🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ characters are adults. college roomate!yuuji itadori and fem!reader. college au. no curses. possessiveness, flirty yuuta, codependency kinda if you squint, yuuji is cock block ꒰ your roommate isn’t a fan of you flirting with his friends, he makes it a point of letting them know — you’re his girl. ꒱
i think when he introduces you to his friends at parties or like college socials, yuuji gets the most possessive.
it’s not that he thinks his friends are bad guys, for the most part they’re respectful and none of them are cheaters to any degree. it’s just that, deep down he worries you might like one of them more or hit it off with one enough to take them home that same day. technically, you’re off limits — an unspoken rule hinging on the fact that you are the one good roommate yuuji has had since starting college… but it’s not like you’re best friends. it’s not like he has claim over you.
when you’re at socials, his arm sits heavy on the curve of your waist — an automatic shield that the two of you pretend means less. you think he doesn’t just to comfort you in busy spaces, he acts casual. like it’s nothing to hold you this close to him, the point where he can feel the rise and fall of your ribs as you breathe and laugh or the way your tummy twists when he leans down to whisper into your ear about the kind of drink you want.
“who’s your friend, itadori?” someone named yuuta asks, but you’re not paying attention to him. not with the fruit punch on your lips and yuuji’s cologne wafting over your brain like a thick fog. “she’s pretty.”
your gaze snaps away from the party towards the interaction and your roommates grip tightens and nearly sends you toppling into him. his long, deft fingers splay out over your tummy — a warning, a sign. “thank you?” you chirp over the music, only because it’s the polite thing to do and yuuji hasn’t said anything. when you glance up at him, his jaw is clenched in that sexy way. you save the visual for later when you’re alone.
“you look amazing,” yuuta presses, flirty and cool. “love your outfit. cute.”
the compliment does wonders for your ego, and the alcohol warms you to a confident stupor. “thrifted most of it,” you purr and the stranger leans down to your height. “it’s super fun, i can show you sometime if you’d like—”
yuuji coughs, loud and dramatic — stepping between yourself and his friend with his shoulders squared. “let’s back up a bit, yeah?” laughter from him is light, aerated as if to appear easy going. calm. pushing his friend away from you. “yuuta this is my roommate.” he says your name like he owns it, crafted right then and there on his tongue and it sounds so good coming from him — the cadence of each syllable blending like honey in milk. it warms you to the point of desire. “my girl, my favourite girl. ain’t that right?”
for the first time since meeting yuuta, your roommate looks at you. really looks at you. the safe, chocolate brown in his eyes melting into something darker, dangerous. his smirk is laced with the kind of cruelty that has thrill spreading beneath your skin and his hand is warmer on your tummy. pressing harder as if to remind you of who you really belong too.
“oh, i see,” yuuta smiles, sensing the sexual tension and deciding to back down for the night. “i’ll leave you two love birds alone then.”
you make a face of confusion, watching your one-shot at a good night fade into the crowd. “we’re not—!”
yuuji squeezes you again. “we’re not, what?” he asks, cocking his head to the side; swooping down to your height to listen to your answer. you swallow, obeying his quiet order for silence. “just let him go, you don’t wanna sleep with that anyway. his ex is insane,” you hate that you’d do anything for him, that you listen to his flimsy excuse and let yuuji condemn you to involuntary celibacy when he gets to fuck full full time. “let’s go grab a drink ‘n sit with the others! i think they’re playing a game on the couch.” he adds with more chipper.
“i don’t think there’s space for us, ji. everyone’s practically sitting on top of each other!” you whine in protest, but then the seat of his palm slides lower down your spine and cups the curve of your ass. possessively.
“that’s okay,” itadori purrs in response, pink hair tickling the outermost part of your ear. “you can just sit on my lap, let everyone know you’re here with me.” he waits expectantly for your nod or hum of approval, kissing the crown of your head affectionately when you do. like it means something. like it’s more than this limbo the two of you are stuck in. yuuji takes your hand, small in his larger ones and drags you along to the centre of the room. “that’s my girl.”
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
an: lemme talk abt izukus cock and hyperspermia plspslslplslsp
midoriya izuku; who's got to have the most beautiful cock known to man kind.
the first time you see it, you're in awe.
so thick and chubby, his tip is sooo wide and such a beautiful shade of pink (you may even want to get the colour done for your nails), it's so veiny that every time he thrusts into you; you can feel the vein pattern in your sopping heat.
not only that.
but midoriya izuku cums. a WHOLE lot.
like the first time you want to suck him off, he tilts his head over to the side; his cheeks rosy in embarrassment as he murmurs. "please don't feel the need to make me finish..i— i cum a lot." your eyes move back down to his dick to see the ENORMOUS amount of pre that this man is spewing out.
that night when he cums ropes and ropes into your mouth, he runs his thumb over your chin to collect the rest of his cum that spilt out when you were trying to swallow it all (which was not an easy task!!). he takes up the thick white gooey liquid and shoves it right into your mouth, letting you suck on his thumb too while you're at it.
this very obviously leads to him having the most massive breeding kink known to man kind. he loves watching you beg for all his cum like you can't live without it, and he loves watching it flow out of you before he sticks his thick fingers right inside to keep you plugged :'''(
he's blessed with such a beautiful cock and such amazing loads of cum. you couldn't ask for better <3
an: im a whore for hyperspermia, SUE ME!!
banner creds to @/uzmacchiato
𐔌 ﹒fallen angel!toji cannot believe how often your husband leaves you in this big, empty house. that's not at all to say he doesn't enjoy the time you and he spend together, but seriously. how the hell can anyone be concerned with business trips–be gone for weeks! at a time–when the prettiest thing in all the world is right here. all alone.
well, not anymore.
the bed is a mess, though nothing compared to you. the hand you have pressed on his stomach does no good. feels nice... soft... human, but that's about it. his cock still splits you open, plunging deep inside with squelches that match whenever the bedframe thuds against the wall.
"t... toji–oh, fu-ugh-ck..."
smacking his hips harder, toji grunts a breathy 'uh uh.'
"remember what we said? no point in talking unless you're gonna use those words."
you try again. it's barely anything, more like wailed-out begs as toji ignores the way his tucked-away wings pulse beneath the skin of his back. as usual, they're trying to free themselves–silently screaming and dying to cradle you. the former angel doesn't let them.
not yet, at least.
the bed quiets for a moment as toji changes his angle, leaning himself until he can feel your chest on his. you become so loud–teary-eyed, too–at the different feeling, how deep he sinks himself and holds it there that he has to coo out a few shushes.
oh, he knows, baby. he's big, isn't he?
bigger than your husband in every possible way. from top to tip. heavier, also. long enough for you to have claimed that you can "feel him every-fucking-where," on multiple occasions...
one of those being now, as toji loops his right arm under the bend of your knee on the same side, and grinds his waist forward until he can feel his balls sagging against your ass.
"t-oh-ji!"
"ssshit, t-that's it..."
this time, that one gets the both of you. toji's breathes down the hot pants you exhale into his mouth with his own heaves, then closes the gap. his tongue pressing into yours, he only pulls his cock out a third of the way before stuffing himself back in. afraid that losing the heat of you around him will be worse than his fall.
"right there, baby. keep it right there," toji directs in a rough voice against your lips, as if you can even think about moving.
he has you pinned now. bouncing beneath the hard sculpt of his body and making it so you can't help the groans of raw, real ecstasy that only he is capable of giving you.
"can't–'m gonna come. i can't hold it," you warn with wobbly words, and toji nearly falters when your touch finds his back. the nails you're halfway dragging make his vision blur.
"do it then," he croaks, unable to breathe properly through the suffocating buzz of his antsy wings. it's when you yelp, gushing a continuous warmth between the two of you that toji finds himself unable to hold the rest of his composure for any longer.
he shakes hard, harder than you, senses going into overdrive. a flutter of feathers dance a brilliant wash of deep black and the same green as his eyes before the room, flapping free in the stuffy air while toji pumps you full of his seed. it's always more than most humans release, and leaks from in record time thanks to how he keeps pounding you. he curses in a celestial language you don't understand, clutching you tight as his continued strokes drag another peak from you.
the broken sounds of toji falling apart battle your own until you both forget how to make noise. at some point he stops thrusting, but you can still feel him.
"i'm still going–easy, baby! easy," toji flinches, eyes rolling, when you accidentally brush where his skin meets the base of one of his wings. a moan rips from him, and his cock spurts another rope of cum so thick that you can feel yourself flooding again.
"sorry," you gasp, toji hurrying to quell your absentminded reaches with a gentle tug of your wrist.
"s'okay," he hisses back, trying to calm the pulses that remain strong. shutting one eye, toji tries to inhale through it. you make the task a little easier when you cup his jaw and pull him down for a wet kiss.
the snog, spit-filled and dizzying, would've lasted longer if it weren't for the pleased flap of his wings at your actions.
"seriously, guys?" toji groans as soon as he breaks away from your mouth, lip accidentally quirking at the weak laugh you release. the being shakes his head and plops back on top of you. tired, yes. but not as tired as he knows you are by now.
humans get sleepy so easily...
WANT MORE FALLEN ANGEL!TOJI? CHECK OUT THE TAG (coming soon!)
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to keep the facecam on while you’re bent over the desk in front of him, one hand on your hip and the other clicking through chat donations like it’s just another Tuesday. “Yeah I’ll do the ranked climb later,” he says into the mic, voice completely even, then leans forward and pushes into you slow and deep. He mutes for two seconds, mutters “fuck, clamp down like that again,” then unmutes and answers a sub question about his sensitivity settings while his hips keep rolling.
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to make you sit on his face during the loading screens, tongue working slow and deliberate while the queue timer ticks down. Every time the match is about to start he lifts you off just enough to say “one more, don’t come yet,” then goes right back to licking into you like he’s got all the time in the world. When the game finally loads he sets you back in his lap, still dripping, and starts playing with one hand while the other stays between your legs, fingers sliding in and out in time with the fights.
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to edge you for an entire three-hour stream, never letting you finish. He keeps a toy inside you on the lowest setting the whole time, remote in his pocket, and every time chat donates he turns it up for a few seconds just to watch you shift in the chair next to him. “You good?” he asks casually. You nod too fast and he smirks, turns the vibe higher, and goes back to explaining the new update like nothing’s happening.
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to let you give him head under the desk during collabs, completely straight-faced while he talks to other streamers on Discord. His hand stays in your hair the whole time, guiding you slow, and every time someone asks him a question he answers clearly even as your throat tightens around him. When the call ends he looks down, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and says “swallow,” quiet and calm, with a slight smirk.
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to record a private video just for the two of you after a long stream, camera still rolling while he bends you over the same chair. He talks the whole time in that same low voice, telling you exactly how wet you are, how good you take it, how chat would lose their minds if they could see. “Look at the camera,” he says, gripping your hair and tilting your face up. “Wanna see later how pretty you look when you’re full.”
streamer byf ! satoru is the type to make you edge yourself on camera while he plays, just out of frame. He tells you the rules in that same calm voice he uses for tutorials: “Fingers only. No coming until I say.” Every time you get close he glances over, shakes his head once, and you have to stop. Chat keeps asking why he keeps looking to the side. He just smirks and says “checking something,” then turns the sensitivity of the toy up another notch without ever taking his eyes off the game for long.
᭡ kali’s notes ⸻ Guys I’m obsessed with him in this kind of AU... I wish he were real..anyway hope y’all enjoyed it ??mwahh !
Description: You’re spider-man’s closest thing to a friend since the world forgot his name. Helping him with gadgets, cleaning his wounds…all without him ever taking the mask off. His true identity has always been a barrier between you two, but what happens when he gets hit with the pollen, and not only him, but the creature lurking inside him fixates on the only person he gets to call home?
Tags/warnings: sex pollen smut, fem!reader, porn with plot, whiny desperate peter >>>, dry humping, piv, riding, oral fem!rec, fingering, dark!peter taking over for a bit, orgasm denial, prone bone, so much yearning, mask stays on…or does it?
Note: You have no idea how giddy it makes me to write him again. He had NO business looking that good in the movie so I had to get this out of my system. Enjoy 🤍
Masterlist
You've seen spiderman hurt many times. When you signed the lease of the first apartment you could afford as a recent graduate, you never thought that would become your new normal.
The first time it happened was completely accidental. He’d arrived at the building in the middle of the night, bruised, bleeding and too disoriented to realize that the window he’d come through was not his.
That night, the noise of a heavy body collapsing onto the floor woke you up. For one terrifying moment, you believed someone had broken into your apartment, only to switch on the lamp and find the city’s superhero groaning and pressing his hands to his side. His suit was torn there, and blood soaked through the ruined fabric onto your rug.
He barely lifted his head when he heard you gasp, the lens of his mask focusing on your figure standing there with wide eyes, wearing only an oversized shirt.
“Wrong window,” he choked, then tried to hold himself up but immediately collapsed again. “Dammit,” he cursed, waiting for you to freak out any second now.
You could have, but instead you rushed to him and knelt beside him.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” Your hands hovered helplessly over his body, trying to see how bad the damage was in the dark. “You need a hospital–”
“No!” He snapped, trying to turn away but failing miserably. “I’ll be fine, I heal quickly.”
“You still need to stop the bleeding,” you countered, folding your knees under your body so you could rest on your calves. “Listen, I can help you. I took some medical courses last year and I have a kit somewhere.”
You looked at him with pleading eyes. He’d saved the city so many times, the fucking world, it was the least you could do to give something back.
He considered his options for a second, and to be honest he didn’t have many. His body was betraying him, and he couldn’t even get up to fix it himself like usual.
The blood loss made him nod, and you wasted no time in getting up and finding said kit. The blood loss also made him drift in and out of consciousness as you tended to the wounds on his ribs as much as you could.
It did not make him less cautious of you though. When you noticed the rip on his mask over a nasty gash on his neck and reached for it, his hand closed around your wrist and even half conscious, his grip was strong.
“Please,” he whispered. Pleaded. “Keep it on.”
The fear in his voice made you promise you would. Even if you couldn’t get to that gash properly. Even when he fell asleep on your floor and didn’t wake up for six whole hours.
The next morning, he opened his eyes and found you sitting on your bed, still staring at him.
His hands patted his chest, and confirmed his arachnid powers had done its job and healed him mostly. But most importantly, his mask was still in place. With no warning from E.V of it being removed. He learned that you’d spent the night making sure he was still breathing without seeing his face.
That had been one year ago.
After thanking you profoundly for helping him, he’d repaired your window, apologized several times, and disappeared into the apartment next door. He then considered moving into another building, but the thought was brushed away very quickly when he remembered the balance in his bank account.
So he acted more careful instead. For a while, he only turned back home when your curtains were already closed, or he only left the apartment when you had already left for your job (because yes, he absolutely researched the hell out of you after that night.)
Then he moved to the attic of the building. Bigger space, no neighbors, no risks. No you. Or at least he thought.
Because some nights…some delirious nights he still found your window a few stories down, and the accidental visits became less accidental. When he was too badly injured to care for himself, he came to you, even after you confessed your degree had nothing to do with medicine.
When he noticed you understood about his equipment malfunctioning, he’d bring it for you to inspect. When he became too reckless with himself you talked his ear off about how being difficult to kill did not make him immortal.
Somewhere along the way, you became spiderman’s friend.
Spiderman was safer. With you, spiderman was the only part of him he could let you see. Because that was the thing, you only knew the masked superhero.
He’d spent so much time blocking away his identity, making peace with the fact that there was no longer anyone in the world who would call him Peter and know exactly who that person was. That name only belonged to the people that once knew him, and no longer existed, so he never gave it to you.
Never showed you more than a sliver of skin when his mask rode up or glimpses of his abdomen when you tended to his wounds. He always kept that barrier and you respected it, even on those nights he was too weak to stop you. Even if sometimes not knowing the color of his eyes kept you up at night.
A promise was a promise.
Maybe that’s why he kept coming. Why he trusted you with a certainty he couldn’t understand. Why he eventually showed you his new living quarters in the attic and let you spend time with him. Why half a year ago, he added another chair next to his desk so you could work together, or help him when he was out patrolling and needed an extra set of eyes.
“I’m officially the girl in the chair, spidey,” you joked that time as you sat next to him, spinning around in your chair.
He’d gone quiet immediately, his body tensing up enough to make you frown, but then managed a small smile and said you were. You pretended you didn’t notice him being too quiet as he worked on his inhibitor after that.
He was wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and the mask. Always the mask that didn’t quite let you see through him. After a moment of quiet, you rolled your chair closer to his and nudged his arm playfully.
“You know I can’t keep calling you spidey forever, right?”
He snapped out of his trance, and the chuckle that came from under the fabric was unmistakable.
“Why not?” He nudged your arm back, but still focused on the device he was hunched over. “I like spidey.”
You put your elbow on the desk, resting your cheek on your hand so you could lean a little closer.
“I like it too, but it feels ridiculous after having my hands all over your body almost every night.”
The moment the words left your lips, you realized how bad that sounded. He straightened up, turning toward you.
“Wow.” Even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face, the lenses of his mask were quite expressive sometimes. He was amused.
“That came out very wrong,” you said immediately, before he bursted into laughter. He had been laughing more since you entered his life. “You know what I meant,” you whined, laughing too with heat flooding your cheeks.
“I think I know,” he chuckled, making you roll your eyes.
“I’m being serious though,” you added, a little more quietly. “You don’t have to say your real name. Just give me something.”
“Mmm…” he acted like has considering it, going back to tinkering with the piece of metal between his fingers, but then his eyes drifted to the flowers he’d bought that morning, and the name came out of his lips before he could think twice about it. “You can call me Maynard.”
“Maynard?” You repeated, suppressing a chuckle. “You don’t sound like a Maynard. That’s like an 80 year old man’s name.”
“That’s all I can give you,” he shrugged playfully.
You had a feeling it went deeper than that, but you’d also learned not to push it with him.
“Alright. Maynard,” you nodded, “but don’t expect me to use that name unless you’re dying. Guess I’ll stick to spidey for now,” you chuckled, going back to your own work as he hummed in agreement.
The conversation ended there. With him trying not to think about your hands all over his body in…different conditions.
Peter didn’t know exactly when his gratitude became longing. He could not identify the moment the friendship, the closeness, or just your smile, shifted into something he craved everyday.
Despite the mask and the fake name, he knew that after years of being no one to everyone, he had become someone to you. And you had become everything to him. Even if it was behind walls he’d built, you were the person who knew him better than anyone alive.
Which is why, the night he lost control of himself after an unknown dust was thrown at him in a fight, he chose not to crash land into your room.
Peter hit the floor of the dark attic with a loud thud, as his senses went overboard. His suit was sticking to his body uncomfortably due to the sweat coating his feverish skin. The fabric was intact, with no visible wounds in his body, just that burning sensation of something running through his veins.
And that dark part of him he’d managed to lock down with the inhibitor, trying to claw its way out.
“What the…what the fuck is going on,” he cursed, clutching his heaving chest as he panted against the worn wood floors. “I can’t–I can’t breathe…”
The computer’s monotone voice broke through the silence.
“You have arrived injured. I’m letting her know–”
“NO!” He cut the AI off, “EV, don’t tell her–”
“Message already sent.”
He glanced up at the digital clock on his desk. 2:18 am.
He groaned, grabbing his head when a wave of migraine hit him. He knew what came after that. The black eyes. The desire to break. To take. But this time something felt different. It was like a pull, looking for something or someone…for…for you?
Oh fuck.
You were going to come in and you were going to see him like this. No, no–
“Spidey?” You asked from behind the door, knocking exactly twice before opening it anyways.
The air changed the exact moment you walked in, and that something inside him shifted too. It became aware that the only thing it craved to survive was in the room now.
He needed to get to you. He needed to pin you down and–
“Don’t!” He managed to scream, holding his hand up weakly when you scrambled toward him.
You stopped right in your tracks, eyes wide and running all over him, searching for torn fabric, blood, or anything that would explain why he looked like every breath was painful.
“What happened?” You frowned, when you couldn’t find any source. “Did you get hurt?”
You instinctively stepped forward, but he waved his hand in front of him again.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said quickly, “don’t come any closer.”
The harshness in his voice caught you off guard, but what sealed the deal was him dragging himself further away from you. It was barely more than a clumsy, desperate crawl, but he managed to put a decent distance between you before collapsing against the side of his thrifted couch.
He avoided looking at you. The oversized shirt covering your body, the comfy shorts you were probably wearing, the way your hair looked messy from rolling out of bed as soon as you got EV’s warning even if you had work the next morning.
You stayed right where you were, watching him. His suit had always fit him like it was painted on his skin, but every pant made his chest rise and fall beneath the fabric so violently that you wouldn’t be surprised if it ripped at the seams.
This reminded you too much of the changes that happened in him months ago.
It started with a sharpened temper, then the heightened sensitivity to everything, the black covering his eyes, and moments during patrol when his reactions became simply frightening for someone who had as much strength as he did. But you were supposed to have stopped it.
“Is it the inhibitor?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, “is it failing?”
“I–I don’t know…I was hit with some dust out there,” he breathed. “I think it’s tampering with it…my head is killing me. Everything is too much.”
You nodded, turning toward the workstation.
“I will check the programming. Just hold on.” Not your best attempt at reassuring him, but he groaned in acknowledgment.
“EV?”
The computer woke when you touched the keyboard, illuminating the dark attic in a wash of blue light.
“Online.”
“Please run a diagnostic on the inhibitor and any possible interference.”
“Beginning diagnostic.”
You waited impatiently for the results, tapping your fingers on the desk while you watched him from the corner of your eye.
Over there, he…he was doing his best trying to breathe.
This obviously wasn't his first time having sensory overload. When the animal tried to take over the human part of him, everything in the city became impossible to escape. Not a single movement, or sound, or simple existence within miles was unnoticed by him.
But this time? The rest of the city had disappeared. There were no sirens in the distance, or voices coming through the walls, or every heartbeat in the building pounding in his head.
There was only you.
Your rapid heartbeat echoing inside him. He felt every tap of your fingers against the wood, every slight catch in your breathing each time he made another involuntary and pathetic sound from his spot on the floor.
Your scent…God, your scent filled the entire apartment.
The scent he found himself coming back to so often that it scared him. He didn’t want the attachment. The possibility of having someone again only to risk losing them again.
That same scent was making every muscle in his body react in a way he didn’t understand. It made him, and the other him, wanna do things to you he had only dreamed of in his wildest fantasies. Things he wasn’t proud of, things he wouldn’t dare to say out loud, even if he looked at you through the lenses of his mask and you couldn’t see the black in his eyes.
He pressed the back of his head against the couch harshly.
This was wrong. So wrong.
His senses were supposed to consume everything when the change came. Instead, they had fixed themselves entirely on you.
He could feel the heat of your body from across the room as though you were still in front of him. Could remember with sickening detail how soft your hands looked when they reached for him. Could almost feel the burn of the touch that had never landed because he stopped you.
What if he’d let you? What if he’d felt the way your hands ran all over his body? What if you’d moved them lower, and lower, as your mouth–
“Diagnostic complete.”
Your heads snapped toward the screen.
“There’s no external damage affecting the integrity of the device. I detected a foreign biotoxin in the bloodstream that may be bypassing the inhibitor, activating the suppressed arachnid hormones.”
“What biotoxin?” You frowned.
“Unknown. No matches found in available databases.”
Great. He thought. He had no time to take a bath with Yelena Belova to find out what the stupid dust was.
Tiny, microscopic potato, she would say.
The screen changed, displaying a model of his nervous system. There were yellow bright lines pulsing quickly, running all the way from the base of his brain down the length of his spine. Something unknown was moving through his blood, altering the part of him he had spent months forcing into submission.
He sucked in a breath as he watched you read the screen. Your eyes were focused, and a bead of sweat made its way down the side of your forehead.
He suddenly felt the need to lick it off.
Wanted to run his tongue from the base of your neck to the back of your ear. Wanted to fist your hair and make your heart beat out of your chest from how good he knew he could make you feel–
“The effects remain within his enhanced tolerance. However, prolonged exposure to certain hormones can cause extreme distress without relief.”
“What hormones?” Your voice, worried and unknowing of his thoughts only made him feel guiltier.
It took him a second to realize what you asked, but EV threw him under the bus before he could say anything.
“There’s a significant rise in reproductive hormones. The unknown toxin is inducing a strong mating response in him.”
Mating response. He stopped breathing.
Your eyes slowly moved from the monitor to him, and he saw the moment your attention dropped lower to the tent of his pants.
That suit concealed nothing on a good day. On one like this? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck–
He shifted almost immediately, but the movement only worsened the pressure, pulling a helpless groan from his throat that made your pulse jump. You looked away at once, turning back to the computer.
“Is there a way we can…umm…stop it?” You asked hesitantly.
“The subject is experiencing severe sexual arousal with a fixation on a nearby individual,” she explained, because fuck him if he wasn’t the unluckiest individual on earth. “Acting upon it can be a positive option to relieve sexual tension.”
He wished the floor would open beneath him, swallow him, and never ever EVER spit him back out again.
Your pulse was absolutely hammering after that. He caught the sudden change in your scent. There was a sharp spark of surprise, nervousness, and something else beneath it that his altered senses fed on immediately.
You kept your eyes fixed on the monitor, although the data had stopped meaning anything the moment you heard fixation on a nearby individual.
“Is that what you really feel?” You asked softly after a moment.
His head fell forward, catching it between his gloved hands. He didn’t know how to answer without making everything worse.
Although, after what EV said, could it really be worse?
“…Yes.” The word came out rougher than he expected. Yet still not enough for what was happening inside him. “It’s like…I can only feel you. All of you.”
Heat rose to your face once again.
“What does that mean?”
Don’t say anything, don’t–
“I can smell you.” Great start, idiot. He cleared his dry throat before continuing. “I can smell your shampoo…the lotion you use…the ink on your hands from your favorite pen.”
He chose not to mention he could also smell the adrenaline on you. The heat gathering slowly beneath your skin.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, and under the dim light of the computer, you caught the ink stains in them from your journaling session before bed.
“I can hear your heartbeat changing every time I speak,” he added. Okay, that one slipped out.
You swallowed. And god, he felt that in his own throat.
The suit was suffocating him at this point. He wanted to rip it off as much as he wanted to rip off the fabric covering the goosebumps on your skin.
“Is it only because I’m nearby?” You asked, gathering the courage to turn your chair to him.
White lenses met you across the room. He dragged in another shaky breath of oxygen made of you as he thought about his next words. He could’ve lied. He should’ve lied. But instead, chemically overwhelmed and stripped of every defense he possessed, he gave you the truth.
“No.”
His voice was firmer this time. No hesitation in it despite the thousand red alarms pounding in his head telling him to shut up.
“It picked you–no, I picked you for a reason,” he added. “And it’s not just me. The other…the other me wants you too.”
His voice went lower on the last part, that told you how much it cost him to admit that.
The silence following his confession was heavy. For a moment he wished he could read your mind. For all he could feel of you, your thoughts were unreachable.
His own mind was a mess. The impulses didn’t feel like thoughts anymore, just his body feeding him instructions.
Get up. Cross the room. Touch her. Breathe her in.
His palms shook with the urge to close around you. His teeth ached with the need to graze your skin. His eyes burned with the desire to see beyond fabric.
Every part of him seemed convinced that the small distance between you was a mistake he needed to correct. That he needed to breathe you in until his lungs burned. Drag his mouth along the inside of your wrist and taste the pulse there.
He hated it.
He hated that something inside him could look at the person he cared for the most and reduce her to an answer for his pain.
“EV, how long is this state going to last?” He asked the computer, followed by a weak cough as he clutched his side.
“Your enhanced physiology is struggling to break down the toxin’s structure. I estimate a time between ten to twelve hours before it’s metabolized. However, neurological collapse is expected before that timeframe.”
“What?” You looked at him. “There’s no way we’re letting that happen. Maybe I can–”
“Don’t even start,” he cut you off, shaking his head profusely.
“So what? I’m supposed to sit here betting on whether your body collapses on hour three or hour six?”
“I’ll just pass out, big deal. I’m not putting you in danger because of this. I can handle it.”
“You’re barely handling it now. There’s no danger in trying–”
“You don’t understand what’s happening inside me right now,” he argued, raising his voice. “This other thing, the one the inhibitor controls it’s…awake. That part of me doesn’t think like I do. It doesn’t care if you're scared, or hurting–”
“You wouldn’t hurt me–”
“You don’t know that!” He snapped, his fist struck the floor next to him, hard enough to make the worn wood crack beneath his knuckles.
The sudden noise made you flinch. He smelled the flash of fear moving through your body for only a second.
One second enough.
“Fuck–that is what I mean,” he cursed, covering his lenses with his hands. “I don’t…I don’t know if I’d be gentle. I can’t risk this, I can't…shit, I can’t risk you.”
The words, said with so much pain, and honesty, seemed to settle somewhere deep in your chest.
“Okay,” you nodded, settling deeper in your chair. “But I’m not leaving you like this. I can’t risk you either.”
He shuddered a painful exhale. His head dropped to the couch again, shutting his eyes in preparation of what the next hours of torture would be.
Except…he didn’t even last ten minutes.
The suit was killing him, so he decided he’d be better without it. He reached desperately behind his back, clumsily undoing the zippers that tied the suit together.
He could feel your wide eyes on him as he tugged the fabric off his shoulders, peeling it off his sweaty arms. He groaned when he lifted his hips and the suit grazed his swollen crotch. In a matter of seconds that felt like eternity he managed to break free from the spandex, and threw it away somewhere in the room. He’d undressed down to his dark boxers, mask still in place, revealing the marble sculpture of his body.
You let out a shaky breath from your spot, eyes raking over a body you’d only seen partially. He was covered in wounds most of the time, but this time, he only had faint bruises from the night before decorating his chiseled abs.
His tight muscles flexed with every rise of his chest, his bulge straining harder the more you devoured him, pressing against his pants, making him curse quietly.
You noticed, and returned your eyes to the screen to track his vitals.
He felt grateful that you’d given him that grace, but just you being in that room made it very hard for him to think of anything other than your existence.
Too hard.
Before he knew his hand drifted down the growing ache in his crotch, trying to feel some relief, but every rub he made over the fabric of his boxers sent a jolt of pain through his body instead of pleasure.
It only made it worse when he realized you were tense at the desk, trying very hard to keep your focus on the screen and not on the whines he was letting out.
“…I’m sorry,” he apologized instantly, breathlessly, moving his hand away. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologize,” you shook your head quickly, eyes still on the screen. “You…you can do whatever you need.”
He didn’t say anything, just whined in pain again, so you took it as a chance to say it before you regretted it.
“But my offer still stands, spidey.”
What a polite way of saying ‘I’d let you fuck me into next week so you can control your horny arachnid hormones, spidey.’
Fucking hell.
“I’m okay I just–God I didn’t–I didn’t think it would feel this way…” He laughed humorlessly, staring at the ceiling. “But I–I got this. Yes.”
You kept quiet, hearing him mumble to himself about a hundred times about how he had this.
“I’m okay…I’m good…it’s fine…”
He wasn’t.
“Fuck I don’t…I’m going to die…”
For God’s sake.
“I think I can help.”
By the time he registered the words and looked back at you, you had already moved from your chair and shortened the distance between you, kneeling in front of him.
His senses went from one thousand to one million. He forced his hands behind his back, trying to keep the animal from grabbing you and getting it over with.
“What–what are you doing?” He stammered nervously, the lenses of his mask going wide.
“Maynard,” you said quietly, ignoring the way his body tensed up at that name. “Would it make you feel better if I put my hand here?”
You placed your hand right in the center of his chest, and your cold palm met his overheated skin. He gasped, feeling every individual fingerprint on his skin. He wanted them marked on him. Tattooed.
His back arched from the couch, with a strangled gasp breaking from beneath the mask. The relief hit him all at once, through a simple contact that felt like salvation.
Your hand steadied him for only a glorious second, but now that you had touched him, his body knew precisely what it had been denied.
It wanted more.
His own hand closed around yours so suddenly that you almost pulled back, but he loosened his grip the instant he realized how tightly he was holding you.
“Sorry–”
“Don’t apologize.” You pressed harder.
He was burning.
The heat beneath your palm scared you, but what scared you more was the violent pounding of his heart beating against your hand so so quickly.
“Better?” You asked quietly, trying not to bite your bottom lip at the image of him crumbling under your palm.
“So fucking better,” he said breathlessly, pressing your hand tighter against his chest. “I…dammit–”
“Breathe,” you reminded.
His head fell back against the couch. Chest rising up and down, up and down, up and down.
Just take her, man, she’s right there–
Your free hand accidentally brushed his neck, right where the border of the mask started, snapping him right back. He grabbed your hand, not harshly, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.
“Please.” Was all he said.
Leave it on.
It brought you back to that first night he’d crashed into your life.
“I wasn’t planning on removing it,” you whispered, leaning closer. “You can keep it on. But let me help you…I really want to.”
See? She wants it. She needs it so bad.
He hated that the other guy was right. He knew you meant what you said because he could smell the proof pooling between your thighs.
Fuck it.
In a sudden movement he reached for your waist, dragging you forward so you were straddling his lap. The bulge you landed on made you gasp, hands instinctively grabbing onto his sweaty biceps for balance when he let out a broken groan that vibrated against your core.
His hand cupped your jaw, bringing it closer to his face, and your dilated pupils reflected on the white of his lenses.
“I can feel that you want this,” he mumbled, tilting his head to the side. “Please, say it again…”
You shifted your hips, barely, so minimal yet he felt it travel through his whole body. He hissed, tightening the grip on your jaw.
“I want this,” you repeated firmly, moving your head closer to his ear. “You can take whatever you need…”
You moved your hips again, more deliberate this time, pulling a broken whine from him. The toxin made every contact feel like electricity racing down his spine, straight to the heavy, aching weight of his cock under you.
“Yes…yeah just like that…” he panted. “Just let me…”
His hands landed on your waist, moving you back and forth at a quicker pace over his bulge. You gasped at the friction, fingers digging into his shoulders, while he let out a collection of muffled words you could barely understand.
“...M–more…” he whined, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t–I need…”
“What do you need? More what?”
“More contact.”
His hands left your waist to grab the hem of your shirt.
“Can I?” He whispered.
You nodded eagerly, gasping when his hands shifted to the collar of your shirt instead, ripping it off your body with a sharp pull.
“Oh fuck,” he cursed when he realized there was nothing under that shirt, and saw your nipples hardening instantly under the cold air.
He resisted the urge to bite them through the mask.
His hands, however, wasted no time to cup your breasts with a broken whine. His thumbs played with your nipples, tugging at them as hard as he could allow himself to without hurting you.
“Fuck you’re perfect…you’re so perfect…” he whispered, more to himself than you, pulling some soft whimpers out of you when he tugged a little harder. His hands drifted to your lower half, to the hem of the last piece keeping your body from his greedy eyes. “These too,” he said, “please, can I? I want to feel you.”
“Yes,” you nodded, already out of air.
You didn’t even know why you tried to get off his lap to take the shorts off properly, when he just did the same as the shirt: ripped it in half where it rested on your hips, yanked it off from your body and threw the ruined pieces far away.
You weren’t wearing anything underneath.
“I can smell you. God, I can smell you. You’re so–oh God…”
Now he could feel your wetness drenching his boxers, dripping onto the fabric. He could almost taste it in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to drown in it for hours.
“Can–can I–?”
You didn’t even let him finish, you grabbed his hand and placed it right between your legs.
Water. He found water in the middle of the dessert.
His hand moved carefully through your wet folds once, twice, delighting in your warmth, the way you felt, the way you let out the prettiest sound he had ever heard in his miserable life.
“Fuck…” you cursed softly, moving your hips eagerly when he kept stroking slow. Too slow. “Touch me, please.”
He obliged, fingers finding your clit in movements that had you gripping his shoulders tighter, eyes fluttering shut so beautifully he had to bite his lip to not let out a pathetic sound.
“Been wanting this,” he mumbled. “Longer than today. Longer than tonight.”
His finger slid inside of you, making you moan when he curled it just right.
“There were…there were nights I thought about you riding my hand,” he kept going, voice cracking as he added a second finger, stretching you more. “I’ve wanted you for so long–not just because of this shit in my blood. Because it’s you.”
Every word made you clench around his fingers. Every admission pulled another shaky moan out of your throat. You were a mess already, breathless, hips rolling down to meet the thrust of his fingers.
“Oh my God–don’t stop, please don’t stop–”
“Not stopping, baby.”
He kept working you open, the white lenses of the mask never leaving your face. His free hand slid up your chest, settling between your breasts.
“I’m–I’m close,” you managed. “I’m so close–”
“Come on…you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”
The heel of his palm lifted to press against your clit. You were right there, right on the edge, about to come on his hand and drip down his boxers–
“Please,” he begged, unable to keep it in. “Let me fuck you after this…please. I need to be inside you. I’ve needed it for so long–just let me, after you come, please, please–”
The plea undid you.
You came with a broken cry, stopping your movements as your walls pulsed around him. The sound you made against his shoulder nearly finished him right there.
It took you a second to just breathe again, your chest synching up with his in the search of oxygen. He kept rocking his hand slowly, not just to work you through the aftershocks, but because the friction of your pussy in his hand brought the tiniest relief to him.
You just stayed there as the last soft waves rolled through you.
Once you were able to see clearly again, you let out a breathless chuckle and straightened back up.
He needed you. He needed you so badly you really thought he was going to die if you didn’t help him.
You placed one hand on his chest as the other reached under you, slipping inside the fabric of his boxers without breaking eye contact.
The second your bare fingers brushed him, his hips jerked hard under you.
“You said please,” you whispered breathlessly.
You wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free.
His cock sprang out, heavy and flushed between your bodies, so thick and hard and painful. The head was red and shiny, with precum dripping down the vein that ran along his length. The tip brushed the skin of your stomach, leaving a warm, wet patch that made the hair on your arms go up. He could smell the small flicker of intimidation sparking inside you, but the want that followed was stronger.
You stroked him a few times, slowly just as he’d touched you at first.
“Oh my God, your hand–your hand–”
Another thick bead of precum welled up and spilled over your fingers. Whether it was the toxin or just his enhanced physiology, he was dripping for you.
Flustered wasn’t enough of a word when you had his leaking cock in your hand.
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping tighter, guiding you up as if he was about to lift you then pulling you back down immediately.
Fuck her. Fuck her right now.
“Please, I need–I need to feel you…” he cried out. “Let me…let me…”
You nodded just as desperately, lifting yourself up as he helped, steadying you with shaking hands until the thick head of his cock nudged against your entrance. You both exhaled hard at the same time when you started to sink down, taking him inch by inch.
He was big. Almost too much. The burn of it made your breath hitch, but the way he cursed under his breath multiple times, completely at your mercy, made you keep going until he was buried balls deep.
You sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, and so full of him.
When the initial sting faded away, you started moving. He let you set the pace as you adjusted, holding back his need of thrusting up. His fingers dug on your skin, not lifting just holding you, but the more that you moved, the more that control started to waver.
He could feel it coming. The change.
You kept moaning, bouncing on top of him, completely unaware of his self restraint crumbling away.
His grip slowly tightened when his eyes began turning completely black under his mask. That careful, pathetic boy who’d been begging disappeared beneath something more…primal.
Fuck. Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped.
The next thing he knew, his hands slid under your thighs with sudden strength. He lifted you up in one motion until only the thick head of him remained inside you, held you there for a second as the last part of him tried to remember how to be gentle–then snapped his hips up hard.
That first thrust pulled a sharp moan out of you, but there was no chance to adjust this time. He set a relentless pace almost immediately, using pure strength to bounce you on his cock while he drove up to meet every drop of your body, buried so deep it stole your breath every time he bottomed out.
“Oh my–May…Maynard–” the name you barely used on him slipped out in the middle of the frenzy, but his hand reached behind your head to pull your hair back slightly as he kept thrusting up.
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, his voice so different from just minutes earlier. “It’s Peter. Call me Peter when I’m inside you.”
He didn’t even give you time to process, still lifting and dropping you onto his cock at the exact hard rhythm he wanted. The only one that satisfied the need inside of him. Your hands instinctively reached for the edge of the arm of the couch he was leaning against, fingers digging into the worn fabric as he hit that spot inside you over and over again.
“Of fuck…Peter–fuck…yes…”
“That’s better,” he approved. “I was right, you’re so so perfect…taking every inch like you need it as bad as I do…”
A desperate sound slipped out of you at the praise, he could feel your walls clenching tight around him as your body went for that second orgasm, your eyes were fluttering shut, almost there–
“Nuh–uh,” he denied immediately, stopping mid thrust, holding you pressed against him as you gasped, surprised and confused.
“What–what happened? I was about to–”
“I want you to hold it for me. I know you can.”
That twisted part of him enjoyed the slow realization on your face.
Even if you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew the same spiderman he’d been without the inhibitor, was the one with your body at his mercy now.
Good.
He stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, breathing hard behind the mask. When your breathing finally slowed down and accepted that the high never came, he stood up. Still inside you, he walked you to the bed in the corner of the room.
His bed.
He pulled out with a wet sound that made both of you groan, then laid you down roughly near the edge of the mattress. He kneeled down, strong hands hooking behind your knees and dragging your legs over his shoulders, folding you open for him completely.
“Look at the ceiling,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
You obeyed, staring up at the wood beams high above you while he tugged the bottom of the mask just high enough to free his mouth.
Peter leaned down and pressed a few soft kisses to your swollen folds. He wasn’t necessarily eating you out, just giving a few loud smooches that felt good enough to make you grip the sheets.
“M’sorry, you were so perfect there…” he mumbled condescendingly against your most sensitive spots. “But I need you to hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nodded, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. Maybe too eager. Maybe too pathetic. Just like he’d been. Had he pumped that toxin into you?
Either way, you didn’t care. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this version of him.
He laughed right over your clit when you moaned loudly, after he moved his tongue in a slow, torturous swipe over it.
“Was back there too much?” He cooed. “Maybe I just need to stretch you more...”
Two fingers slid inside you, so easily, but the sudden stretch still dragged a whine out of your throat. He curled them immediately, finding the spot that made your hips jerk.
“Peter…”
“Huh?” He acted coy, pumping his fingers with a rhythm that kept you right on the edge without letting you tip over. He added a third finger, making your back arch from the mattress. “Keep holding it in.”
Every shake of your body fed the stupid toxin inside him. Having you like this…really trying to keep your body from coming apart because he said so.
God. He was never going back.
“You just took my cock. I think you can take three fingers with no problem.”
He kept the same relentless pace, chuckling when your body started twitching again.
“Shhh, you’re perfect, absolutely perfect…”
“Peter…” you called out again, hand dropping the sheet to find his shoulder instead. “I need…need…”
“Need what?”
“Need you inside me…please I won’t–I won’t hold for much longer just–fuck me.”
He stopped altogether, a smirk you couldn’t see stretching the corner of his mouth. He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, licking them clean before tugging his mask back in place and standing up.
“Yeah?”
Your legs dangled off the edge of the bed for a moment before his hands gripped your hips and turned you over. He moved you higher up the bed, grabbing one of the pillows, and shoving it under your hips, tilting your lower body up for him.
He then climbed onto the bed behind you and knelt between your spread thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight as one hand stroked down the length of your spine.
But something made him stop.
“This fucking mask–” he cursed under his breath. “It’s suffocating me.”
The sweat on his forehead had pooled under the mask, making it so sticky over his eyebrows that it was affecting the lenses he was trying to see you through.
“I need you to be a good girl for me,” he added breathlessly, yet still commanding enough. “Keep your head on the mattress. Ass up. Don’t turn around.”
You nodded. Too eagerly again. Couldn’t care any less again.
He didn’t think twice, just yanked the mask off and tossed it aside. It landed near you, making you bury half your face on the sheets as if staring at the mask alone would be disobeying his commands.
The sound he made when the cool air hit his face was pure relief. He swiped the sweat off with his forearm, finally seeing you clearly. Face down. Eyes squeezed shut. Already clutching the sheets.
“You look so pretty like this,” he mumbled. “All spread out for me…waiting.”
“Peter…” you whined, lifting your ass slightly from the pillow.
“I know, I know. You’re okay.” He couldn’t keep the smirk away when he added, “you said please.”
He reached between you, guiding the thick head of his cock between your thighs until it nudged against your entrance. You were still soft and ready and perfect.
Peter pushed in slowly, letting you feel every inch as he sank deep and deep and deeper.
He braced one hand beside your head and kept the other on your hip, pushing you into the mattress as his thighs hit the back of yours. Slap. Slap. Slap. The position left almost no space between your bodies, with Peter pressing his chest against your back.
“Fuck…you feel so good like this…so pretty taking me.”
He kept going, making the mattress creak and the base of the bed hit the brick wall repeatedly. Your desperate moans ran through his body like electricity, making something inside him crack open again.
What? What is–
The moment his rhythm stuttered, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Beads of sweat flew from his hair to your back.
“God–you…you’re making me–” The roughness of his thrusts slowed down immediately, inhaling a sharp intake of air as he felt the change again. “I can’t, I can’t…”
He lifted his gaze to the window behind the bed and noticed his eyes had turned back to its original color.
“Oh my god,” he gasped, stopping altogether. He straightened up, still kneeling and inside you, but panicking. “I’m…I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened I–“
“Peter!” You cut him off, pushing yourself back, closer to him, without turning around. “Shut up and fuck me.”
The order left your mouth breathless, pushing back against him even more to make the point clear. His hands twitched when they gripped your hips again.
“Okay, okay…” he panted, groaning when you dropped back on the bed and his cock almost left the warmth of your pussy. “I’m sorry–if I was too rough, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
He picked up the pace again, but the words tumbling out of him now were pure pleading Peter again.
“Don’t turn around–don’t turn around–fuck, fuck…” slap, slap, slap. “You can come now. Please. Please, I want to feel it–you’d come apart so pretty on me, I know you would…pleasepleaseplease–”
His final permission and the desperate way he said it made you crash harder than the first time, crying out into the mattress. The second he felt you coming around him, he knew he couldn’t last much longer either.
“Can I–inside…please, can I??…let me fill you up–”
“Yes–inside, Peter, do it inside me…”
He buried himself to the hilt with a strained groan and finally came. The orgasm tearing out of him was harder and longer than anything he’d ever felt, holding you there, filling you up.
You gasped against the sheets, breathless, as the waves of cum seemed to go on forever, flooding you with warm and thick ropes in every spurt as he emptied himself inside you.
“Thank you…thank you…” His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, sending broken gasps against your skin as he kept coming. “You are so perfect–fuck…so perfect…thank you…”
The pollen wrung him dry until he could barely breathe, and even then he kept rolling his hips weakly, chasing the last of it while he slowly softened inside you.
When it finally eased, the pain, the need, the hunger…he pulled out slowly with a whine, and half collapsed over you. His arms held most of his weight as he planked above you, but you could feel every ridge of his muscles brushing your sweaty skin.
Peter’s eyes fluttered shut, feeling exhausted and aching in the best way, almost lulled by the sounds of your agitated breaths.
You both felt the warm trail of liquid leaking out between your bodies and neither of you moved or said anything for a while. He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With your naked body under him, no masks, no barriers, just your swollen pussy leaking out his seed–
“Successful ejaculation brought down the arachnid hormone levels immediately. Inhibitor working within regular parameters now. Congratulations, Peter.”
EV’s monotone voice cut through the silence.
It took two seconds of shock before you both broke into breathless laughter. His teeth grazed your back as your bodies vibrated in sync from the amusement and overall flustering after everything that happened.
“Thank you, EV,” Peter muttered.
“You’re welcome. I gathered data and the released semen volume exceeds standard parameters by two hundred and twenty six percent due to the high hormonal concentration. Hydration, clean up and rest are advised.”
“For fucks sake…” Peter cursed under his breath.
“Oh god…” you mumbled against the sheets.
That was your call back to reality.
Peter felt you move under him, reaching blindly to the side until your hand found the mask. You lifted it over your shoulder, offering it to him without looking.
“I don’t want to,” he said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I…I don’t want to put it back on.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes,” you offered instead.
“No–I mean…you don’t have to. I don’t want to wear it around you anymore. Not after…all of this,” he admitted sheepishly.
“But you told me to not turn around,” you reminded him, dropping the mask on the mattress again. “And that was you, not the darker you.”
He chuckled, nodding even if you couldn’t see him yet.
“Yeah, because if I saw your face while I was balls deep inside you I would’ve busted before you came.”
There it was. He said it. No turning back now.
At least it got a chuckle from you too.
“Listen I…I meant everything I said. Everything. The wanting, the nights I thought about you,” he confessed. “I don’t want you to feel like I just used you when…when there was always a reason why I needed you like oxygen tonight.”
Your breath hitched, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer to him, and when you didn’t push away…he exhaled in relief behind you.
“So maybe…you can turn around now. If–if you want to. Know the real me.”
“I would really like that,” you whispered without hesitation.
You tried lifting yourself up to turn around, but he did most of the job, moving away the pillow he had placed under you and helping you roll onto your back. You closed your eyes, at least until you were facing him completely, and took a deep breath. Holding onto his biceps for moral support, you finally opened them again.
Seeing his face for the first time felt so intimate, even after everything you just did.
There he was. The same guy who just fucked you into next week, looking more shy and boyish than you could’ve ever imagined.
Brown eyes. Dark, curly hair sticking to his forehead. A nervous smile tugging at the corner of his gorgeous mouth.
So young. So earnest. So yours.
Not spidey anymore. Just Peter.
Your Peter.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 I used to write Peter so much back in the day (shoutout to my starktonyx era) and I’ve missed him dearly.
You’ve learnt a few things about yourself since marrying the King of Curses. Namely, your penchant for narrowly avoiding death at the hands of your husband.
You’re one wrong move from having your head bitten clean off, and gods, does that fact excite you. It’s an adrenaline rush incomparable to anything else. Thrillseekers need to quit the cave diving and lion's dens and find themselves a man with the capacity to dissect them for looking at him wrong.
Sukuna’s heart has softened considerably since meeting you. There’s a channel within it, perhaps a major vein or artery, that houses an affection towards you that allows this kind of disrespect to go unpunished.
For the time being, at least. He’ll fuck you within an inch of your life for the stunt you’re pulling now.
You sit on your husband’s rock-hard stomach, both of his cocks hard and angry behind you, as you spread your thighs and fuck yourself with a laquered wooden dildo gifted to you by a raunchy friend before your marriage. You’re a mess, dripping all over Sukuna’s abs as you plunge the dildo inside of you, steering upwards in search of the spot that he never seems to miss.
He’s growling, practically vibrating beneath you in anger as you cuck him with a piece of carved wood. The sensation of his rumbling is nice, but the satisfaction of having the King of Curses in such an emasculating position is better than any sexual relief could be.
“Nice and still for me, dear,” you taunt. “When you twitch like that, I lose my balance.”
And, like a dog with a pronged collar, he yields. Grabs your waist with two of his four strong hands and holds you down against his heated skin. You allow him that much, lest he decides this lack of control isn’t worth amusing his wife’s weird sexual endeavours.
You roll your hips a little, plunge the dildo deeper inside of you in search of that spot. How can Sukuna find it so easily?
“That phallus doesn’t please you,” he notes, looking up at you with sharp eyes. He’s such a mess; his hair all over the place, chest heaving with the exertion of holding himself back. “To replace me with carved wood. You disrespect not only me, but that cunt of yours as well. She’s neglected.”
“Hush,” you avoid his gaze. “It is not a she, and you are just here to watch.”
“Watch what? Your failing to make yourself come? You do strange things to spite me, woman.”
You roll your eyes, and then turn your cheek. You won’t give him the satisfaction of leering at your displeased face — why is it not working? You used to sate yourself just fine before you were married, but you haven’t touched yourself since. Now when you try, even with such a mountain of a man at your beck and call, nothing compares.
Your fingers aren’t as big as his are. Your crafted dildo doesn’t curve and pulse like his cocks do. You lack the warmth on top of you; the loud, sleepless nights he gives you, the pleasure so overwhelming it bleeds into pain.
“You’ve ruined self-love for me, you know?” You sulk.
Sukuna rolls his eyes beneath you, jaw working as you’re sure he’s trying not to spit something demeaning from his lips. He fails. “You’re just incapable,” he bites. “Don’t hold yourself to such high standards, wife. I am not to be rivalled.”
His ego is ruinous. A part of you wants to feign your pleasure, start moaning like a whore and show him exactly what he’s missing out on, but your husband has always had a penchant for knowing insincerity when he sees it. He’d punish you worse for faking your pleasure than for taking it without his aid.
“Fine,” you grumble, your teasing mood soured. “Help me then, you oaf. But you remain beneath me. Where you belong.”
You tack it on as an afterthought, but it feels odd to say. The man who towers over the world and those within it, is laid beneath you… you can’t help but feel special. He laughs at your words, chuckles vibrating through his stomach and into you, but he doesn’t punish you for his tongue.
Yet.
“Take that fucking thing out of you,” he starts, glancing down at where you keep the dildo buried between your thighs.
You oblige, working it out slowly. A string of slick connects it to you as Sukuna grips it in one large hand and raises it up to your eye-level. Snap. It’s in halves before you can blink. The wood splinters, creates a small dust of shavings that dissipate through the air and makes your eyes widen.
“If you bring another object like this into our chamber again, I’ll stuff you full of it and have you walk naked across the length of the estate with it inside,” he lectures, eyes so set in his ways that you know he isn’t making empty threats. “Now, let me do what you cannot.”
Before you can allow yourself the dignity of pretending this is a favour to him, Sukuna’s stomach splits across the taut seam you had been sitting on. A long, obscenely wet tongue shoots up and flattens against your pussy, warm and disgusting in its eagerness. Hot breath fans your skin from below, and you gasp as what feels like buckets of spit wet your cunt in preparation.
Your husband just watches as the mouth on his stomach gets its fill. His grip on your waist tightens and holds you down against the slippery second tongue that licks a lewd stripe from your ass, to your hole, up to your clit. You whine, shrinking away from such messy devouring, but you have nowhere to go, and no fight left in you to object — you spent all of that on trying to pretend you could cuck a man like Sukuna.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Fuck,” you splay your hands out across your husbands chest for purchase as his stomach-tongue circles once, twice, around your clit before worming its way inside of you. It fills you with the ease of a muscle; pliant, not having to stretch you quite as far as his cocks do. And it moves, explores the topography of your insides like it’s trying to chart you out, taste every inch of your womb…
Through your blurred vision, you watch Sukuna raking his gaze over you. He keeps licking his lips, shifting ever so slightly as he had when you were trying to deny him. Your brows knit together.
“Can you taste me?” you ask, words broken by a moan as his stomach-tongue starts thrusting in and out of you, pushing all the way in just to retreat back into the mouth to savour the slick it coats itself with. “Can you… taste what it does?”
“Barely,” his jaw ticks. “It’s dull. Not the same.”
Oh? A surge of something mean shoots through you, and for a moment you’re unsure whether it’s pleasure from his tongue taking another course inside, or the satisfaction of knowing that, in a way, you’re still cucking him.
“So,” you glide your fingertip across the plane of his chest. “If I cum on this tongue, you’ll hardly be able to taste it?”
He doesn’t answer. A dog that bites and barks opting instead for silence is as telling as it is terrifying. You love it.
You throw your head back with a dramatic moan, using your thighs to push yourself up and start riding his stomach-tongue as you would his cocks. It’s lewd, makes these god-awful squelching noises with each pump in and out of you, but there’s a certain eroticism to the mess you’re making. His cocks are leaking behind you, desperate to tunnel inside of you and find their release, but you don’t allow it — you’re busy riding that tongue of his.
“I should—gods—do this more often,” you pant. “You’ve been hiding this from me, husband. Scared I’ll put the better parts of you to use?”
“Tch. Quiet yourself and take your release.” He’s tetchy, restless.
You can tell he’s straining himself not to pick you up and force you down onto his cocks like he so often does. Luckily for him, your climax is close, and you aren’t sure you’d have the heart (or will) to deny him any longer.
The tongue inside of you quickens in pace. It thrusts in and out in emulation of a cock, dragging wet muscle across your g-spot in rhythmic bliss. You can feel yourself going stupid on it, such a mess being made between your thighs. Your skin is covered in saliva, from your thighs to your cunt, all the way up to your stomach; you’re glossed with the stuff. Coated.
It’s when the tongue slips out of you to once again lap at your clit that your orgasm comes. You clench around nothing, grimacing at the feeling of emptiness that dampers your climax, but your legs shake and breath hitches in your lungs as you forget how to breathe, and be, and stay fucking quiet.
Your moans are melodious and loud in the same right, spurring Sukuna from a scowl to a slack jaw as his hips buck up once, and then twice, and a sudden splurt of heat covers your ass and lower back.
“Did you just—” you start, but your mind spins. You’re lurched forward by the force of two strong hands, and brought down to your husband’s chest. The mess of warm spit sticks your skin together, but you don’t have even a moment to complain as he covers your mouth with his, kisses you with a reverence that can only be shown by a king in adoration of his queen. Or a man warring to distract from the fact that he just came untouched.
“You are a petulant brat who has lost her sense of subservience to me,” he speaks against your lips. “But you are beautiful to an ungodly degree when you disobey me. You will look even better split in half on my cocks, crying for mercy from this man who is so ‘beneath you’, yes?”
A beautiful jolt of erotic fear surges through you. You’re one wrong-answer away from sexual torture; better keep your words kind.
You smile against his lips, peck them once, twice, and then speak. Your words are simple.
Your Roommate Yuji has always been a big guy since you've known him he's always been taller than most guys, buffer then most and well stronger than most too, it's always been his thing.
Roommate Yuji who randomly said he wanted to start bulking up you weren't against it, it was just kinda surprising.
So here you are a couple months in and Roommate Yuji is already filling out clothes that were loose on him and not fit those that were his perfect size, his pecs are literally pulling on the seams of his button up shirts, your hands can't even fully wrap around his back when you hug him with how much bigger they are, his thighs are messing up your head with how much they're filling out his pants and goddamn those biceps.
Roommate Yuji who sends you a progress photo shirtless in the gym changing room showing off his gains not knowing you are laying in bed stuffing your pussy with your fingers to those images whilst wearing one of his many compression shirts
Roommate Yuji who is talking to you as he helps you get something off the top shelf and all you can think about is the way his back moves in the compression shirt, the little sliver of skin showing his abs as he lifts his arm and those biceps reaching into the shelf, he's not doing anything over the top but here you are imagining him bending you over and fucking you with his bicep choking you out
Roommate Yuji may or may not have noticed your interest in bigger guys especially seeing the stuff you like online and may or may not have decided to replicate that just so he can grab your attention.
Roommate Yuji isn't blind he knows how pretty you are and he always tries to not make it obvious so he doesn't come off as creepy roommate but can you blame him when you walk around the house wearing those cute shorts or when you try to reach something on the top shelf and your shirt lifts giving him a sliver of skin.
Roommate Yuji who purposely gives you his shirts that no longer fit him just so he can see you walking around in his clothes with your nipples poking through them and maybe he does that so he can fist his cock in the shower after coming from the gym to the thought of bending you over and fucking you in his shirt.
It's another day of Roommate Yuji being at the gym and you finally snagged another one of his gym shirts, and him sending you another gym photo saying he won't be back till later today it's like the universe is smiling down on you, that's why your'e on your hands and knees back arched face in his shirt as your fuck yourself stupid on a vibe moaning out his name "y-yuji please"
Roommate Yuji is such an idiot he forgot the flash drive he needed for the project he has due and needed to work on, imagine his surprise when he comes into the house just pass by your door to hear a very faint buzzing sound, he was gonna knock until he hears a muffled "f-fuck y-yuji right there~".
Roommate Yuji opens your room door just to find you face down ass up his gym shirt under you with a vibe against your clit, he feels light headed as all the blood rushes from his blushing face down south. "Didn't know you loved my shirt that much" he says walking up to your bed, a surprised sound comes from you as you scramble to cover up "YUJI what- no- why are you- how did you get in? " you say pulling your covers over you, feeling a flush of embarrassment run over your skin.
Yuji wasn't supposed to be home now he was working on a project yea he said that he was gonna be busy oh my gosh he probably thinks I'm a disgusting pervert getting off to sniffing his clothes, your mind is running a mile a minute, just for Yuji to lean over your bed and reach for the toy you were using that was still buzzing away on the bed "well this is my house too and I needed to pick something up, but who would've thought that my goody two shoes roommate" he whispers whilst holding the vibe and slowly unraveling your covers "was actually a horny slut who gets off to my gym clothes" your high squeal bounces off the walls as he places the vibe back on your clit and holding you down with his palm on your tummy as you trash about to escape the stimulation.
You were already on the edge and the embarrassing situation has you covering your face as you ride his hand holding the vibrator, "I-i'm gonna I'm gonna-" suddenly he pulls away leaving you high and dry.
Still processing the orgasm denial you're suddenly flipped over "you don't get the cum unless it's on my cock" he pulls your hips to his cock and slowly sinks in to the base a deep guttural sound comes out from deep in his chest. His thrusts are hard and fast like he's trying to meld himself into you and sink himself totally into your cunt "F-fuck can't believe you've been hnghh keeping this cunt from me all along roomie" he groans.
God, he's so big, his hands are so big, his palms pressing against the back of your neck his hand holding your waist and his cock rubbing against your cervix everytime he drilled into you, the curved head rubbing against your g-spot again and again.
"Hahhh 'ji s'too muchhhh" you drool out whilst trying to reach behind you to push against his pelvis "you. can. take. IT. "He grunts as he finally puts all his weight on you punctuating every word with a hard thrust and slowly he wraps his bicep under your chin and squeezes your face into a pout "I noticed you always loved -shit complimenting my biceps" flexing them even more as he cuts off your air flow and has you gasping out moans of "y-yes yes I doo~".
"So glad you love my body I started bulking all for you so guess it worked" he whispers in your ear and hearing that literally has your eyes rolling back and cunt spasming as you finally get to cum on your roommates dick, the orgasm is toe curling and erratic with a loud moan spilling out of you, Yuji's pace becomes uncoordinated as he finally spills in you and fills you up with his spunk as he moans lowly into the juncture of your neck.
"I guess bulking season is over " he says with his signature goofy smile.
"Do I know you?" she asked as her eyes slid closed. "I suppose you do." THIS BOOK YALL.. I'm still thinking about it 😭& the urge to reread from the beginning immediately after finishing was so strong @senlinyuwrites I love an unreliable narrator it's my favorite thing ever and this was the most extreme version possible 😆
synopsis:: you and Bakugo were never close in school. just classmates who ended up in the same friend group by accident and stayed there out of habit. eight years later he's one of the top heroes with a mouth on him and you're the unbothered ex-classmate who somehow still doesn't know he's been in love with you since UA. His friends know. His mom knows. Everyone knows. You do not. This is Bakugo's guide— written badly on the back of a receipt at 2am— to finally doing something about it.
yellow and pink divs edited by me. base here if you'd like to make your own ♡ layout inspired by my goat @6x-x9
You were never the loud one in the friend group. That was never your job. Kirishima was loud. Bakugo was louder. You were the one who sat back and watched everyone lose their minds over something small and just — didn't. Calm under pressure. Unshakeable in a way that used to annoy Bakugo in high school and now just makes him feel like he's losing a fight he never agreed to start.
Eight years out of UA and somehow you're still around. Still in the group chat. Still showing up to Kirishima's birthday parties and Sero's terrible karaoke nights. Still completely unaware that Katsuki Bakugo — the number five hero, walking explosion, a man who has never once backed down from anything in his life — has been quietly losing his mind over you since roughly your second year of school.
Everyone else figured it out years ago. Kirishima figured it out first, mostly because Bakugo made the mistake of getting drunk at his own agency's holiday party and saying your name four times in one sentence. Mina figured it out next. Even Todoroki figured it out, which says a lot, because Todoroki barely notices when buildings are on fire.
You did not figure it out. You are, according to every single person in that group chat, the last person on earth who has no idea.
So one night Bakugo sat down with a receipt from a ramen place and a pen that was almost out of ink and wrote himself a list. Not because he needed help — he would tell you he did not need help — but because eight years of doing nothing had clearly not worked and something had to change.
Here's what he came up with.
Rule #1: Don't call her pretty. That's weak. She'll see right through it.
You've been called pretty before. Plenty of times. It rolls off you like water because it means nothing coming from strangers. So the first time Bakugo actually looks at you — really looks, across a table at a group dinner while everyone else is arguing about something stupid — he doesn't say pretty. He says your hair looks stupid pushed back like that and it takes you a full three seconds to realize that's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night.Kirishima kicks him under the table. Bakugo kicks back harder.
Rule #2: Don't let her see you get soft. Save that for when nobody's watching
You broke your wrist on a mission six months ago and Bakugo showed up at the hospital before your own agency finished the paperwork. He didn't say much. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and glared at every nurse who walked past like they'd personally wronged him. You thanked him for coming. He said he was in the area. He was not in the area. He is never in your area.
Rule #3: If she teases you don't react. Reacting means she wins.
You have exactly one move against Bakugo and it works every time. You call him Kacchan in that flat unbothered voice of yours, the one that makes it sound like an insult and a joke at once, and he goes red before he can stop it. He tells you to shut up. You don't. He never actually wants you to.
Rule #4: Don't stare. Staring is for losers who can't say what they mean.
He stares anyway. Across bars. Across meeting rooms when your agencies do joint operations. Across the space between his couch and yours when the whole group crashes at his place after a night out and you fall asleep first, curled up small and unbothered like the world isn't currently on fire somewhere. He tells himself he's just checking you're breathing. He checks for a very long time.
Rule #5: If she steals your jacket let her keep it. Don't be a bitch about it.
It was cold outside a bar in October and you didn't bring one. He took his off without being asked and put it around your shoulders before you could even shiver a second time. You tried to give it back at the end of the night. He told you to keep it, said something about not needing two jackets anyway, which made no sense, and walked off before you could argue. You still have it. He knows you still have it. Neither of you has ever mentioned it again.
Rule #6: Don't get jealous. Jealous is for weak men.
A guy from a rival agency spent an entire mixer talking to you last spring and Bakugo spent that same mixer setting three separate small fires with his quirk completely by accident, according to him. Kirishima said it wasn't an accident. Bakugo told Kirishima to shut the hell up in front of everyone, which everyone agreed was extremely on brand and extremely obvious.
Rule #7: If she's tired let her sleep on your shoulder. Don't make it weird.
You fell asleep on the train back from a joint mission once, head tipping slowly toward his shoulder like gravity had made a decision without asking you. He went completely still. Didn't move for forty minutes. Told everyone later he just didn't want to wake you up. That was true. It was also not the whole truth.
Rule #8: Compete with her. Don't let her win just because you like her. That's pathetic.
You beat him at darts once, at a bar, fair and square, and he demanded a rematch on the spot. You beat him again. He demanded a third round. By the fourth round he wasn't even trying to win anymore, just trying to make you laugh at his increasingly unhinged trash talk, and you were laughing too hard to notice you'd stopped keeping score.
Rule #9: Play it cool when she touches you. Don't be obvious.
You have a habit of grabbing his arm when you laugh too hard at something, quick and unthinking, gone in half a second. It means nothing to you. It means everything to him. He has thought about that half-second more times than he'd ever admit under torture.
Rule #10: If she's cold under the table don't offer your legs. That's insane. Nobody does that.
He does it anyway. It's a slow dinner, everyone's talking over each other, and your foot brushes his under the table by accident. You don't move it. Neither does he. What starts as an accident turns into something else entirely — your foot pressed lightly against his shin, his ankle hooked loosely around yours, both of you carrying on two separate conversations with the rest of the table like nothing is happening below it. He nearly chokes on his drink when your foot slides slow up his calf, just once, just to see what he'll do.
He does absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it worked.
Rule #11: Don't ask about her ex. That's weak and clingy behavior.
He asks anyway, once, badly, wrapped inside a completely unrelated sentence about something else entirely so it wouldn't sound like what it was. You answered honestly and briefly and didn't ask why he wanted to know. He spent the rest of that night in a genuinely foul mood that had nothing to do with the mission report he'd claimed was bothering him.
Rule #12: If she gets sick you're not worried. You're just making sure she doesn't die. There's a difference.
You caught something nasty last winter and didn't tell anyone because you hate being fussed over. Bakugo found out from Kirishima and showed up at your apartment within the hour with a bag of groceries he refused to let you see the receipt for. He made soup badly. He stayed anyway sitting stiffly on your couch like he'd rather be anywhere else until you fell asleep on his shoulder for the second time in your life. He didn't move again. This time you were awake enough at the end to notice and you didn't say anything either.
Rule #13: Don't remember small stuff about her. That's obsessive.
He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The exact way you take your eggs. The name of the street you grew up on mentioned once years ago in passing. He tells himself it's just a good memory. Kirishima tells him that's not what a good memory looks like for anyone else in the friend group.
Rule #14: Don't get quiet around her. Quiet means she'll know something's wrong.
He gets quiet anyway sometimes when it's just the two of you left at the end of a group hangout and everyone else has gone home. You've noticed. You've never asked. You've started noticing you kind of like the quiet too.
Rule #15: If she insults your cooking don't take it personal.
You told him once that his katsudon tasted like it was made out of spite. He told you to make it yourself then. You did. It was worse than his. He has never let you live that down and somehow still makes you a plate every single time you come over unasked like it's not a big deal.
Rule #16: Don't let her see the soft stuff. Like the notebook. She can never see the notebook.
There is in fact a notebook. Bakugo would deny this to his last breath. It is not a diary. It is a training log that occasionally accidentally includes things like *she laughed at something dumb I said today* written in the margins in handwriting too small for anyone to notice. Nobody has ever seen it. It stays that way.
Rule #17: Don't dance with her at Mina's stupid parties. Dancing is for saps.
He dances with you exactly once badly at Mina's birthday both of you a little drunk and laughing about how neither of you knows what you're doing. His hand sits low on your waist the entire song. Yours rests flat against his chest close enough to feel his heart going faster than the song's tempo would explain. Neither of you comments on it. Both of you notice.
Rule #18: If she calls you at 2am for no reason answer immediately. Don't overthink it.
You called once at 2am half-asleep just to complain about a case that was bothering you and needed someone to talk it out with. He picked up on the first ring even though he'd been dead asleep three seconds earlier. Talked you through it for forty minutes in a voice rougher than usual low and half-awake until you finally calmed down enough to sleep. Neither of you brought it up the next day. You both remembered it anyway.
Rule #19: Tell her the truth eventually. Stalling makes you look like a coward.
He almost doesn't. Eight years of almost. Eight years of jackets and soup and 2am phone calls and a notebook nobody's supposed to see all adding up to exactly nothing because Katsuki Bakugo — who has never once in his life backed down from a fight — has apparently decided this is the one fight not worth having.
Kirishima finally sits him down and tells him flatly that watching this has become genuinely embarrassing for everyone involved. That you deserve to actually know. That you're not going to figure it out on your own because you're the single most unbothered person either of them has ever met and unbothered people don't go looking for things they've never been told to look for.
Rule #20: Ask her out. Just say it. Stop being a coward about it
He shows up at your apartment on a random Tuesday with no plan and no speech prepared which is unlike him in every possible way. You open the door in an old shirt and no makeup unbothered as always and ask what's wrong like something must be wrong for him to be standing there.
"Nothing's wrong," he says and immediately looks like he regrets starting that way. "I just — " He stops. Starts again. "You're coming to dinner with me Friday. Not the group. Just you and me."
You blink at him. For the first time in eight years something in your carefully composed face actually slips just a fraction just enough for him to see it happen in real time.
"Is this a date Bakugo?"
"Obviously it's a date," he says too loud the way he gets when he's covering for something. "What else would it be. Are you always this slow or is it just with me?"
You don't answer right away. You just look at him for a long moment the unbothered mask cracking wider by the second and something like a smile starts pulling at the corner of your mouth.
"Friday," you say. "Pick me up at seven. And Katsuki—"
"What."
"Wear the jacket back. I've had it long enough."
He goes red for the second time in eight years. Somewhere across town Kirishima's phone buzzes with a single text that just says *finally* and nothing else and every single person in that group chat already knows exactly what it means before he explains a word of it.
──── Katsuki is a pain to sleep next to, clingy and hot, double whammy.
It felt like you were being baked in an oven from how hot the room was. The fan was on its highest setting, and you had just turned the a.c on but it was still sweltering.
And of course, the man you shared a bed with just had to be the equivalent of a human heater.
Your tank top stuck to you in all the wrong places, tossing and turning so the other side of your body could feel the brief relief from the fan.
“Baby, get off f’me,” you pleaded, almost trapped under your boyfriend’s arm.
"Quit movin'." His voice was laced with sleep. Not giving any sign that he would move anytime soon.
You squirmed, attempting to release yourself once more. "It's hot, and you on me isn't making it any better."
And to make matters worse, Katsuki pulls you to his bare chest, your cheek pressed to his pec. His palm spread possessively across your skin.
"I'm not saying you don't know how to fuck your girl, Fushiguro."
Your boyfriend takes a long toke of his cigarette, leaning back in the plush armchair facing the hotel bed. He blows smoke towards the two of you, his eyes narrowing. "Sure fuckin' sounds like it."
You roll your eyes. Even as he watches his girl getting fucked by his best friend, he's got a mouth on him. Any other man would be humbled by such a sight — Toji just stares.
He's hard. you can see the fabric of his sweats straining at the crotch, even from where you lay pressed into the bed. If Shiu weren't fucking you so deeply, you might be able to take a breath, focus your eyes, and discern whether or not that dark patch over Toji's groin is from his leaking pre, or if it's just a trick of the light.
"I'm just saying—" Shiu slows the snapping of his hips and transitions instead into a rolling motion that is more soothing than it is erotic. I'ts good; you like it. You could fall asleep like this, full of cock, the weighted blanket of his body on top of yours. "—you fuck to fuck. I fuck to connect."
Toji snorts from his chair, like he's in a position to puff his chest out. "I'd already be inside of her. No need to connect."
He's certainly not a romantic. Shiu groans, pushing himself nice and deep as he presses a sweet kiss to your neck.
One of his hands (rough, but not mean like Toji’s) snakes down your body in search of your clit. It’s still sensitive from the half-hour of head he warmed you up with, so he’s gentle when he starts circling the pad of his finger around your nerves. You find yourself gasping, hiccuping as air fills your lungs, and moaning as it leaves.
“You hear that?” Shiu glances over his shoulder to Toji, who now looks a little less cocksure than before. He’s restless, adjusting himself in his pants and spreading his knees to make room for the heavy erection he’s sporting. “She sound like this with you?”
Toji rolls his neck, feigning arrogance. “Nope. She’s louder with me.”
He’s not wrong. Toji often has you screaming into the pillow as he drags his fat cock in and out of you. Pounds you, for lack of romance. You like how he’s rough and dirty and strong in how he handles you; but there’s something about the attention Shiu is giving you that makes you dizzy with pleasure.
Shiu ignores Toji from there on. His eyes rove over your face, as do his lips. He presses kiss after kiss to your forehead as he fucks you — his moustache tickly against your skin. It’s damp with your arousal, and you can’t help but wonder if he’ll smell you on his lips later tonight and remember how you tasted.
Of course he will.
The cigarette smoke that lingers in the air fills your lungs, and you turn your head in your haze to find your boyfriend has the waist band of his sweats lowered beneath his balls. His cock is out, but not free — the tight grip he has it in looks near painful. He strokes in time with Shiu’s thrusts into you, taking into account each time he slows to pull back and look at the mess of need you must be.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbles when he notices your eyes on him. “You wanted this. Look at him.”
You feel like you’ve been caught red-handed, drooling over the sight of him fisting his leaky cock, but Shiu kisses your cheek and leans down to whisper in your ear before you can break your gaze away. “Don’t listen to him. He’s imagining he’s me. Keep watching him, let him know he’s only half the reason you’re this wet right now.”
Your skin warms. Despite Toji’s order, you keep watching him. A gentle flush, one that is so unlike your Toji, paints his face pink. He’s got his lip caught between his teeth, holding a groan in his muscled chest as he watches you and Shiu. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you were being fucked silly, on your hands and knees like a whore — but no, Shiu is practically making love to you.
Your lips part as you watch your boyfriend experience a surge of a million different feelings. Questions he isn’t sure he wants answered; do you prefer the stretch of Shiu’s cock to his? Do you like being worshipped like this? Will you say yes if he asks to make this a regular thing?
“I love you,” falls from your lips in a shaky moan. Though you say it softly, as if to meet only Shiu’s ears, your eyes are still on Toji. “Love how you feel inside of me.”
Toji’s eyes widen. His hand jerks faster, hips buck up a little from that self-made prison of an armchair. He doesn’t know if you’re talking to him or Shiu, and it’s about to send him over the edge. A part of him wants to leap up and pull Shiu off you; fill you with his own cock instead and flood your womb with his release. Another part of him wants to get behind Shiu and fuck into him; let him be the vessel between you that gets to know exactly how the two of you merge to ‘make love’. He’d fuck him deep and mean justs to get the message through to you.
But, the part of him that wants to keep his ass planted to the cuck chair and watch his girl take the load of his best friend wins out.
“I’m gonna fucking—” he cracks, choking on his words as his hips stutter and cum shoots all over himself. His black shirt is soaked in the stuff, his fist covered, but he doesn’t stop.
Shiu pays him no mind. It’s hard when you feel this good, wrapped around his cock for the first, and likely only, time in his life. He’s dreamt of this, convincing Toji to share his score — he is his handler, after all.
You want to come, but Shiu is taking his time bringing you to the peak. Usually Toji would just hike a hand around you and rub you ‘til you beg for mercy. Shiu, however, seems to like the way you squirm beneath him as he paws at your thighs, pushes them up against your body, and folds you into a mating press.
The new depth he reaches inside of you is torturous. You feel so full, yet so unsated at the same time. You wonder how well you’d take them both; whether you’d stretch out to accommodate two cocks at once or if one would have to fill your mouth instead. You want to crawl over to Toji and lick his cock clean, taste something from him as you’re so full of another man.
Another glance over at your boyfriend rewards you with the sight of his screwed-up face. His eyes are set on the spot Shiu fucks into you, and he strokes himself into overstimulation. Seems he won’t be left out for even a moment.
“Fuck,” Shiu’s hips slam forward, skin slapping against skin in a heated rhythm. His chest heaves, and you can tell he’s about to cum — even with how overwhelmed your pussy is, you can feel him twitching inside. “I’m close.”
“Not inside,” Toji growls from his seat. That was his only rule going into this. That, and no butt stuff. Toji reserves your womb and ass for himself.
“I know, asshole,” Shiu grunts. His eyes roam your face once more with a soft (but elastic tight) smile on his face. “Want you to come first. On my cock; I’ll pull out after, okay?”
You can hardly nod. Once again, his fingers come down on your clit, wedged tightly between your moving bodies. He circles it, quick but gentle, and sends you absolutely dizzy with pleasure. You know Toji is still stroking himself as he watches you come undone; and you know he’s probably going to pull another orgasm or two out of you tonight to repair his ego. Your poor cunt.
Your orgasm washes over you quickly, and with enough pressure to force a loud, crying moan from your chest. Your legs shake, eyes squeezing shut as your head spins. You haven’t felt this good in… ever.
Not just because of Shiu; but knowing Toji is watching.
Your climax sends Shiu careening over the edge. He’s quick to pull out, leaving you feeling absolutely lost in your emptiness. He gives his cock a squeeze, as if to stall his orgasm, and looks you over hungrily before… pulling away?
Instead of shooting over your stomach or across your pretty face, Shiu leaps off the bed and makes his way over to Toji, whose eyes are wide as his best friend approaches. He’s not given much time to react before Shiu is taking the back of his head in one hand and feeding the tip of his cock past his lips with the other. Toji chokes on his surprise, and then on the load that Shiu releases into his mouth with a loud groan.
Instinctively, he spits. Rivulets of cum drip from his lips, down his chin, and join the mess of his own cum on his stomach and cock. His eyes are wide, a little angry, but his surprise doesn’t stop Shiu from pulling back and leaning down to catch your boyfriend's lips in a very messy kiss. Cum and spit is passed between them, paired with loud groans that travel right from them to your still-buzzing clit.
You watch from the bed with wide eyes, having just discovered something very interesting about yourself.
You wonder if they’ll let you sit in the cuck chair next.
ཐི Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader
ཐི Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome)
ཐི Synopsis: You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.
Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.
It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.
It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait.
Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.
But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.
Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.
It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.
First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.
And the weird powers? They never went away.
The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).
The rest, well...it escalated.
He got a mask. A suit. A name.
And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him.
Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.
Tonight had been one of the rougher ones.
The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin.
All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.
He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.
He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:
A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.
His head snapped up.
You were there.
Not a hallucination. Not a dream.
Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.
You blinked.
He blinked.
Both frozen.
And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.
It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.
Another text from Gojo.
still working late :( don’t wait up
You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.
Liar.
“Working late,” your ass.
He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.
Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.
But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about.
It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.
So you stopped asking. Mostly.
Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.
Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”
Like you didn’t already know that.
Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.
You’d never felt so helpless in your life.
Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.
Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic.
You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.
And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.
He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready.
But that excuse had been wearing thin.
So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.
You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.
You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.
His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush.
You turned a page.
And another.
The clock ticked past midnight.
You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.
But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.
You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.
You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.
If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.
But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.
You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.
Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.
You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.
But no.
Of course not.
There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.
And then he dropped into the room.
You froze.
So did he.
One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.
And your stomach dropped.
He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.
But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.
It was the suit.
Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—
A spider emblem.
Your breath caught.
He looked up. Finally saw you.
And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.
You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.
You stared at him.
Then at the suit.
Then back at him.
Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…
You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—
—saved you once.
But that had been months ago.
And he hadn’t said a word.
Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.
But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?
There was no denying it.
The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.
“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.
His eyes went wide.
“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.
You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”
“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.
Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.
“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”
You glared up at him.
He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.
You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"
You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”
“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”
Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”
“Okay see, that’s more fair—”
“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”
“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”
You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.
Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.
“What the fuck, Satoru?!”
“I can explain!”
“Can you?!”
“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”
There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.
“You’re a superhero—”
“You were not supposed to be here—”
Another pause.
You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.
And you couldn’t help it.
You bursted out laughing.
“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”
He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”
You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.
Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.
And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.
So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.
Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.
But mostly? You were hurt.
You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.
He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”
You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”
He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.
“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”
His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.
“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”
You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.
He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.
“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted.
That made your eyes narrow. “What?”
He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”
“Satoru—”
“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”
His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”
You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”
He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”
There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.
“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”
He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.
You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.
When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).
Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.
He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.
You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“For the wound, asshole.”
“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.
Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.
He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”
He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”
The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.
You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.
The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his.
And he leaned in. Just barely.
And you let him.
Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—
—and then the door swung open.
“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.
Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.
Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.
There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”
Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”
You glared. “Whatever.”
And this time, he laughed.
You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.
And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.
You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
He didn’t move.
You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.
And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.
When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.
“…Can you stay?”
You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.
You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.
But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.
Because he didn’t need to ask.
Because you were already here.
Because you’d always stay.
And that was enough.
Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!
As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3
divider: @strangergraphics! | Art by: @aliyartss on instagram
thinking about katsuki who just can't focus while he's training with you. he normally has no issue but you look so distracting in your workout gear with your hair messy, skin sweaty, and chest heaving…
and he's been thirsting after you 24/7 this week and he hasn't masturbated in a while and suddenly he's thinking with his cock instead of his head. he's losing too easily and you obviously know it, but katsuki doesn't want to fix it. he wants you to pin him down so he gets to have you on top of him
eventually you pin him one too many times and you start going off on him, irritated that he isn't even trying. and oh that gets him so hard, hearing you snap and talk back at him while you're straddling his stomach. just a little too far up for him to rut against you
he just grabs your hips and slides you back so he can grind his cock up against you. your face changes so quick once you realize he's just been horny this whole time
notes -> i like thinking about katsuki just getting so horny for u he'll do things he'd never do normally like ughhhh hot af
