless summer at his back. 

A soft smile takes your lips. “No,” you say, tipping up your chin, “you tell me one first.”

“What kind of secret?” 

“A real one,” you insist. 

“Oh…” He leans away from you, though his arms stay crossed behind you. “Okay, I have one. Ask me again.” 

You raise a single brow. “Tell me a secret, Peter.” 

He pulls your face in for a kiss. His hand is wet on your cheek, but no less welcome. “I love you,” he says, kissing the skin just shy of your nose. 

You’re lucky he’s already holding you. “I love you too,” you say, gathering him to you for a hug, digging your nose into the slope of his neck as his admission blows your mind. “I love you.” 

Peter wraps his arms around your shoulders, closing his eyes against the side of your head. You can’t know what he’s thinking, but you can feel it. His hands can’t seem to stay still on your skin. 

The sun warms your back for a time. 

Peter lets out a deep breath of relief. You lean away to look at him, your hand slipping down into the water, where he finds it, his fingers circling your wrist. 

“That’s another one to let go of,” he suggests. 

He peppers a row of gentle kisses along your lips and the soft skin below your eye. 

You and Peter swim until your fingers are pruned and the sun has been blanketed by clouds. You let him wrap you in a towel, and kiss your wet ears, and take you back to the room, where he holds your face. 

“I’ll start the shower for you,” he says, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, each stroke of them encouraging your face from one side to the other, just a touch, ever so slightly moved in the palms of his hands. 

“Don’t fall asleep standing up,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes close unbidden to you both. “I won’t.” 

He holds you still, leaning in slowly to kiss you with the barest of pressure. Every thought in your head fades, leaving only you and Peter, and the dizziness of his touch as he lays you down at the end of the bed. 

｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ

please like, comment or reblog if you enjoyed, i love comments and seeing what anyone reading liked about the fic is a treat —thank you for reading❤︎

[tonycries]

Why Can't I Keep My Fingers Off You? - G.S.

Synopsis. There were two things missing in the scene in front of you: 1. The aphrodisiac chocolate your friends had given as a gag gift last Christmas that had been hidden away in the back of your refrigerator. 2. Your dear fiancé.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected sex, Satoru’s blindfold gets used, overstimulation (male + female), lots of cum, aphrodisiac sex, multiple rounds, making Gojo Satoru cum in his pants, breaking the bed, mating press, pet names (my girl), swearing.

Word count. 3.0k

A/N. Can you tell it’s ovulation week. PART 2 HERE. Art by @_3aem on x.

Ah~ It’s the 21st century, they should really make these curses self-exorcizing. 

It’s been a long day of dealing with countless curses and five droning clan meetings (all of which he missed, oops). Now, Satoru loiters around your shared penthouse apartment - waiting for you to come back home from work.

Hmm, maybe he’ll quickly drop by and see what the first years are up to? He probably didn’t have a class right now. 

But first, Satoru grins, opening the refrigerator to grab at the secret stash of sweets all the way in the back - something sweet.

---

It was odd to step into a tense silence suffocating your home - usually used to being met with whines of “how dare you take so long!” and “you won’t believe what that emo kid did today.” as soon as you walked in through the door.

Was Satoru running late on a mission today?  

It wasn’t surprising, the man had to be everywhere - it’s not like he always has the time to teleport and welcome you home. Yet, you still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off as you made your way into the kitchen.

Cursing whoever invented the work week, the cold air of the refrigerator hits you as you open it to grab a drink, wondering when your fiancé will be home.

Wait.

Tired brain distinctly noting the lack of that familiar flash of hot pink, you double-take as you glare at the back of the refrigerator - as if willing it to materialize in front of you. Where was that?

“That” being the gag gift your friends had given you last Christmas to playful wolf whistles. Some large slab of “aphrodisiac chocolate” - probably normal chocolate - that you’d skeptically thrown in with your secret candy stash for a rainy day. 

Satoru had ransacked your goods again, you sigh. But if he was home…then where was he?

“Toru? Are you home?” you call out in confusion, only to be met with a deafening silence. 

Concern etched on your face, you set the drink down to look for Satoru, footsteps thumping against the hardwood floors at each tense step. 

Approaching the bedroom, a low, unmistakable moan filters through the heavy door. Satoru.

Heartbeat racing and worry coursing through you, you cautiously push the door open - only to be met with a sight that makes your heart stop.

There, sprawled across your bed in just his boxers, a delicate flush spread enticingly along his sculpted body, was your Satoru. 

Something about this scene felt more than a simple evening nap. The air was heady and thick with something. Maybe it was that familiar hot pink wrapper lying empty at the foot of the bed. Maybe it was the way Satoru’s usually vibrant eyes were half-lidded, curtained by his tousled hair. 

Or maybe it was his hand squeezing the large outline of his achingly hard cock through his boxers. Circling the dark spot around his leaking tip. Massaging his heavy balls. Teasing. 

“You’re home‘ he rasps out, voice strangled and snapping you out of your trance. 

“Wha- yes. Toru, what happened?” you sputter out, eyes locked on the way his cock twitched animalistically at the sound of your voice.

In the blink of an eye, Satoru’s gotten up from the bed, muscled arms caging you against the wall. His rock-hard erection presses into your front, precum smearing through his boxers against your work clothes.

“You’re home.” he repeats, sounding as strained as if he were about to snap any second. Losing his sanity with each breath that fans your hair.

You could feel the pulsing of your cunt as your eyes flit from the sheen of sweat decorating his body to the blindfold haphazardly hanging off his neck. Satoru finally raises his eyes to look at you.

Oh, he’s already lost his sanity.

Pupils blown, those blue eyes you love now a lustful black - a predatory glint in them that made a carnal part of your cunt twitch. His mouth spreads into a wolfish grin, teeth bared as if ready to eat you up. 

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Toru…you okay?”

“You’re home.” he breathes out, as if a prayer. 

“Satoru.”

The simple call of his name sealed your fate.

The buttons hit the ground before you realize what he’s doing. Ripping your shirt off, pulling off your bra, fisting your clothes in his hands as if it killed him to see you clothed. 

Too impatient - too starved - to remove your skirt, he pulls it to shreds off your hips.

“Woah- slow down there.” you squeal as he drops to Satoru knees, biting down on the thin fabric of your soaked panties, tugging with his teeth. You know he’ll buy you ten more to replace what he’s torn, but jeez where was the decorum?

“Can’t” he slurs, peeking up at you with dazed eyes. Was your Satoru even here with you?

“What?” 

“Can’t stop.” he murmurs lowly, voice sending vibrations to your twitching cunt. 

And before you know it, sharp teeth bite around your panties, ripping them to shreds. Looking up at you with hooded eyes, miles away, grinning devilishly around the soaked fabric in his mouth. 

Shit, what have you gotten yourself into.

Despite your thobbing pussy, you soothe “Now, Toru. Why don’t we just-”

“Shut up.” he mutters. And he does - words catching in your throat as Satoru dives nose-deep into your dripping cunt. Hot tongue urgently lapping at your juices, as if a man dying of thirst..

Nose rubbing your pulsing clit in rough circles, he breathes you in so sinfully, letting out a throaty groan as he does. He bullies his tongue past your dripping folds, stretching you, dipping in and out of your quivering entrance. Over and over. In and out.

You were losing your mind with each rough push of Satoru’s warm tongue. Dizzying pace forcing lewd whimpers out of your mouth that mix with the squelches of his mouth on your pussy. 

You buck your hips desperately into his face, and amidst his merciless abuse on your cunt, you barely notice the way he presses his body against yours. 

Shit, so this is why he’s so fucking feral - Satoru’s cock was painfully hard, swollen and throbbing against your leg. Fuck- you weren’t gonna be able to walk for a while.

He grind his hips into you, precum soaking your bare legs. With a low whimper at the back of his throat, Satoru’s tongue fucks you in a way you knew he wanted to with his cock right now. Rough and unrelenting.

Maybe it’s the harsh abuse of his mouth on your swollen lips, nose catching on your clit just right. Or maybe it’s the feeling of your slick dripping down the corners of his mouth, onto your thighs and mixing with the precum of his aching erection. 

Before you can even register it, you’re cumming all over Satoru’s mouth, grip tight on his white locks and hips riding his pretty face.

Greedily lapping at your quivering cunt, he moans as his eyes roll to the back of his head at the sweet juices pooling around his tongue. 

In the back of your mind, you recognize the feeling of Satoru’s warm cum smearing against your leg. Did- Did Gojo Satoru just come in his underwear while eating you out?

Sinfully, he licks at the mixture of your juices dripping down your legs, eyes closed as if tasting a delicacy. He was going to be the death of you.

As soon as your high bates, Satoru stands to his full height. Towering above you with eyes that looked like he wanted to positively eat you alive.

“T-Toru…are you okay?” 

But your fiancé stays silent, throbbing erection still straining painfully against his wet boxers as he shoves you against the cold wall. Rough hands on your hips, presenting your dripping cunt to him and arching you to his will.

A large hand smacks the wall beside your head, plaster crumbling under his strength. Shit, if he keeps going at this pace then nothing in the house will survive Satoru - including you. 

You feel the cum-soaked fabric of his boxers grinding against your ass, his hands pulling and groping every bit of skin he can reach.

“Toru, take it off.” you whine out, words dripping in lust.

You don’t need to tell Satoru twice. With grace that he wouldn’t give your clothes, his boxers are on the ground, painfully hard cock hitting his abs. 

You can feel the slick dripping down your legs as you look behind your shoulder to see one hand wrapped tightly around his large cock. Pulling in slow, languid motions up to the furiously flushed tip. His heavy balls twitch as he thumbs the prominent vein along the side.

“I want-”

You can’t even finish your sentence before Satoru’s bullying his massive cock into your snug cunt. Plush walls desperately trying to adjust to his size as he sheaths himself in your hot core. 

You moan at the delicious stretch of your pussy. It’s not like you haven’t done this before - yet, where Satoru was usually suave in sex, right now it was replaced by pure, feral need. With his tip kissing your cervix as he pushed animalistically into your cunt - you didn’t know if you’d make it out alive. 

“Hah- Toru it’s too big. Ah! I can’t-.”

“You will.” he grits out, teeth clenched and brows furrowed. 

Satoru presses into you inch by fucking inch, groaning at the tight ring of muscles trying to both push him out and suck him in desperately. It was so animalistic.

It seems Satoru’s body moves before his mind, hips fucking into your dripping pussy recklessly. Harsh thrusts, not even pulling all the way out to ram into you as he usually does - as if he can’t bear to part with your wet core. His balls sting your cunt as they smack against you at his unforgiving pace, strings of slick and cum connecting him to you.

“Ah- So good f’me, my girl. Always- so good.” he gasps out at the heavenly feeling of your dripping cunt sucking him back in at each thrust. “Hngh! Mmm more. I need more. Need it so bad.”

Hands arching your back into him now grope the expanse of your skin, before wrapping around your body to lift you off the floor. 

“Ah! Toru, what- hngh-” you choke on your words at the new angle. 

Satoru’s body bows into you, cock still slamming inside you at a feral pace midair. Not even a hair’s breadth between your bodies. 

With one hand he forces you to look up at him, capturing your lips with his in a searing kiss. Pretty mouth sucking your tongue as he did with your cunt.

If you were in a better state of mind, you’d notice the slight glow tinging his lustful eyes. The electricity thrumming through his fingers. Yet you already knew - Satoru was absolutely losing it.

Your feet dangle off the ground as he holds you securely, length reaching impossibly deeper inside you. Prominent vein grazing that one spot over and over.

“Hngh- Oh my god, Toru. S’too much!” you pull away to whine. 

“Open your mouth.” he murmurs raspily. As if body on auto-pilot, your mouth opens, tongue lolling out for what he was about to give.

Satoru’s stream of spit is warm on your tongue, making you clench around his merciless cock. He lets out a drawn-out groan, eyes boring down at you, holding a glint of the same insanity he has when he exorcizes curses, “My nasty girl. Can’t get enough of you.”

You moan at his words, hands reaching behind you to grab on the blindfold dangling on his neck. “Toru more-” you gasp out, your tight grip causing him to bow his head with a groan, cock twitching ferally. 

“Fuck! More? You fucking want more?” he groans out, voice wrecked with pleasure. 

You let out a yelp as his teeth dig into your neck - hard enough that you were sure you’d have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow. Like a lamb to slaughter, he was going to eat you up. Yet, your grip on his blindfold never waves, pulling him closer as he fucks roughly into your snug cunt. 

Ass burning at the friction of his pelvis. Pussy dripping onto your bedroom floor. Unforgiving. Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. “Ah! Toru s’good.” 

You both cum with strangled gasps. A low keen at the back of Satoru’s throat, and he’s pumping hot ropes of cum into your awaiting pussy. Tears stinging your eyes at your sensitivity, all you know is a wave of pleasure as you ride out your climax on the ramming of his hips and the how full you are of his seed.

His hand still draws hurried, desperate circles on your clit. You squeal at the overstimulation, tears clinging to yours lashes. “Toru- hngh!” you can barely get out the words, his hips slamming into yours mercilessly as Satoru milks his cock desperately on your quivering pussy. 

“Shut up. You said you wanted more. You’re gonna get more, my little slut.” he mutters carnally.

Ah, you can’t do this. You were going to fucking pass out.

“One- more.” he moans.

Your thighs clench around him, pushing your plush walls deeper as he lets out raspy whimpers with each thrust. “Hah- hngh.” 

“Shit- Toru I’m-” Your climax hits you with a jolt, body twitching in pain and pleasure from the oversensitivity as your cunt flutters around his cock - not even being able to tell when Satoru’s orgasm ends and when yours starts. 

You feel a tear hit your shoulder, overstimulation too much for his poor cock as his seed coats your walls once more. It drips out of you, forming a pool on the floor as he pulls out - for only a second before you’re thrown on the bed. 

Orgasm-hazed brain barely having time to register what is happening before Satoru stalks towards you from the foot of the bed. Unhurriedly approaching you as you scoot towards the headboard.

Your pussy jumps exhaustedly at the sight of him - eyes darkened and narrowed at you like a predator that has spotted his prey. A devilish smirk stretches across his swollen lips, glossed prettily with spit and slick. 

Toru, I-I don’-” you words slur out. 

“One- one more, my girl. Please.” Satoru whimpers, throat shot from what transpired just before. His cock twitches, glistening with cum and slick, dripping onto the fresh bedsheets. 

As he looms closer, you wonder how the fuck Satoru was still holding up - was this all because of the chocolate? You have half the mind to wonder whether he was using reversed cursed technique to keep you both alive.

You mewl deliriously at the feeling of your legs being thrown on his shoulders. Eyes blown and face flushed your favorite shade of pink, he licks a long stripe up your ankles, voice cracking as he moans sinfully. 

Satoru’s flushed tip teases your entrance, dragging along your swollen folds. Fuck. Shit. Maybe you wouldn’t even mind dying if it was with his cock rammed in your snug cunt.

Barely even lucid, he thrusts harshly into you - your tight entrance readily sucking up his flushed tip. You both hiss at the sensitivity. Surely, one of you was going to pass out. 

Hand moving to grasp the blindfold around his neck, you pull him to you. Your hamstrings burn in protest as Satoru bends down to attach his lips with yours, moving down until you were folded in half. 

Tongue tangling with yours, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, fiery with an intensity that made you unsure if either of you would make it out of this alive. 

Heartbeat roaring in your ears, you don’t notice the crack! of the bed and neither does Satoru. Too caught up in desperately reaching whatever number orgasm it was this night. 

Moans incoherent, your body convulses, nails dragging down the expanse of his sculpted back as the bed creaks in protest. A strangled groan leaves his mouth, cock throbbing inside you - or maybe that was your quivering cunt. At this point you really didn’t know anymore. 

“Shit- ah! Fuck. I’m- M’cumming. M’cumming. Hngh- cumming!” he whines out, voice ragged and breathing unstable. Delicate tears streak down his face, dripping onto your quivering body below him. Salty.

You can only let out exhausted whines, too fucked out to form any proper sentences.

Hot seed gushing inside you again, it overflows out of you, cunt dripping and too full to take anymore. Yet, Satoru still fucks into you until he sees stars and his poor cock is cumming dry. You can barely even feel your climax, distant tingles and the only thing on your mind being Satoru Satoru Satoru. 

The air leaves your lungs as he collapses on top of you. Skin flushed and sticking to yours. Body twitching as his poor cock neverendingly shoots blanks inside of you. Which number was this even?

That’s when you black out.

Floating in and out of dreams of blue, blue skies and mini Satorus running around, you wake up with a start. Well, as much of a start as you could with your entire body aching as if you got run over by a truck - and then an entire zoo after.

Bleary eyes taking in your surroundings, you distinctly realize that you’re spread out on the living room couch. 

What happened.

“Hey, you okay?” a hoarse voice sounds from beside you. You could barely recognize it as your fiancé’s, words jagged from…whatever it was before.

“You…are you okay?” you rasp out, raising a brow exhaustedly. Satoru chuckles sheepishly, tenderly smoothing over the blanket placed on top of you. What a change from before - are you sure this is the same guy?

“Well…the wall is crumbling, we broke the bed, and I’m pretty sure my dick won’t work again for the next couple years.” he gets out in one breath. At your silence, he continues “And I think my favorite blindfold is out of commission.”

“...wow.”

“Wow.” 

“You lecher, you ate from my secret stash, didn’t you?”

“...”

A few days later, opening the refrigerator, you’re met with a wall of hot pink. A sticky note on top reading in Satoru’s hasty scrawl, “This time you take one too :D”

A/N. Wrote this while watching The Garfield Show.

Plagiarism not authorized.

[inmaki]

gojo showing off your back scratches to geto

( cont from this fic! req, visual ) .

contains: sex talk, desc of back scratches, crack, sugu is called daddy once (as a joke.. right..)

everything was relatively peaceful in suguru's apartment. key word: relatively.

a forgettable yet appreciated sunday afternoon, not a cloud in sight despite the weather forecast predicting downpours of rain. either way, the raven-haired man insouciantly rested across his white couch, reaching the conclusion that today would be a day for self-care, relaxing, and perhaps some meditation.

there was only one thing ruining his peace.

all morning, suguru has been forced to try and ignore the stain a certain someone has left on his couch — a pair of unecessarily expensive yet dirty shoes being the culprit.

despite these attempts, every once in a while his gaze can't help but wander over at the mark — as if it'd poof out of existence if he glared hard enough.

"fuckin' asshole.." he mutters. it was a wonder his relationship with his best friend managed to stay so promising despite all their differences, yet suguru wouldn't have it any other way, even after situations like this.

right when he grumpily turns back to the tv — which was playing some crappy, low budget rom-com — his apartment door is yanked open and suguru swears he nearly jumps out of his seat.

great, was this it? was he about to get robbed, perhaps evicted? and then probably die? forced into the afterlife knowing gojo's shoe-shit was still on his new couch? no that can't—

"i fucked her!"

suguru whips his head towards the apartment door, announcement being disregarded as he nearly groans in agony. speak of the devil.

big blue eyes peak out from under circular sunglasses, one hand already raised in preparation for a dap up while his stupid, big, dirty shoe pushes the door closed behind him. gojo wears a black compression shirt with grey sweats, marching over to his friend with a ginormous grin across his cheeks.

"take your shoes off, now," suguru snaps, nodding to his friend's feet with a frown.

"yeesh... whatever y'say, daddy," the bastard never loses his smile as his hands raise in surrender, kicking them off by the door smoothly. "what's got your panties in a twist?"

geto pinches his nose bridge. "don't call me that," as he continues the scolding, he points to the living room with his free hand. "you got a mystery stain on my couch, satoru. do you know how many youtube videos i watched trying to get this shit off?"

unphased, gojo takes a look at the strangely colored blob against the armrest's leather material and shrugs. "my bad. did you try febreeze?"

"what— no? dude, febreeze is for.." when suguru looks back up to sourly meet his gaze, he could immediately tell the white-haired man was already drifting back into la-la-land, words going in one ear and out the other. "..nevermind. why're you here?"

at the reminder, satoru seemingly brightens, head shooting back up as if he was just told he'd won the lottery.

"oh god, don't make that stupid face—" he pauses. "the fuck are you doing?" suguru might as well say goodbye to his self-care day, because now gojo was stripping in the middle of his living room, shirt thrown haphazardly onto the still-very-much-stained couch.

"just look!" suguru squints as his friend swivels around to face the wall, pushing his bangs away to get a better view of the— oh shit.

it takes the raven-haired man a second to process what he's seeing before shuffling forward, closely examining the achingly red, bulging scratch marks displayed sexily across the latter's back and shoulders. "no way.."

suguru knows the strongest sorcerer well enough to notice how he purposely didn't use reversed cursed technique on these scratches, just so it'd be obvious to anyone that caught a glimpse of what exactly occured. to his further dismay, he can already picture a smug and sweaty gojo walking around their local gym like this, proud simper on his pretty lips as he easily raises a pair of weights in his veiny hands.

a hiss escapes geto's mouth as he runs his finger down a particularly agitated one, knowing exactly how painful they could be after experiencing many hook-ups of his own. even so, satoru only licks his lips, neck craning to the side so he can pride himself in his friend's gobsmacked expression.

"damn, these are deep. you actually hit it?" suguru confirms, raising a celebratory hand.

turning back around, satoru daps him up, a massive smirk now on both their faces. "hell yeah, it was amazing."

it was impossible to predict what gojo would do next after barging through his front door — especially considering how many times he's done so — but this has to be the last thing suguru ever expected.

not that he was complaining — in fact, all of geto's temper and need for relaxation seemingly flew out the window, the feeling of proudness for his best friend overthrowing anything else.

and even if he hated to admit it, the way gojo was so eager to come over and announce his virginity loss to him was more than a little endearing, and dare he say cute.

"that's great, man. congrats." suguru leads him into the kitchen — still shamelessly shirtless — to grab them both a can of beer in celebration. while the white-haired man usually didn't get involved with any form of alcohol, this occasion was most definitely exception-worthy. "you made y/n cum too, right?"

an offended glare is shot his way. "duh, two times."

"huh. surprised you could last."

as suguru pours their drinks into two fragile cups, gojo exhales, not bothered in the slightest by his jab. "dude, same.." he admits dreamily. "she was so fuckin' tight and warm.. and oh— fuck, her moans? heavenly.. 'can't believe i didn't bust after the first minute.."

geto gulps, trying his best to ignore the mental image his brain was producing from his dirty words. you can't blame him — both of you were smoking hot, and he was a simple man.

even now, he could already imagine what you both looked like; panting and moaning, skin-slapping so loud that it echoed through the whole room, how blissed out you'd look as gojo's cock split you in t—

satoru's playful sigh cuts through the tensing air. "who knows sugs, maybe you'll have another kind of stain to worry about next time we're over~"

he's never snapped out of a daydream so quickly. "don't even joke about that."

over the next hour, the two men sat manspread on the stained couch, taking leisure sips while recalling satoru's final moments as a virgin — suguru giving out his secret tips and tricks along the way.

maybe sometime, suguru could offer some.. hands-on learning instead.

mlist! <- sugu.. how could u think abt ur bestie and his gf like that... tsk tsk tsk (if u enjoyed reblogs/comments r appreciated heheh)

© inmaki on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[smallfisheyes]

it's silly, you know, but you have to try it. may the grapes work.

nanami kento can’t find you when the clock strikes midnight.

there was a ruckus, the release of fireworks outside (who permitted fireworks on school premises?), and cheers of happy new year. itadori toots one of those awful noisemakers. tuna mayos and hugs are exchanged. as planned, nanami maintains a wide berth from gojo, recalling his attempts at a sloppy kiss the previous year. it is a new year; the year of the snake.

but you are nowhere in sight.

why does nanami's belly feel like it's sinking? he smiles, but there is an ache in the centre of his chest. his eyes flick left and right, the festivities unfolding before his eyes. the school had been decorated by the students with the funding of gojo's shiny black card, reds and golds streaming along the walls. stuffed snakes (inumaki's idea) were thrown haphazardly onto the ground. the remnants of the party games from earlier scatter the table-clothed tables.

in your stead, shoko meets nanami's eyes. he nods, giving her a brief hug, sure to grip her just below the shoulder and just above the waist.

"happy new year," he mumbles. shoko smiles. it is politeness exchanged with a colleague and friend, but this is not how he pictured his first interaction of the year (and with whom it was shared).

kento had planned it down to the tee: your favourite wine, no more than two whiskeys, arriving just after you to seemingly rescue you from forcing yourself to yap about things you did not care about (work) with a person you could not care less about (gojo). kento was meticulous, more meticulous than he was at that awful firm he worked at in his early twenties. he had to be. the moment must be perfect. you deserved a wonderful evening. yet, there was a variable he forgot to consider: he couldn't find you.

"ah, nanamin," shoko hums. kento steps back, offering his full attention. there's that awful look on that face of hers, one that dates back more than ten years. the teasing one that reminds kento he is nothing but a lost junior; a silly, unkowing little boy with punk bangs. one that is about to be berated by the scary bobbed girl with a cigarette habit.

a force seizes his lungs, halting their movement. may the berating begin.

"are you looking for someone?" shoko teases. that tone. how grating.

"what gave it away?" no frustration laces kento's voice, only soft desperation.

shoko stacks her hands together and brings them to the side of her face. she tilts her head, her voice sing-song-y. "nothing, just that look of yearning."

kento huffs in frustration. his fists curl in impatience. "where is she, shoko?"

shoko steps to the side, an evil scientist revealing her latest experiment.

when kento sees what is behind her, the world tilts just right.

there you are, under the table, crouched and feral. kento draws back at the sight of you: a monkey, primitive and on the hunt for food. in quick succession, large and luscious green grapes were thrown into your mouth. you were a chipmunk. you stuffed your face full of grapes before you even finished chewing. 

you were always a wonder.

shoko's voice is soft, her note of contentment complimenting kento's sudden leisure at the sight of you. "happy new year, nanamin." she pads away.

kento makes a note to gift shoko a red envelope the following day.

there you are; his little star. kento moves, crouches, and parts the red tablecloth.

"you never told me you liked grapes."

your grape-a-thon veers to a halt. absolute horror stills your chewing. you have at least five grapes in your mouth. 

kento smiles wide. a rush of warmth washes over him. he could squish you.

this too much attention from a too handsome man. you turn your head away to fend off the rush of blood to your face.

"they're soh exsensiv hare," kento makes out between your voice and the grapes. you chew rigorously, averting your eyes. you hold a hand in between your wobbly mouth and kento’s eyes, falsely creating a front to maintain your dignity. "tha’s why you don seh meh eaving them. gofo saeh he woulv give them tah me."

kento bristles. he would get grapes for you anyday. command or none.

"may i join you?"

you chew a little more in thought, grimacing as you swallow. kento tries hard not to watch your throat, but he can’t resist. 

“of course.” you’re sincere. you’ve gone shy. his heart aches. he wants to make you get bashful like this every day.

you scooch over to make room for large and long nanami kento to sit beside you under the table. he’s still wearing those winged shoes you love, but opted for a white knitted sweater that makes you wonder how soft it is. you almost reach for kento’s arm, but you draw back. you’re under the table eating grapes for a reason. you deflate. five more grapes to go.

“you don’t need to be under here with me,” you reassure kento. kento looks like a stuffy that got pounded into a too small toy chest. his neck cranes and his bottom is awkwardly sat in a cross cross. you smile. you want this to last forever. 

“i can’t let you be here alone. it’s new years.”

you wring your hands together. you need to eat four more grapes. “thanks, kento.”

you eat your grapes now, but slower. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. weren’t you supposed to eat all twelve grapes before midnight was over? you glance over at the clock. it’s already too late. 

you open your palms: four beautiful green grapes, grown and harvested in japan. when you arrived here, you hadn’t realized fruit was a luxury. fruit is difficult to grow. the majority of land is ill-suited for fruit. 

four wasted beautiful grapes.

“that’s enough grapes for tonight.” kento gently takes your hand and rests them on his own. he cups yours, creating a shield. his hands are warm. they’re so much bigger than yours. “you never needed them.”

“yes i did,” you insisted. 

kento shakes his head. “no. you don’t need any of that nonsense.”

your frown is deep. your eyes are in a different place. kento cups your hands more firmly now. “you never needed the grapes, darling.”

it’s instinct, the little “no” that forms on the tip of your tongue. it takes a second, another, to realize the precious thing kento had called you.

darling. YOU. darling?!

suddenly, you’re the one gripping kento’s hands. “what did you say?!”

kento shakes his head, patting your hand. “you make this difficult.” 

“you! you called me–” you guffaw like a fish when kento nods a tired affirmative, like it was obvious all along. “please don’t lie.”

kento’s eyes turn icy. “i would never lie to you.”

your lips wobble pathetically. you hate this man. he makes you silly and makes your heart beat too fast. he makes you want to turn away and stare all the same because he is too handsome. too kind. so him. and you had always wanted him. but the yearning? you never expected it to be returned.

“nanami kento, were you always on tiktok?”

kento throws back his head and laughs. you stare for too long. you’re allowed to now. “i have three wonderful students.”

the year of the snake will be a wonderful one.

you leave the remaining grapes for gojo. he needed them more than you.

i can't stare at this anymore please take it as it is. happy year of the snake everyone :) hissss

[kngrose]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐎 𝐈'𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃...

imagine a situationship with sevika

WARNINGS: mentions of cheating, drinking, bi! reader but wlw, eventual smut, modern au

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i have way too many thoughts about this— this will have multiple parts. see part two here. ^^

It wasn’t supposed to happen. You didn’t plan for it. But somewhere along the line, something changed. Your relationship had gotten too… comfortable. At first, the changes were subtle; He wasn’t saying anything outlandish, nothing to make you question your relationship.

But there were small instances, ones where he’d forget plans you made, or when he’d linger on his phone a little longer than usual in your company. You told yourself it was nothing; he might just be a little more stressed than usual– maybe there’s something personal he’s going through.

But as time passed, the pattern became clearer. Conversations that used to flow easily were now strained, almost forced, filled with half-hearted responses. He didn't pick up on the little things anymore; your new manicure or your haircut you had gotten to perfectly frame your face, in hopes that he would notice.

He wouldn’t be as passionate anymore, the fire he once held slowly dimming before your eyes. It was disheartening. The spark that once kept your relationship alive is fading, and you're left with a gnawing feeling of emptiness that you can’t quite explain.

And then there was her.

It wasn’t anything too large, the event. Just a kickback amongst some of your shared friends and some extras they’d invited. You’d tagged along with your boyfriend who’d long forgotten about you, chopping it up with a few of the guys on the couch. You felt a sour twinge in your gut as you sat beside him; this is the most enthusiasm he’s shown in weeks.

You’d noticed her in your solitude; shooting you glances across the room. Similar to you, she hadn’t said much of anything, just idly man-spread on the neighboring couch, red cup held loosely in her hand. You’ve never seen her before… you wonder whose friend she is.

You can't help but return the glances– look at her. Her broad shoulders, her thighs, her hands decorated with rings. The piercings that decorate her face. Those eyes, assessing you as she circles the rim of her cup with an index finger, a little smirk forming on her dark lips.

How could you help it– when she’s just radiating with unspoken confidence? It’s captivating, drawing you in like a deer in headlights. There’s a sharpness in her eyes that unsettles you, and yet, something about it excites you. She’s not like anyone you’ve ever seen.

You realized later that she was just waiting. Waiting for your boyfriend to excuse himself so she could move in. It’ll make you wonder later, how much of this she premeditated. It doesn’t take her long to approach you when he leaves, sliding into the spot next to you curtly, smirking as she meets your eyes. She’s beautiful up close.

She’s looking at you with that calculating gaze, making it clear she’s intrigued. She scans your face up and down, “Like your hair… suits you.”

Her voice was deep, commanding, like she had the power to bend the world to her will. You feel your cheeks warm under her gaze, touching your hair softly. “Thank you.” You manage to retort, embarrassingly glancing away. When you shot your eyes back to hers your breath got caught in your chest, her gaze is unwavering. A chuckle rumbles from her throat, “You’re cute.”

But it's not just the look—it’s the way she speaks to you. It’s amazing how easily she manages to fluster you, it’s effortless. Sevika, you learn that her name is, charms you with her dry humor and college stories, entertaining you the entirety of the night.

She tells you about all of the petty fights she’s been in, and all of her run ins with the police. Some of which are so descriptive you have to wonder if she’s being generous with the details. All the while she’s charming you up, placing a hand on your knee, then to your thigh, drawing small circles. You take note of the way she seems to fixate on your hair, constantly moving it from your face or twisting the strands between her fingers.

The flirtation feels different—darker. Her voice rumbles with a kind of quiet power, and when her hand brushes against yours, it lingers just a little too long. You want to pull away, but instead, you stay. The tension builds, and despite your better judgment, a part of you is drawn to it. To her.

You wish you could go back in time and slap yourself. You knew better than to get yourself alone with this girl, this freakishly charismatic, freakishly, randomly attractive girl. But you let her lead you away to a secluded hallway of the house, her excuse being the music was too loud.

And she continued conversing with you, leaning against the wall and swallowing down the rest of the cup. She huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, “You a nanny or somethin’?” You shot her a confused look in response. She looked down, nodding her head towards the red cup in your hand. “You’re babysitting.” 

“Oh, this…” You mutter, swirling the drink around plainly. “Not much of a drinker.” You notice the roll of her eyes as she pushes herself off the wall and your breath hitches as she closes in on you. She pulls the cup from your hand, raising a large hand to your chin to tilt your head back. You barely manage to sputter, “What are you doing–!” before she orders you to, “Open,” nudging your chin softly.

You lock eyes with her for the umpteenth time, her eyes filled with something different this time around. You hesitantly part your lips, allowing her to pour the rest of the content into your mouth. There’s a soft groan leaving her mouth as she watches some of it spill from the corner of your lips down your chin.

The way her eyes lingered on your lips made your heart race. You were suddenly aware of how close you were, how her scent filled your senses, how her gaze felt like a slow burn.

You don’t say anything, but you can feel the heat between you both, the pull that’s been growing stronger with each passing second. Before you know it, she’s kissing you—rough and urgent, her hands gripping your hips with a hunger that matches the storm brewing inside you. Her kiss is overwhelming, like a fire that consumes you whole. You melt into it, into her, not thinking about the consequences, not thinking about him.

The moment ends just as quickly as it began, but the aftershocks are impossible to ignore. You stand there, breathless, disoriented, and yet, there’s a part of you that doesn’t regret it. It feels raw, real, and alive in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

You pull away from Sevika, your chest tight with confusion and shame. But Sevika just watches you, unfazed. There’s no sympathy in her gaze, in fact, all you could register was a sly smirk on her lips. Sevika moves to stand close to you, her presence overwhelming, wrapping a hand around your throat, "What's holding you back?" she mumbles against your lips.

And in that moment, you realize that nothing is holding you back. You’ve already made your choice without even knowing it.

There’s no turning back now.  

please let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist to be notified everytime i post, xx

taglist: @opropheticsoul

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ it's a gift (you keep those) ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving him a plushie that reminded you of him┊1k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, crushes, probably ooc but he’s so cute & wade is hard to write for, written for dp&w logan so idk if he got gifts in xmen, i forgot about laura, they are in touch and have a wonderful father-daughter relationship, i’m so sorry, edited

➤ author's note: i have so many thoughts but too incompetent to write

logan’s never sure who will appear when he opens the door as wade’s quite the extrovert, either vanessa or one of his many other friends whom he’s now become somewhat acquainted with, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to meet the familiar eyes of the cute neighbor who lived a few doors down. he nervously scratched the back of his head, suddenly becoming aware of his shabby appearance, “uh, are you looking for wade?”

“no, i was actually looking for you!” god, your smile is so bright, it’s blinding. he normally hates perfume of any sort as it’s so overpowering to his heightened senses, but the one that you wore smelled so lovely like always. is that a new shade of lip gloss you’re wearing? it really suits you. (why on earth is he noticing all of these details out of the blue? he needs to snap out of whatever spell you put on him after being introduced when he first showed up and only interacting in passing since then).

“looking for me?” he repeated, in disbelief, trying his best not to allow his surprise to slip into his voice. considering he isn’t from this dimension and not the most agreeable person to be around, he had no friends of his own yet and hasn’t been visited by anyone since he got here. a beat of panic struck him, thinking that he was in trouble for something and you came to complain. he really couldn’t think of any other reason you were here for him even though you were so cheerful.

you were carrying some shopping bags with you, dropping them on the ground before reaching into one and pulling out a large fuzzy plushie of a gray cat hidden under layers of glittery tissue paper, “i saw this cutie when i went shopping with my friends and thought it looked like you!” you held it out for him to take, looking so proud of the stuffed animal.

he hesitated for a second before accepting it, trying to take in the fact that you were reminded of him in your day-to-day life. it made his heart flutter, and he found himself dumbfounded by the feeling. he was frequently teased by his roomate about his little “crush” on you, claiming that it was oh so obvious and that the sooner he accepted it, the better, but he never realized until now how pathetic he was when it came to you. was the wolverine really getting butterflies like a fucking schoolgirl in his old-ass age? thank god no one was home right now to bully him about it, he would never hear the end of it.

“it does not look like me,” he scoffed playfully after a quick examination.

“no, it definitely does! it’s a big, grumpy kitty—” you took a step closer to hold it with him, pointing at all the similarities you observed, although it was clear you were exaggerating for laughs. “see the little frowny face and ears? it could be your identical twin separated from birth! willy mentioned that you act like a cat most of the time, and i think it fits perfectly!”

the smile he didn’t realize was plastered on his face faltered at the last piece of information, grateful that you didn’t notice. that idiot has been talking about him to you? he might as well forget about any chance of getting with you, because knowing how he yaps without a filter and loves to play matchmaker, you probably think he’s a freak of some sort. “only good things, i hope…”

you giggled, the sweetest sound he ever heard. “of course, he’s really fond of you… well, maybe a bit too fond, but you already know about that!” you opened your mouth to continue the conversation or say something else, but your phone started ringing and you excused yourself, looking a little shy as you grabbed up your bags. “i’ll talk to you later!” you sounded so excited about the prospect of it before leaving, your voice and footsteps becoming fainter as you walked back to your place.

“wait, you didn’t take back the cat—”

“it’s a gift! you keep those!”

“oh… right…”

he lingered for a moment, unable to say much in response since you left in such a rush. when was the last time someone gave him a present? staring at this brand new item, he still couldn’t see the resemblance in any way, but knowing that it was a gift from you gave him a rare feeling of happiness which returned every time he looked at it from then on among his few possessions. 

“oh my goodness, what is this adorable thing?!” wade exclaimed when he saw it sitting on the couch where logan slept, picking it up to gawk at before tossing it up in the air and catching it before it hit the floor. “ooh, let me guess, it’s a gift from her, isn’t it?” 

the mutant groaned at his mocking tone. “put it down before you ruin it with your grubby hands,” he commanded, snatching it from his grasp (rough enough to make his point clear, but carefully enough not to tear it apart). his roommate didn’t even bother pretending to be offended like he usually would as he was simply overjoyed that his “ship” was coming true. “it doesn’t mean anything, don’t make it weird.”

“it doesn’t mean anything?! how can you say that when it’s going to be the first gift you give to your first child together—”

“first what??”

“nevermind, what are you gonna name it?”

“i have to name it?”

“have you never owned a stuffed animal before? you have to name it! how heartbroken is she going to be when she asks what you named it and you say that you haven’t done that?! she’s gonna think that you don’t value her gifts!” you would think the world was going to end if he didn’t do so if you heard the way he was speaking.

“fine, i’ll name it…” he looked deeply into the toy’s soulless eyes, noting how soft the outer material was against his calloused hand, “... fluffy…”

“that’s such a shitty name—”

“shut the fuck up, it’s been decided.”