You tell your friends about your older boyfriend only to be met with judgement. Naturally, you seek comfort from him.
CW: Age Gap, Power Imbalance, Vaginal Fingering, Shower Sex, Choking
WC: 6K
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“THAT'S YOUR BOYFRIEND!!!” Zenitsu shrieked, holding onto your wrist for dear life to take a closer look at the picture on your phone. His inspection of the picture you had forced your boyfriend to take with you only days before led to him saying, “He's so old!”
People turned their heads, shooting you and your friends with odd looks. What was supposed to be a nice lunch date among friends had quickly turned into a whole ordeal. Your relationship was supposed to be a good thing, so why did your friends seem so concerned?
“Oh shush.” You shook your head, retracting your arm from him. “He's not that old.”
“You should date a guy your age, not some geezer!” Zenitsu's outrage shifted into acute jealousy. “I'm single. We could've dated if you asked.”
In appearance alone, Zenitsu could not compare to your Hotaru. Not to mention, your boyfriend had a stable income, and owned a home. Men your age still lived at home, and were still caught up in their studies.
There was no question about it: Zenitsu was a boy, Hotaru was a man.
Minor disgust raised bile in your throat. “Your reaction alone is why I'm not dating a guy my age. Older men are just so mature.”
Sure, Hotaru had his fair share of anger issues, but he had promised you he would address it in therapy. That was months ago, but you didn't press. It wasn't like he let his anger out of you. No, he was the perfect gentleman with you.
The Adam's apple in Tanjiro's throat bobbed. “Are you sure about him? He's my father's mechanic, and while he's good at changing tires, he can get a little… explosive.”
Your expression shifted. Any lingering joy to share your life with your friends slipped away. He had warned you that people would disprove of your relationship, but you hadn't expected such negative reactions from your friends.
It was one thing for your parents to not take the news lightly. They already disapproved of you dating at all, let alone a man pushing forty. Their ultimatum of choosing between him or them didn't come as a shock, and naturally, you picked the person who didn't force you to choose at all.
“I know…” Your fingers twitched, brushing against one another on your lap. “But, never with me. In fact, I think it can be a little hot.”
“Hot?” Aoi cocked a brow, unconvinced. “What could possibly be hot about a man making a fool of himself?”
“Well, you're dating Inosuke,” you countered.
Her lips pressed into a pale, tight line. There was no possible way to argue that what Inosuke does is different. Not in any reasonable capacity that would get through to you.
“Tell me, do you hear rocks when you shake your head?” Kanao's eyes remained fixed on her food. Unsure how to fully express her concerns, she masked it with mockery.
“Hey!” Nezuko snapped a little, with something you couldn't quite place flickering in her eyes, “As long as she's happy, who cares how old he is?”
There was a short pause. Tension clung to the air, thick and unforgiving.
Finally, Tanjiro spoke, “How old is he, anyway?”
“Thirty-seven.” An embarrassed smile raised to your flushed cheeks.
“My mom isn't even that old.” Inosuke shrugged, stealing a handful of rice from Tanjiro. His smirk could be heard in his voice as his friend ended up sliding over the coveted bowl of grains. “The dick can't possibly be that good.”
A smug scoff slipped past your lips, “It's huge, actually.” Crystal clear paintings of him on top of you made your bottom lip tremble. Your chest grew tight, and carbon dioxide slowly flirted with the air. “Sometimes, I'm not exactly sure how it fits.”
Especially your first time together. It was a moment of whirlwind passion, signed in your blood. He hadn't known you were giving a piece of yourself to him that day, but you couldn't have known he was offering the same.
Food fell from Genya's chopsticks, his grip suddenly becoming loose. “We're eating…”
Raising her fingers to her smile, Nezuko giggled coyly, “How big is it?”
“Nezuko?!” Tanjiro scolded, face going pale.
Pale pink eyes flickered to the floor. “I was just wondering.”
Grimaces contorted the male half of the friend group — excluding Inosuke, who was far more interested in his meal. Gentle curiosity surfaced in the eyes of both Nezuko and Aoi, while Kanao remained indifferent. Rather than care about such trivial matters, Kanao continued eating without issue.
Sighing, Aoi crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her seat. “I am, too, now.”
Irritation rumbled under Zenitsu's breath. “I bet it's not even that big.”
“Bigger than yours,” you retorted, not even skipping a beat.
Genya snorted, finding himself amused, yet taken aback. With the side of his finger, he wiped a stray tear forming on his waterline. “That wouldn't take much, to be fair.”
The corner of Aoi's mouth twitched. “And, you know this how, exactly?”
He made a gesture that was a blend of shrugging and motioning towards Zenitsu. “Just look at him.”
The longer Aoi examined him, Zenitsu's self esteem faltered further, and it was already dangerously low to begin with. Girls weren't his forte, so for his manhood to come into question was like a fatal blow.
“Well…” Aoi's arms slid down to her sides. She inhaled sharply, sighing in defeat. “He is short.”
“So is Inosuke!” Zenitsu screeched.
With a mouthful of food, Inosuke grunted, “Not where it counts.”
“Can we stop talking about dicks?” Tanjiro had completely lost his appetite at this point. If the reveal of you dating a man old enough to be your father wasn't bad enough, hearing about his junk was the nail in the coffin.
Conversations amongst friends were bound to get off topic. But this was something else. Silence was a better companion than whatever THAT was.
Interrupting the interlude, Nezuko swooned, “Do you think he'll propose soon?”
She wasn't hyper focused with the prospect of marriage. But like any girl, weddings had crossed her mind. Not to mention, with you dating a much older man, surely he'd be quicker to settle down?
“I hope so.” Suddenly, your ring finger felt bare. You hadn't been with him very long, but things had been increasingly intimate. “I moved in with him a few weeks ago, so we'll see.”
“Oh… that's not…” The muscles in Aoi's shoulders tensed, whilst she inhaled sharply through her mouth.
This was the first any of your friends had heard of you moving out. You had meant to tell them, but between unpacking, and your classes, you couldn't find the time. Everything was suddenly so heavy, so adult.
Tanjiro blinked back his confusion, eyelashes fluttering innocently. “Your parents were okay with that?”
His own parents didn't even allow him to close his bedroom door when his girlfriend was over, let alone move in with her. If he pulled something like that, his life would figuratively be over.
Oh.
Oh!
It wasn't figurative for you, was it?
“Not exactly…” you admitted, unable to maintain eye contact.
Momentary silence swept through the table. Pity had made the mood crestfallen as they held a requiem for what could've been your future.
Kanao's voice was the one to finally cut through the tension. “What happened?” Her voice wasn't unkind, or judgemental. It was just empty.
“Well, I'm not — I mean, I wasn't allowed to date anyone in the first place. So when I introduced Hotaru, they kicked me out.” You left out the part about being given an ultimatum. Salt pricked at your waterline, dampening your lashes. “My father called me a whore on my way out. Hotaru almost punched him, but held back for me.”
“Oh…” Aoi's thighs pressed together. She finally understood your attraction. “That’s kind of hot, actually.”
Bubbles of laughter tumbled past Nezuko's lips. “Sounds like he's the, I hate everyone but my girlfriend type.”
For a moment, you could relax. The air in your lungs almost felt lighter, appreciating Nezuko's approval of your relationship. Even if the guys didn't quite understand the appeal of dating an older man, at least someone did.
“My older brother is kind of like that,” Genya mumbled almost to himself.
The tip of Tanjiro's nose twitched in disgust. “Sounds toxic.”
Genya shook his head, mind flooded with unwanted images of Sanemi and Karaku being sickeningly sweet with one another. “Nah, he's a fuckin’ simp.”
“Sounds familiar,” you quipped, raising your drink to your lips. Genya was the exact same way with his own boyfriend. Gruff, but sweet when it counted.
“I’m not a damn simp,” Genya argued, face flushing in denial. Anyone could tell that he was caught in the midst of a lie and doubling down.
“Oh yeah?” Aoi rolled her eyes. “Just last week, you offered up your coat to Muichiro because you thought his jacket wasn't thick enough.” Her pigtails swayed with her mildly frustrated motions. “He didn't even complain about the weather, either.”
How could Genya not do that when his boyfriend's cheeks tinged red with frostbite? The innocuous expression Muichiro had worn that day hadn't mattered. It was cold, therefore, Genya had to be a gentleman. It was basic chivalry, something Aoi would know nothing about considering her boyfriend was in the midst of picking his nose.
“That's different…” Was all Genya could muster, losing control of his vocal chords.
Luckily, Aoi's attention had shifted elsewhere. “Meanwhile, I had forgotten mine and someone did nothing.”
“I don't control the damn weather!” Inosuke's brows knitted, unsure why she was upset. He'd carry her to the sun if she'd let him.
Zenitsu motioned to Inosuke's improperly buttoned shirt. “And he can't offer a coat when he refuses to wear one.”
Inosuke wouldn't even wear a shirt if he didn't have to. He hated the sensation of restriction on his skin. That was probably why he disapproved of your relationship — it made his skin crawl like long, puffy sleeves.
On reflex, Inosuke slapped Zenitsu's hand away, ignoring the strained noise that rattled in his friend's throat. Pride sprouted in his chest, arrogance budding in its soil. “I only wear one when my mother insists. Otherwise, I train for the cold.”
“What could you possibly be training for?” Zenitsu raised his voice, still on edge. He cradled his hand to his face, desperately contemplating whether or not he should ask Nezuko to kiss his wound better.
“We're off topic again,” Tanjiro interjected. With each tick of the eery, analog clock hanging on the way, his anxiety for you amplified. Normally, he didn't worry so much, but this situation was alarming to him.
Red flags had made themselves known, and he couldn't understand how you remained shrouded in ignorance. Truly that was the biggest shame of all: you sat idly by in a horror movie, and all he could do was watch.
“Oh, right.” Zenitsu rescinded his greedy hand, lowering it to his lap. “Anyway, how did the two of you meet? What could you possibly have in common?”
From his point of view, you were dating a Neanderthal. A cave dweller that couldn't manage to pull a woman his own age, who resorted to seeking out the warmth of a naive girl's breast.
“Well, he's a mechanic,” you redundantly explained, frazzled by Zenitsu's passive aggression, “I needed an oil change one day and well, I saw his face and just kept having car troubles.”
A replaced brake pad here.
A missing spark plug there.
You even considered parking beneath trees on windy days in hopes a tree branch would fall and crack your windshield. You stopped yourself last minute because you weren't that desperate. Besides, you could always have him top off your windshield fluid.
“Weird.” Tanjiro's eyes widened. “Normally, he shouts at my father for needing anything more than a routine oil change.”
Oh, Hotaru was far from happy to see you become a recurring character at his shop. One of the other men who worked there, Kanamori, would tease him endlessly for it, insisting it was wise for a man like him to date a younger woman — an inexperienced woman. One who didn't yet know why women his age refused to date him.
“Well, he was mad, but one thing led to another, and well…” Your voice died out as you remembered him taking you for the first time. The perfect blend of pain and pleasure that you wished to savor for the rest of your life.
“No!” Nezuko gasped, unable to mask her excitement.
“Yes!” You nearly bounced from your seat. “I offered to make it up to him, and so he bent me over the hood.”
You could still remember the way his large hand tangled in your hair. The cool metal of your car's hood pressed to your warm cheek. The stinging sensation of his untouched cock tearing your hymen, and the surge of bliss that followed.
“Sounds like a good way to add dents.” Genya shoved his plate away, completely giving up on finishing his meal.
In hindsight, he could've been making an excuse to see you again. “He was clearly hoping I'd let him hit again. We could've done it in the backseat — and we have since.”
“Did he use protection?” Tanjiro sounded just like your father had the night you introduced him to Hotaru.
An unnerving chill ran down your spine. “No? Up until recently, sex had been a heat of the moment thing between us.”
“What if he gets you pregnant?” Concern returned, seizing Aoi's heart. “He could leave, or worse.”
She knew very well what a baby would mean, and feared for you. It would tie you to a man you hardly knew forever. He was practically a stranger, and had anger issues. To her, it was one thing to fool around; it was another to be a fool.
Your silence was deafening.
Nezuko grabbed your hand, gingerly squeezing it in hers. There was only kindness in her eyes. She was safe. “Have the two of you discussed having children?”
“He'd prefer none.” Your throat grew dry as she squeezed your hand once more. “But, we've agreed that if it happens, it happens.”
“Sounds like an excuse to not use a condom.” Genya pinched the bridge of his nose, holding that position for a beat and a half. Both of his hands combed through his hair as he sighed.
“Can you blame him?” Inosuke cocked a brow. “Condoms suck ass.”
“They're not that bad…” Tanjiro's eyes darted around the room, ensuring that strangers weren't eavesdropping. He would hate for a stranger to infer intimate details about his personal life.
“Am I the only one here who hasn't had sex?” Zenitsu wailed, insecurity churning his stomach. Wondering to himself, how could that even be possible? He was one of the oldest amongst the group.
“I haven't.” Nezuko shyly raised her hand, quickly lowering it to her side when Tanjiro shot her a look.
“Well… um…” All Zenitsu could do was stammer, noticing the glint of murder in Tanjiro's eyes. Swallowing his pride, he still mustered up enough courage to act brash, “Maybe w-”
With a grim smile, Tanjiro stomped on Zenitsu's foot. “Not happening.”
Unbothered by Zenitsu's antics, Aoi pressed you further. “Does he at least pull out?”
“No?” He was your boyfriend — why would he?
“Are you even on birth control?” Suddenly, Aoi felt as though she was watching a future documentary unfold. Dread formed in her throat as a stiff lump that remained stationary no matter how hard she attempted to swallow it.
“I've been thinking about it,” you murmured. There had been a couple of close calls, but your period had only been late. Nothing Plan B couldn't fix.
Kanao's voice — not Aoi's — was the one to softly interject. “Maybe he should get snipped.”
That had been something Hotaru had told you he wanted to do eventually. At this point, it was only a matter of gathering the nerve to go under the knife.
“He wants to, but…” Your hands folded over your empty womb, contemplating the future. Thumbs tracing circles as if they carried baby dust.
“But you want to have his babies.” Nezuko smiled softly at the thought, blinded by the beauty in the melancholic prophecy. “Aw, you'd be such a good mother.”
“Yeah, you could change both of their diapers!” Inosuke's mouth ran much faster than his brain.
Your palms slammed against the wooden table. Laughter spilled out, but only to mask the fact that you were dying on the inside. “You know, he told me you guys would react poorly. I didn't want to believe him because you're my friends, but he was right.”
As you made your way to leave, Tanjiro grabbed your wrist. “W-”
His grip remained limp, making it easy for you to free yourself with minimal stumbling. “You guys have been making fun of me all day. No, I'm done. I'm going home.”
Being surrounded by criticism was unbearable. It was why you left your childhood home. Your father had always been so cold towards you, and he had the gall to call it love.
Every push away from your loved ones was another into Hotaru's loving embrace.
“It's not that deep.” Genya's eyes narrowed. This conversation was really becoming grating for him. If he wanted to hear about a toxic relationship, he would've just stayed home.
“It is to me.” Your lower lip quivered. “I have to go.”
As you abruptly ran off, you couldn't even hear Tanjiro's pleas for you to sit back down. Every sound had become static. A glimpse of normalcy only returned the moment your head hit your pillow back home.
You laid in bed for hours, cradling Hotaru's pillow in your arms. Traces of his scent lingered on the pillowcase. That soothing aroma of musk that you had come to love. His pheromones held you hostage, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. You were exactly where you wanted to be.
While he would be home soon, you couldn't help but feel completely alone. Texting him was an option, but he wasn't very good at that. Hotaru had a tendency of getting caught up at work, and then when he did text, he responded like your father: thumbs up emojis and improper grammar.
So you drowned his pillow in your self pity, wallowing in your solitude and waiting patiently as physically possible for his return. You were home, but without him, you were painfully alone.
The floors creaked harder.
His old analog clock ticked louder.
Until finally, he returned.
Immediately after removing his shoes, he searched for you in the bedroom, noticing your absence in either the living room or kitchen. “Are you crying?”
He was not very in tune with emotions other than anger, but you strangely brought out a gentleness that was buried down deep inside. To him, you were a delicate flower that he struggled to nurture.
Adding sunshine to your life helped, but since making your acquaintance he realized there was more to tending to a budding blossom than the bare minimum. If you required it, he'd even gladly spill blood for you. Anything to keep you flourishing under his care.
“No.” You sniffled away the pressure building on your sinuses.
It was annoying to him that you would choose such an obvious lie. You looked like a sad bunny with the way the tip of your nose twitched with irritation. He found you absolutely adorable, softening his aggressive disposition to nil.
Expressing affection had never been his strong suit, but for you, he was willing to at least try. “Did they overreact?”
He had anticipated that. How could he not when a few of his coworkers jokingly called him a “chomo” or a "cradle robber”? You naively insisted that they had been envious of him, and while that may have been true, he knew better; nearly every joke carried a bit of truth beneath it.
The age gap between you was uncomfortable, perhaps controversial to others. But within these walls, it could be something beautiful. Who cared what other people thought?
“Mhm…” A faint whimper vibrated on your vocal chords, dying as you buried your face deeper into the dampened pillow. “Just like you said.”
He made peace with having to change the bed sheets. The fibers of his clothing were stained with oil and sweat. While he was pretty sure he didn't smell pleasant, nor look it, you almost always greeted him with a kiss at the door.
It was his turn to return the favor.
The edge of the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Hesitantly, he reached out for you, rubbing tentative circles into the small of your back. Almost instantly, your breaths grew deeper, utilizing your diaphragm.
“Their loss,” he reassured, unsure of what else to say, remaining a novice in romance.
“Hotaru, I just washed the bedding yesterday!” you half-heartedly whined.
There was something about being with an older man that naturally brought out your domestic side. Your mother called it “playing house,” but you refused to see it that way, preemptively preparing to be Hotaru's little housewife, cleaning, packing bento boxes for him to take to work, and of course more salacious duties…
“It's fine,” he dismissed, “I'll wash it in a bit, and we have spare sheets.”
In the meantime, there were far more pressing matters to tend to, like your bleeding heart.
If you'd let him, Hotaru would settle this with brute force. Remaining calm was far from his forte, but for your sake, he would ignore the tension in his muscles. Ignore the tremble in his hand that wanted to make a fist.
Eventually, you sat up, resting your head on his shoulder. The scent of musky sandalwood radiated from his pulse like an aphrodisiac. There was just something about the evidence of his hard work and dedication to his trade that you found so alluring.
“You need a shower.” You nestled closer against his side, used to his grimy attire after work.
If his clothes ruined yours, you'd just convince him to buy you more. He was single his entire adult life before meeting you, didn't have children, and had a good job. It wasn't as though he lacked the funds.
“I do.” He was at a loss of words, still awkward in your presence after all this time.
After all this time together, he still couldn't help but cling to coyness, endlessly struggling to understand why someone like you would ever give someone like him a chance. You almost reminded him of a beautiful shrine maiden, while he was practically a beast in comparison.
Whatever you shared logistically shouldn't work. Initially, you shared very little in common aside from mutual attraction. Not to mention his many, many flaws.
Kanamori was right: younger women truly were far more forgiving.
You were worth the effort.
“Would you like me to join you?” Your breath cascaded across his neck, still littered with love bites you had given him the night before just to hear him whimper.
Goosebumps pricked his skin, eager at the implications of your proposition. His cock throbbed painfully, restricted within a tent of denim. Somehow, you had completely bewitched him.
“Up to you.” Hotaru didn't know much about romance, but he did know where this was leading. As much as he hated opening the door to rejection, he refused to force your affections. Taking advantage of your inexperience was one thing, your vulnerability was another. “You don't have to.”
Gods, he knew you could do better. It was practically unnatural for you to be with a man like him. Yet, he clung to you. Trained you. If he played his cards right, you wouldn't even realize you had made a mistake.
“I offered for a reason.” Your lips brushed against his throat. The octave of your voice dropped into a sultry purr. “It's been a long day.”
“Are you sure?” Concern flickered at the surface of his amber eyes. You were crying only moments ago, and he didn't want to feel even more sleazy than already was for entertaining the idea of a future with you.
“Very.”
Watching you sashay away, Hotaru only had one thought on his mind: you were going to be the death of him at this rate.
Beads of hot water rolled down your body. Condensation clung to the glass walls, billowing out in a cloud of fog as Hotaru opened the door to join you. His hands shyly hovered over his erection, as if you hadn't seen it count less times.
“Woman, does it have to be this hot?” His jaw clenched, sore muscles slowly adapting to the sudden rise in temperature.
“I like it.” Your subtle pout made his heart melt. Climate change had taken full force of his senses since the day he met you, holding him ransom. “But, I guess we can turn it down a little.”
As you went to reach for the knob, he grabbed your wrist to stop you. “It's fine. Just help me clean up, would you?”
“Of course.” So instead, you grabbed a pink wash cloth you had bought when you moved in, lathering it in suds, and running it along his neck. Bubbles drizzled down his muscular physique, nearly bringing you to your knees.
This view alone was enough for you to accept any controversy over being his girlfriend. The judgemental glares shot in your direction when you were together were well worth it. Even the weight being questioned on whether he was your father or your date meant nothing at that moment.
His noir, wavy locks clung to his waist, dampened from rainfall. Water droplets dribbled down his abdomen, catching on his happy trail. The look in his eyes was rugged, but within there was a flicker of warmth reserved only for you. If you somehow figured out that you had him wrapped around your finger, he'd be done for.
How could he not be helpless around you? Never in his life had women paid much attention to him, just for a pretty, young thing to be fawning over him so suddenly.
You truly were what dreams were made of.
“Have I told you recently just how handsome you are?” Your eyes flickered away coyly as his expression awkwardly shifted. He still wasn't used to being praised.
“You have,” he grunted, disallowing his voice to betray him. Cloth covered your thumb as you wiped grease from his cheek. Biting his tongue, he forcefully swallowed a whimper, allowing the pathetic noise to die in his throat.
“Good.” Faint giggles cascaded across his neck as you nestled your face in the crook. Your fingertips skated playfully over his strong pectoral. “I just wanted to remind you.”
His cock twitched, eagerly throbbing at the sensation of your body pressed to his. Precum leaked from the fat tip, begging to be buried in your tight cunt. He swore fucking you was the greatest distraction from his passions, the only other thing worthwhile.
You were so warm and beautifully soft with youth, allowing him to feel young again in spite of his age. So trusting and naive, he could not begin to imagine the despair your life could've had he not taken you under his wing. Not many men within your type were such thorough lovers.
“You talk too much.” He wasn't criticizing you, just stating his keen observation. Silencing you by sliding two of his thick fingers between your legs, he pushed knuckle deep in your velvety pussy.
In all honesty, Hotaru had never given young women much thought before you, never considering virginity to matter much. But you had simply ruined him for women his age.
Your pussy had been carved to take his cock alone. No other man could ever suffice, easily trained into obedience in ways where age appropriate women would push back. Not that he would ever impose his will on you, rather quite the contrary. He was fully convinced you held all of the cards.
“S-sorry,” you whined, harshly biting your lower lip to hold back.
The way even just his fingers stretched made you had your knees beginning to wobble. Desperate to remain upright, you clung to his bicep, resting your head on his shoulder. This was definitely what you had in mind in terms of relief.
“You're not sorry.” He pushed back your clitoral hood with the rough pad of his thumb, drawing swirls into your needy bud, curling his fingers in your g spot.
“Fuck!” Your hips subconsciously rocked back and forth, grinding your cunt into his hand.
You were putty in his hands, desperate for him to mold you to perfection. He was an artisan, and unraveling you was a craft he had carefully studied and mastered.
“What did I just say?” His hand retreated, leaving your cunt to whimper in solitude. As a lament tore from your throat, Hotaru pinned you to the glass.
With his calloused hand pressed dangerously to your larynx, you could only silently weep. Deep arousal pooled in your abdominal muscles. Any fear you may have once clung to faded with the shift of his finger pressing to your pulse instead. You were still vulnerable, but no longer at imminent risk.
Fright had been carefully trained to result in the same reaction of lust. Living with a volatile man groomed your body to adapt, to survive.
The lines between violence and intimacy were blurred beyond recognition, but you didn't care. Not when he completed you in ways no other man could.
Blissful tears spilled from your waterline. The saline blended in with the rainfall, yet he could still notice the red hue attacking your sclera through the haze. A smile grew across your pretty face as he kissed away your explosive emotions.
“There's no need to fuckin’ cry.” Slightly chapped lips brushed against your flushed cheek. “You'll ruin your damn make up or something.”
Hotaru wasn't speaking cruelly; no, he was speaking practically. He knew you spent forever perfecting your appearance — even though he thought you were beautiful regardless — and understood the time craftsmanship took. He didn't want you to be careful for his sake, but rather your own.
Despite his sentiments, he kissed you with a hunger beneath it, as if he had also had a stress inducing day and you were the only remedy he would indulge in. Drinking in your breathy exhale as though it were the finest elixir known to man.
As he broke the kiss, you gasped, “My mascara… it's — it's waterproof.” Your mind had grown fuzzy, deprived of oxygen, “Plus… we're sh-showering.”
Amber eyes narrowed curiously at you. He had only thought of this as an elaborate plan to fuck in an uncomfortable position; not that he minded.
“Make me!” you dared, delight brimming at the forefront of your eyes as his grip tightened around your throat.
To the average person, that turn of phrase may have seemed like a horrible idea on your behalf. But you were a woman who knew what she wanted, craving to be absolutely wrecked after the kind of day you had.
“Mouthy bitch,” he muttered under his breath, secretly enjoying your lack of discipline. Indulging in your bratty side was just an excuse to punish you, removing his hand from your throat to push his thumb past your lips and hook it in the corner of your mouth. Ignoring the drool dribbling down your chin, he spits out, “You jus’ don't wanna listen, do ya?”
Testing him once more, you shook your head, living without regret as he hooked his free hand under your thigh, hoisting it around his waist.
Your eyes went wide feeling his cock probe your needy hole. A shiver ran down your spine in anticipation. All you could do was sloppily suck on his thumb and hope he'd be kind enough to let you take his cock.
“I can — I can listen.” You wiggled your hips, blindly attempting to tip him past your entrance to no avail.
One of his thick brows raised, unconvinced. “Can you, now?”
“Mhm,” you half-lied, gingerly wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It was true that this side of you really only came out in bed. But in any other setting, you acted in the far more traditional demeanor, “Promise.”
From his point of view, you were unbelievably needy. He had known that from the day he met you, only for you to continuously reaffirm his suspicions. No woman wanted to go to the mechanic, even if he did offer to waive the cost of labor, equally as covetous.
He shoved himself into your greedy pussy, tossing back his head in satisfaction. There was just something about the way your velvety walls fluttered around him that was so delicious, filling his mouth with saliva. Your body embraced him like a vice, snuggly hugging his cock as if it were made just for you.
“Fuck.” His breath was warm against your ear. “You're so damn tight.”
It didn't help that he also was well endowed, possessing impressive girth with thick veins running along the bottom of his length. With each deep, quick thrust, you felt as if he were splitting you apart, melting into his chest to keep yourself steady.
With each heavy motion, the tip of his cock nudged into your cervix, teasing the delicate tissue. You couldn't help but scream around his thumb in delight, leaving you only to pray that the condensation floating on the air would keep your throat from going raw.
All of the pain from before was efficiently fading away. Insults masquerading as worry were no longer your concern. Not when the very man they refused to trust could make you feel this good.
Coarse, dark curls brushed against your clit, sending jolts of electricity to your nerves. Wanton moans slipped hopelessly past your pussy lips. The sound of his balls slapping against you could be heard over the shower.
Hidden as accompaniment was the subtle squelching of your pussy. A thick ring of cream had formed around the base of his cock, rapidly growing foamy with each punishing piston of his hips.
Your nails dug into the sinew of his broad shoulders. “NGH!”
Staying true to his sentiment, he retrieved his thumb from your mouth, placing it roughly at your waist while railing you harder. Smashing his lips back onto yours, dehydrated and desperate as he drank in your moans.
Beneath your heavy lids, your eyes rolled into the back of your head. You struggled to remain upright and present, your weakening knees threatening to buckle beneath your weight. With gravity threatening to pull you down, you only remained vertical due to his bruising grip and how firmly your back was pressed to the cool glass.
As your bottom lip began to tremble, his kisses became less feverish, instead becoming intentional, brushing tenderly against your mouth, allowing you to keep up.
Hotaru was practically tone deaf, but even he could tell you well, singing the perfect tune for him. In a weird way, your wailing almost reminded him of wind chimes, easing years of tension that had accumulated within his muscles.
He had to wait many years for his other half to walk the earth with him. Now that he had you, he refused to loosen his grip, treating you with a chivalry that felt oddly natural despite his gruff nature.
You brought out the best in him, and while he knew he brought out the worst in you, he selfishly clung to you. Taking advantage of your naivety, holding you close to his heart. Placing you on a pedal only he knew about.
“I-I'm close.” Your lips vibrated against his.
“Me too.” He twitched inside you. “Together?”
“O-okay.” Your forehead nodded against his.
In perfect harmony, you achieved euphoria together, dampened foreheads pressing together in harmony. Your pussy constricting around his cock, enticing him to flood your walls with white. Your mind went numb, focusing only on the way he panted in your ear.
You had completely forgotten what you were so upset about at that moment.
summary: your cute upstairs neighbour holds many secrets. you're willing to close one eye to his secrecy or the way he looks at you as if you hung the stars, till you accidentally uncover letters upon letters nedpeter’s kept in his apartment—all addressed to you.
pairing: peter parker x reader
content: slight angst, flufff, comfort, no major movie spoilers!!, yes peter fumbled by using ned as his fake name, yearner peter parker!!
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Peter—clearly, Ned wasn't even his real name. Ned, the friendly neighbour from 28B who was a secretive, genius oddball—whom you suspect to be some sort of undercover agent after catching a glimpse of the ridiculously high-end tech flooding his apartment.
Overly sweet Ned, who never failed to offer a hand with your laundry basket or delivery packages, or dropping off your exact coffee order at the front door before your morning shifts, just because he could. Ned, who snaps his neck up half the time looking around with a widened, hopeful gaze when you do address him in the laundry room—as if looking for some other Ned that meant a greater deal to him than himself.
You had suspected he was likely involved in illegal activities, but when the temptation of finding his laundry basket unattended remained, you finally took the chance to return those little favours. Maybe he was the kindest stranger you've ever known, or maybe he just looked like he could use a helping hand—with how his shoulders drooped low whenever he thought no one was looking in the dingy hallways. He seemed—lonely.
Not like you were one to judge. You had always felt like a piece of you was missing, and that gaping hole behind your ribs didn't magically stitch itself closed when you grabbed your degree with crippling student loans biting at your heels, and a lousy job in the nearest soul-sucking company you could find within train distance to your apartment.
So, maybe Ned's smile that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes flashed more than once in your thoughts, and you decided it was time to get to know the man who lived one floor above you. You expected his smile to greet you when you climbed up the rickety stairs to his apartment, not his door left ajar with webs sticking out the hinges—or letters all addressed to you scattered across the floorboards.
You didn't know what you had expected when you walked into his mess of an apartment. More so than usual, enough for you to sense the abnormality of webs upon webs coating his furniture. Stepping into what seems to be a genuine crime scene, it's as if the culprit was one massive spider that decided to make its hive in Ned's apartment.
"Ned?" You call out, worry raised in your tone as you look around—catching no sight of him through the thick layers of webbing. His large monitor screens are all left online, files left unclosed on the window tab, with no sign of their user.
You're one step away from the monitor, tempted to call the cops when you catch sight of crumpled papers upon papers scattered on the wooden floors beneath the desk. Brows furrowed, you crouch down, brushing away the loosened cobwebs coating the papers. They are— letters.
Your first instinct as your fingers trace over his handwriting, paper crumpled at the edges, is to leave it alone as it's most definitely personal—before your eyes catch sight of your name. No—you weren't imagining it. The letters were most definitely, addressed to you.
Hey! It’s Peter, your Peter.
Earlier was bad. Like, really bad. I can't believe I said 'Oh no!' to your face, like what kind of idiot does that as their first impression? Well, technically that wouldn't be our first meeting, though I doubt you'll remember me. I was anything but smooth on all the other occurences either.
Just talking with you in the hallway and carrying your boxes—I nearly forgot myself. I still can't decide if it's a curse or some cruel joke of a blessing that you moved into my apartment complex of all places. It's like the world's trying to tell me to just say the truth.
I should be going out there and telling you this instead of writing this stupid note or letter, but a letter should come in one of those fancy envelopes, so I guess I should call this a note? Anyways, I'm getting off track.
I miss being with you, and I’m so scared I’m starting to forget how it iswas between us, and talking to you again like everything was normal just—I had the urge to sit down and write to you, before I did anything stupid. So I could talk to you, in some way, without hiding behind 'Ned'. How stupid can I be, using Ned's name, like was that seriously all I could think of? I don’t know if this note will be worth anything by the end, but I think it’ll hurt worse if I just let what happened simmer in my brain.
I miss you so, so much. It feels like it's killing me sometimes, and I don't know what to do with myself now that you're here, so close to me, for what could be a really long time. I don't know what hurts worse, being apart from you or this, and I don't know what I'm going to do. You'd know what to say, and I wish you could tell me. I miss you ordering me around. I just miss you.
Love,
Your Peter.
Your heart thumps painfully against your ribcage, fingers tightening over the crinkled edges, digging deeper into the forming lines. What kind of sick joke was this? Had he known you for longer—since before you moved into this apartment?
His strange reaction when he had bumped into you in the hallway for the first time reformed in your memory, the intensity of a stranger that came off as more than usual awkwardness.
"Sorry for bumping into you—" You huff, a cramped smile peeking through the many boxes you're carrying. "Not my best line of sight right now."
Past the boxes, is possibly the cutest potential neighbour you've ever seen. With wettened curls drooping over his forehead, a towel draped around his neck, in his grey sweats and baggy hoodie—this stranger looks like a dream. Or maybe you're just in desperate help to ease the load on your arms that carries your entire future life in this new apartment complex.
"What are you doing here?"
You blink, stunned by his sudden interrogation. That was—not what you expected. You run faces through your mind, anyone you may have accidentally pissed off in the last four years of your university life, but his doesn't come to mind at all. You would remember that face.
Especially if he's staring at you like the existence of you in this cramped hallway was a signal that the world was collapsing on him and his perfect curls.
"Uhm, I live here?" You answer, shuffling the boxes awkwardly between your two palms. "Well, starting today—I do."
Your words register slowly for him, and you feel it in the strain of your arms under the boxes, as the fact that you're his actual neighbour slowly kicks in to his senses.
"Oh." His lips part in genuine anguish. "Oh no."
"Yikes." You wince. "That's a warm welcome."
He's panicking. The cute stranger looks like he's one miscalculated breath away from passing out in the hallway, and you're in no position to assist him when you're clearly winded yourself.
"No—I didn't mean—" His voice stutters, catching at the tail-ends and running out of breath. "Oh, this is not how it's supposed to go."
"No, I don't think I've ever caused genuine pain to a neighbour just from my mere existence." You snort, offering a lighter tone. "Though Margeret may disagree."
His lips quirk up slightly, involuntary even if he has no idea who Margeret—your old neighbour, is supposed to be. "No, I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He tries again, voice sincerely apologetic. "Can I please help you with the boxes to make up for it?"
You open your mouth to brush off his request, but the boxes tilt right as you make another forward step. "Fine." You oblige. "Just don't start spreading rumours about me taking advantage of your kindness. I really need a new start here."
"Had personal experience with that?" He raises a brow, almost teasing—softer than he had been earlier in his initial shock. His hands come up under your boxes, brushing over your fingers almost tentatively.
The warmth of his touch lingers for a second longer than it should, but you're too focused on the relief of the heavy weight being lifted off your palms as he carries it into his own arms, clearly handling the boxes with more ease than you had.
"Ask Margeret." You shrug, rolling your shoulders to ease the cramping. "Thanks..."
His lips part and close, realising he's supposed to introduce himself. It takes him awhile to gather the syllables of his name, before he offers it. "..Ned."
"Thanks, Ned." Your smile deepens, and he stares at you long enough, gaze tracing over the curve of your lips for it to teeter towards awkward.
He keeps doing that, registering your presence as something otherworldly, as if it was the last thing he expected in his path. Maybe the complex has few new tenants to explain his abnormal reaction.
"Oh, my door's 13B."
"What—oh, right!" He blinks, still looking stunned and turning with such an abrupt motion towards the direction of your new studio—and somehow, you're fond of it immediately.
Fond of Ned, even if your arrival seems to have jumbled his senses into a frenzy, and you have only known him for approximately four minutes.
Hey, it's Peter again!
It's two in the morning, my ribs are aching from Scorpion, and talking with you in the laundry room was easily the best ten minutes of my life since everything changed. My smile refuses to be wiped and it's been nearly an hour, and I can't sleep cause I'm thinking about you. You genuinely work better than painkillers, and I love you. I love you so much that I have never wished so desperately...
I wish I wasn't Peter Parker. That I wasn't the person who took your love for granted, who reassured you that I'd always make it back to you and that I'd help you remember. I can't even protect the people I love, not without ruining their lives just by letting them in. Being able to keep you safe from me, is the only reason that's enough to keep me from barging in and fulfilling my promise. From reminding you of what I used to mean to you, and what we used to be. I am a coward, but I can only hope that I won't be a selfish one. I've created enough reasons for why I can't stand being me, but I refuse to list another which involves hurting you.
That's enough for tonight. I just wish that if the universe ever gives me the chance to make things right, without making everything else much much worse, I just want you to know that I would never take anything for granted ever again. Over anything. Over pineapple on pizza, or the supremacy of rock bands, or the Lego pieces I stuffed under my bed, or me being Spiderman. I miss you so much, and I hope you're having a better night that I am.
Love,
Your Peter.
“Ned, are you okay?” You ask, watching as he limped forward towards the washing machine, one hand gripped right at his ribcage.
Your own batch is tumbling along, and you're seated cross-legged across your machine as he slumps forward to sit right next to you, hand going towards the cover of the conjoined machine beside yours.
“Peachy.” The crinkles of his eyes deepen, tossing you a wayward smile with a barely concealed wince. “Tripped and slammed into the washing machine yesterday.”
“That’s like the third time this month.” You raise a brow, expression contorting in concern.
“Is it?” He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Must be really off my game.”
“Of making amends with the washing machine?” You tease.
“Yeah, I suppose.” His smile softens, gazing up at you.
He does that a lot, go soft at the edges, as if he’s peeling back something fuzzy over his expression—and revealing something honest.
"My advice is to make an offer." You whisper conspiratorially. "Throw in your most favourite shirt or something, and the laundry gods will be kinder on you."
He snorts, and it feels strangely familiar to talk to him this way, under the dim lighting of the flickering lamp, surrounded by the scent of detergent. You barely get to see Ned as is, not like you're expecting a practical stranger to make up much of your socialising hours, aside from the quick friendly nods and occasional 'how's your day's' when brushing past each other in the hallway.
He's a busy guy, and the laundry mat has become a sacred space where the two of you existed in each other's worlds for just a few minutes, till the timer runs out.
"I don't really have anything of mine that'll please the gods." He whispers back.
"I could give you something." You shrug non-comittally.
His gaze widens, staring at you as you dig around in your inner pocket, before tugging something out. One of your favourite scrunchies in hand, you offer it to him.
"Here." You gesture. "Just toss it in with the pile, I guarantee you that the gods will leave you alone."
His gaze flickers between the scrunchie in your hand to you. He's about to say something, brows furrowing together in brief conflict, but chooses not to divulge as his hand reaches for the scrunchie. You note the bruises forming along his knuckles as his fingers loop around the silk, and your lips press together further in concern.
By the time your gaze meets his, he's already turned his head and placed the scrunchie gently on top of his pile of clothes. When he sets the settings and presses the button, the machine runs smoothly, beeping along with yours as his clothes begin to turn and tumble without fault.
"Wow, you really do make everything better." He mutters to himself.
Your smile softens. "It's just a scrunchie."
He shakes his head loosely, his curls falling to his forehead before he turns back to face you. His gaze pours over your features, the crinkles in the corner of his hazel eyes so soft in the dimmed lighting. "No, I think it’s you."
Peter here!
I just wanted to say happy birthday to the smartest, beautiful, kindest, most awesome human to ever exist! I ran out of other big words, but you make up the whole dictionary of synonyms for amazing in every language possible. I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there, you have no idea how sorry. I have many other things to be sorry for, but this week, that’s definitely going top of the list. I should really stop with these letters, but I really wanted to give you a proper wish just this once.
It kills me that I can’t celebrate with you, and I know you’d end me yourself if you remembered my promise with the camera. You always did like the grain. You still look absolutely beautiful even without it. I’m so proud of you—for being you, and existing, and just killing it out there in the world. I did something a little sad, and not even close to what you deserve, but I bought a cupcake from Delmar's earlier, and I even have the candle right in front of me.
I wish for you to live the most happiest, fulfilling life, and that danger will never come close to you. I wish that you will achieve everything you've ever dreamed of, and that you'll have people who will look after you and love you just as much as I do. I wish—that you'll live a life worth remembering.
I love you, and I think this will be my last letter. I think it'll be nearly impossible for me to let you go, but I think it's time I accepted that for you to live the life I wished for, I have to try.
I love you,
Your Peter.
P.S. Sorry, just had to add this in one last time. You're always beautiful, and I'm not saying this because I only get to see you from a distance, but because I don't think I ever got to tell you that enough.
"Ned?" Your voice croaked out. "Is that you?"
You hear shuffling, before his left shoulder peeks out from the doorframe, slowly entering into view as he takes the lower step into the laundry room. He's staring down at you as if you've handed him an atomic bomb, and you're a sure mess, nose stuffy and eyebags swollen from crying.
"Hey." His soft call is close to making you lose it. "I didn't know if you wanted me intruding on your—"
"Date with the washing machine?" You huff, amusement dry as you turn back to look at your tumbling laundry. "By all means, join in. This current option isn't really doing it for me."
You spot the turn of his lips into a smile in your peripheral vision, before he eventually drops his weight beside you. His knee brushes against yours, and that contact registers like lightning to your senses, before he pulls back to that appropriate distance he always sets between the two of you.
You have no idea why it frustrates you so, even if you have nothing you should expect from him. Your gaze drops to his hand resting over his knee, bouncing slightly with a restless energy—and you spot your scrunchie over his wrist.
Your breath shortens, pulling your attention to his face only to find him already looking at you with unbridled concern.
"You okay?" He asks gently.
Your lip trembles, and you steady yourself as much as you are able. "Fine, just a real shit week."
"I'm so sorry to hear that." He's honest, you can hear it even without really looking him in the eye. "If you want, you can rant to me. I'm a real good listening ear. No mouthing off, just a still statue for your needs."
Your lips quirk up slightly at his attempt at minimising his presence, without even knowing how much it mattered to you that he came in here—or that he stood by the door for a solid ten minutes before you called him out. That he didn't leave, even if any normal stranger would.
"It's my birthday." You shrug, wiping at the tearstain at your cheeks. "And I just lost my job."
His lips part, brows pulling together—but he doesn't interrupt you.
"I was supposed to have a party today, and my college friends cancelled last minute." You mutter weakly. "Not that we were super close, but close enough that it mattered, y'know? I wasn't their first pick, or anyone's for the matter, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise."
"No, you're—" His voice raises almost in frustration, and you meet his gaze. His Adam's apple bobs up and down, and his tone softens into an admission. "You're definitely my first pick."
Your laugh bubbles out of you, finding his statement absurd. "For what? You barely know me."
"I know you're extremely kind." He starts. "That you'd offer your favourite scrunchie to a stranger just to please the laundry gods. That you're funny, and beautiful—and my first pick for who I'd always want to run into."
You stare at him, unable to suppress your shock. He just called you kind, and funny, and beautiful—things people who've known you for longer hasn't thought to mention in years.
"That's—the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me in awhile." You confess, licking at your lips. "Thank you, Ned."
"It's only the truth." He presses. "I shouldn't be the only person to see that, and I know I'm not the only one who does."
"I don't know." You shrug uselessly. "My birthday hasn't even ended, and I feel completely unseen in my own life. I know it's a stupid thing, but I wish I had someone to take my picture, at least to comemorate that I've completed another spin around the Earth or something."
"You could use my camera." He offers almost instinctively.
"You have a camera?" You blink, before a slow smile spreads across your lips. "Of course you do. Do I need to be a tech-savvy to use those too, secret hacker?"
You're no stranger to the many monitors that crowd his apartment, courtesy to the many curious glances past the few times he's left his door ajar, into the premises of his own studio of what looked to be a completely different realm.
His smile deepens. "No, you just need to press two buttons. I could teach you how to work it out."
"You're into photography?" You ask.
His expression stiffens, thoughts trailing off. "Yeah, something like that. My aunt used to love taking physical photos, and I sorta inherited that trait. There was someone—who used to love using my film camera too. So, yeah—I guess I have some experience."
"You could teach me photography." You offer, almost tentatively. "Not just for the sad, lone birthday picture, I mean."
"Oh." He stares at you, and you see it then. Conflict—a pure, unmasked internal battle. "I—I don't know if I'm the right person."
You shrink slightly, less confident than you had been a few seconds ago. This really wasn't your day. "Right, sorry. I know you're a really busy person."
"No, I—" He winces, jaw clenching tight. "I would really love to. It's just that I'm—"
He pauses, staring at you with a nearly broken expression. Your brows furrow together, waiting for his answer—heart thumping in what could only be anticipation. Rejection is close at hand, and you hate that you find yourself waiting still, for something different. For him to fulfill something even you couldn't quite understand.
"Busy." He eventually settles on, voice trailing off in defeat.
You can't take it to heart. You don't allow yourself to, because disappointment is the last thing you wanted a taste of on a day like this. Ned was still nice enough to sit down here with you while you moped, and you shouldn't expect anything more. Even if you liked him, and the crinkles in the corners of his warm, brown eyes, and the sweet sound of his voice—more than you'd ever admit to yourself.
"That's not very creative." You mumble, presenting him with a weakened attempt of a smile. "I gave you that excuse, thief."
His own softened smile rises to meet yours, equally shattered. "I'm sorry. I promise I'll make it up to you."
You know he means it, you just don't know why your heart churns so painfully when you hear those words coming out of his mouth. You don't know if you have faith in promises lately. You haven't believed in those for a really long time.
You don't know how many letters you've gone through, flipping through confessions scribbled in secrecy, of mind-spells, and magic, and vigilantes—a life you don't even remember to be a fraction of your world.
A loud crash resounds behind you and you instinctively rise, tripping over your feet—almost frightened, lashes wet at the corner of your eyes when you turn and see Ned. No, Peter—dressed in a black tank-top much too short for his defined torso and… Juicy Couture pants?
He’s clearly disoriented, and you’re not sure if it’s the chronic migraines he usually gets—or something heavier he keeps hidden past the pile of letters that’s just spilled everything. You can barely look at him without feeling like you’re going to burst at the seams, and he hasn’t even noticed your presence in his apartment.
“What is this?” Your voice eventually breaks through.
His head snaps up, expression scrunched in tension—and he freezes. That same tentative smile he always tossed to you, always sweet and somehow all-too-knowing, locks in place as his lips part—assuming you’re talking about his outfit. Or the state of his apartment, there’s just too much about him that you could never quite put a finger on.
“Wrong laundry basket.” He huffs, churning out an attempt of a laugh to play it off. “Fell asleep in the laundry room, and I didn't even think to take a look at what's inside. I promise I'm not a thief.”
“Stop.” Your stern expression is caught by him immediately, and his attempt of a smile falters. Slowly, your hand raises the letters to his line of vision. "Peter."
His gaze snaps to the letters creased between your shaking fingers. You can't remember what breathing looks like, especially not when his own chest stutters visibly beneath the tank top, as if all the oxygen's been sucked out of him.
He knows, that you know.
"Oh—no." He whispers weakly, because that is the only appropriate thing to say. You’re struck with déjà vu, back to the first time you ever crossed paths with him in the hallway, when he had looked you with so much pain—one you couldn’t decipher.
He takes a step forward towards you, both hands raised with his lips parting to come up with an explanation. You instinctively take a step back, not on purpose, but the distance you've created lands all the same.
He flinches as if you've struck him, his expression shattered to pieces of that raw agony you've felt slip up from him once or twice. That same gaping sadness beneath his gaze, that he always covered up with a bandaged smile meant more for show.
"I'm sorry." His voice breaks weakly, hands clenching into a fist before dragging back down to his sides. "I didn't mean to scare you. Oh god, this was not how this was supposed to go."
"How was this supposed to go?" You echo back to him. "From your letters, it didn't seem like you were ever going to tell me."
It didn't mean to sound accusatory, but you're high on the precipice of a reality broken to pieces, and you're unsure if you're left alone in apartment with an actual lunatic, or with a truth you weren't suppose to discover.
"No, I—" He sucks in a breath, desperation seeping into his tone. "I swear I was going to, but then I found you and you looked so—"
His hands that have begun to brush through his curls fall flatly to the sides, defeated. "So peaceful—and safe. I felt so selfish to take that away from you. To drag you back into my world, knowing that all you'd face was danger or worse."
"And the truth is that hurt the people I love." He admits, his eyes squinting together as something wet flickers over his lashes, and you can tell he believes it. This so-called truth he tells himself. "Nothing good comes out of being close to me, and I couldn't lose you."
"I had to be okay with it." His gaze meets yours, broken. "Not being in your life will always be better than a world without you in it. I had to protect you, somehow—even if it meant leaving you alone."
"It was easier before you came." He huffs out, pained. "To keep a distance before I saw you everyday, just out of reach. I can't count the amount of times I nearly told you. I was just afraid, that if you didn't remember me, I don't think I can—live with hearing it. I'm a coward, and I took the only path I knew, which was to pretend. Like everything was fine, and that seeing you from a distance was enough."
You see it, the way his brain registers his actions as protection, but you don't feel protected. You feel isolated, locked out of your own memories and faced with a man you're supposed to know, someone your body is pleading for you to recognise past the fog in your brain.
“Listen—whatever worked worked, and I can’t remember.” You breathe out, exhale shaky from your lips. “I can’t remember what we had, but I know myself. I don't let people make promises to me, not unless I trust them so much that I—If you promised you’d find me, that you’d help me remember.” Your fist clenches tighter around the letters. "You should've known that I'd never be okay with leaving you alone to deal with this—"
"How could you know that?" He snaps.
You blink, stunned.
"I mean—you never had a normal life from the moment you met me." He goes on. "You never experienced a life without hoping I'd make it back home safe, without looking over your shoulder when I became the world's public enemy, or having to deal with stitches and blood and worrying about survival—instead of school!"
"You don't see the difference but I do." He confesses. "You're living a good life now, and I already screwed it up by entering it again."
"Peter." You cut him off, nearly pleading. "Stop it."
His jaw locks, lips clamping shut before he lets out a huff, one closer to a panic attack than frustration. "I'm sorry." He mutters, clenching his jaw. Something wet pries behind his lashes, and he runs his palms over them, covering his face. "I don't want to fight."
Your heart cracks a little, because there's something so heartbreakingly earnest in the way he says it, as if he's beating himself up over a million thoughts you can't uncover. Your steps inch closer, almost instinctively your body knowing the rhythm at the sight of a distraught Peter before you even have the chance to piece together the 'why'.
"We're not fighting, Peter." You reassure him, your hands tentatively lifting to rest atop his palm.
He freezes, unable to comprehend your touch. You peer through the gaps of his fingers, and find his gaze staring back at you, fractured and pained.
"I knew something wasn't right." You sigh. "I felt it this whole time. Like there was an absence of something—someone important. It gnawed at me, that emptiness, and it nearly drives me insane some nights."
He recognises the feeling, you know he does with the way his expression draws tighter—in understanding, in regret.
"I wish you came to me." You whisper. "I wish you told me, so you wouldn't have to go through this alone."
His lip trembles, as if he never expected you to hear the truth and stay. As if you'd pick the exit over him, when he clearly needs you now.
"If I had promised I'd be there for you, you should've let me keep that promise." You scold gently. "Even if it meant starting over. You’re not meant to deal with life alone, much less one as heavy as yours.”
His gaze is shaken, staring at you with his pupils blown wide. Waiting for reality to hit, or for you to take back your words—but you remain. You stand there, close enough for him to feel you. You don't falter.
Something in Peter gives—shatters completely, and it’s a mere blink before his arms are completely wrapped around you, squashing you into his chest. His fingers are shaking, trembling—a relieved exhale pressed against your shoulder blade before he buries himself deep into the crook above your collarbone.
“I missed you.” Wet tears pool at your skin. “So, so much. It felt like I was dying a little inside every single day, knowing I wasn't keeping your promise. I couldn't—I really tried letting go and it didn't work, not when you mean everything to me."
"I know you don't remember me or what happened between us but—" His voice shakes, muffled from his tight hold. "I love you and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for everything.”
You can't answer him, not with the words he wants or deserves to hear with full honesty backing it, not without the memories you used to share. Yet, the hold of him is familiar, the way you run your fingers through his curls like memory work. His entire body caves in deeper to your touch, as if he’d been waiting this whole time since your arrival to let himself fall into you.
"From the first day I saw you." You admit. "I felt like I was meant to know you, Peter. I wouldn't have given you my scrunchie if it didn't mean something, if I didn't want to tie myself to you in some way."
Pulling back slightly so he meets your gaze, you find yourself mesmerised by the familiarity of him, the way his gaze pours over you automatically as if memorising you is all he wishes to do.
"I want to get to know you, Peter." You confess. "And I want to do it without you pushing me away, pretending like my life is happier without you when laundry nights are what I look forward to the most, because of you."
His breath halts, short-circuiting with your words. Something bright and warm bleeds into his face, and you recognise it to be happiness. Genuine, unconditional relief—before his forehead presses against yours, his lashes fluttering to a close as he embraces you.
"I can do that." He mutters softly. "I'll do anything you ask me to."
It's nice, to be held so tightly and finally feel whole. To have that gap in your chest you've never truly stitched up fade into something mind-numbingly warm and fuzzy, in the arms of the one person your body still commits to memory, past even some stupid mind spell.
“Also.." You murmur, still wrapped in his embrace. "Seriously, what is this outfit?"
A surprised chuckle escapes his lips, a little wet-sounding as he clears his throat. "I wasn't lying about the laundry mishap. I swear I don't dress like this normally."
You hum. "I don't know, I kind of like it."
The silence stretches for a brief second. "I'll buy more if you want me to."
a/n: this movie was everything i needed. much more peter parker fics to come!
likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! <3333
Warnings: minor religious themes, excessive descriptions of Dōma's rainbow eyes because I'm obsessed with them.
Tags: light angst┇ learning to love ┇ touch-starved
⤷ Dōma starts copying happy couples to understand love. Somewhere along the way, it stops being an experiment.
The first time Upper rank two, Dōma pays attention to a couple isn't even because he's interested, it happens purely by chance.
He's sitting on a bench in the town square, absentmindedly rolling a coin between his fingers. The night stretches peacefully over the village, wrapped in a dark blanket torn apart only by the trembling glow of paper lanterns and the few oil lamps still burning outside the shops.
There are far too many people around him for his liking, children running back and forth, vendors calling out to advertise goods that probably nobody needs, and conversations blending together until they become one endless murmur.
It's boring, far too boring.
He's about to leave when something catches his attention, a young man buys a flower.
It doesn't look particularly beautiful. In fact, several of its petals are bent and the stem is slightly crooked, enough to make Dōma wonder why anyone would spend money on something so unremarkable.
The young man, however, doesn't seem to notice those little flaws at all. He leaves a few coins on the stall with a smile that's impossible to hide and, the moment the flower is in his hands, he runs toward a young woman waiting several yards away.
She doesn't even need to look at it properly for her whole face to light up. She accepts the flower with flushed cheeks before wrapping her arms around his neck in an embrace. Then they continue walking as though that exchange had been the most ordinary thing in the world, yet from where he's sitting, Dōma can't seem to look away.
He frowns slightly, unable to understand what he's just witnessed. The flower has no real value. Anyone could pick one just like it from a field without spending a single coin, and yet that young woman's expression had changed as though she'd just received the most extraordinary gift in the world.
But if there's one thing Dōma has learned from watching humans, it's that the best way to understand them is never by asking questions, it's by imitating them.
A slow smile spreads across his lips.
You aren't expecting any visitors that night. In fact, you're convinced you'll spend the rest of the evening completely alone.
You've just finished setting your gear down on the table when an icy breeze slips through the open window and a cold breath brushes against one side of your face.
"Hello, darling," Dōma murmurs with a small smile while you jump and instinctively reach for the hilt of your sword.
"Dōma! Warn me before you come in," you complain, pressing a hand to your chest, where your heart is pounding. "And please, use the door."
"Oh my, I'm sorry," he says, tilting his head, though he doesn't look sorry in the slightest. "I'll do that next time."
You can't help letting out a sigh before smiling, there's something about Dōma that keeps disarming you. His questions are strange, yes, and the way he watches other people can be unsettling at times, but you never sense any malice behind it. If anything, he seems like someone trying to solve a puzzle whose rules everyone understands except him.
You turn around, eager to take a long bath and wash away all the grime you've brought back from the mission you finished that very morning, when you hear a soft clearing of his throat behind you.
"Here."
Dōma awkwardly brings out the hand he'd been hiding behind his back without you even noticing.
You take the flower, confusion written all over your face.
You hold it between your fingers for a few seconds, turning it slightly as you study the bent petals. There's nothing special about it. It's an ordinary flower, the kind anyone could find at the very first stall in the market, and yet when you look back up at Dōma, you find him watching you intently.
"Thank you," you murmur, unable to hide the smile on your face. "But… why are you giving it to me?"
"Oh?" Dōma places a hand over his chest, his eyebrows shooting up. "Can't I give a flower to my beloved?"
"Dōma."
"Fine," he sighs dramatically, leaning against the wall. "I had an idea."
"That never ends well," you narrow your eyes, and Dōma flashes you an amused smile.
"This morning I saw a man buy a flower," he begins. You raise an eyebrow but stay silent, letting him continue. "It wasn't pretty, but he still gave it to the woman he was with, and she smiled before hugging him."
His gaze drops to the flower you're still holding between your fingers before slowly returning to your face.
"Humans are so foolish. They're satisfied with anything."
"Excuse me?" you snap, but Dōma raises a hand before you can continue.
"I just thought it was curious. The flower was something insignificant, and yet she smiled as though he'd given her the whole world." Dōma's rainbow eyes lock onto yours, stealing your breath away. "I wanted to see if you'd smile like that too."
You stare at him for a few seconds, completely bewildered, ignoring the blush warming your cheeks before a quiet laugh slips out through your nose.
"You're hopeless."
"So… does that mean it worked?"
A few days later, he does something else that completely disarms you, this time while the two of you are walking through the town center.
Beside you, Dōma walks with his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his haori, taking in everything around him with interest. The conversation, as always whenever you're with him, drifts wherever his latest whim takes it.
He swears the dog lying in front of the butcher's shop has exactly the same expression as the baker on the corner whenever someone asks him to lower the price of bread.
A few minutes later, he points at a particularly long cloud and insists it looks like a giant fish trying to swallow the moon.
Before you can answer, he changes the subject again to complain that someone painted a door blue even though the entire building is red and, according to him, "it completely ruins the harmony of the street."
You never know how he manages to connect one thought to the next, and you're not even sure he knows either.
Even so, you end up following the conversation with quiet laughs and resigned replies, because arguing with Dōma is almost always far more exhausting than simply agreeing with him.
That's when you feel the faintest brush against the back of your hand.
Dōma's fingers have just slipped carefully between yours. He gives your hand a light squeeze for a few seconds before continuing to walk as though he hasn't done anything out of the ordinary, and it wouldn't be out of the ordinary for most people, but Dōma isn't an affectionate person.
You keep walking for another couple of steps, far too surprised to do anything else, until you finally come to a stop in the middle of the street.
Dōma barely turns his head toward you, patiently waiting for you to speak.
"W-What are you doing?" you stammer, far too flustered to keep yourself under control.
His gaze drops to your intertwined hands.
"I saw a couple walking like this yesterday."
As he answers, he threads his fingers a little more securely through yours, studying the gesture with the same curiosity a child would have while taking apart a toy just to figure out how it works.
"You're still doing this?" you complain, even though your heart is racing.
"Of course, darling," he says with a cheerful smile. "You're my beloved."
You open your mouth to answer, only to fall silent. You're starting to hate how effortlessly he leaves you speechless.
Over the following weeks, the "experiments" continue.
One night, after returning from an especially long mission, you find him waiting for you, sitting on the wooden fence surrounding your house. He absentmindedly swings one leg while holding a small paper-wrapped package in his hands.
The moment he sees you approaching, he jumps down and holds it out toward you.
"For you."
You frown slightly before unwrapping the package, It's your favorite dessert.
"You saw that with another couple too?" you ask, surprised that he remembered something like that.
Dōma nods without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
"Yes."
He stays silent while watching your expression so intently you can almost feel the weight of his gaze resting on your face. He doesn't seem interested in the dessert at all. The only thing that matters to him is finding out whether the result will be the same as it was with the flower.
You end up smiling without meaning to, and he smiles too, confirming that the outcome is exactly the same.
Another day, the two of you are walking along a forest path when a gust of wind tosses your hair into disarray. You don't notice until you feel careful fingers brushing a strand away from your cheek.
You immediately look up, and Dōma pulls his hand back with a small smile that makes his eyes close.
Another day, the cold catches both of you off guard while you're walking through the village. Without warning, Dōma stops in front of you and reaches both hands toward your neck, making you flinch.
"What are you doing?" you murmur.
"Don't move."
With a level of concentration that seems completely unlike him, he straightens the scarf wrapped around your neck, smooths out one end that had folded over, and makes sure it's covering you properly again.
Dōma takes a step back to admire the result. "That's better."
One day, this whole situation of being Dōma's guinea pig becomes a problem.
You've grown used to finding him waiting for you whenever you come back from a mission, to listening to one of his ridiculous observations while the two of you wander aimlessly hand in hand, to him showing up with a flower, a dessert, or some other completely unexpected little gift simply because, according to him, "a couple did the same thing the other day."
And the touches, those damned touches.
The way his fingers seek out your cheek to wipe away the tiniest speck of dirt, the habit he's developed of brushing his knuckles against your face whenever he manages to make you laugh, the absentminded circles his fingertips trace over the back of your hand while you walk together, even the way he's started resting a hand against the small of your back every time you cross a crowded street, as though he's afraid of losing you in the crowd.
Dōma is only trying to understand humans. He isn't doing any of it because it comes naturally to him.
You try to repeat that to yourself over and over every time your heart skips a beat when he threads his fingers through yours or leans in to brush a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness you never would've expected from someone like him.
As soon as he finds the answer he's looking for… he'll stop asking you questions, and once he stops asking you questions, he'll stop bringing you flowers, stop holding your hand, stop waiting for you after your missions, and stop stroking you affectionately whenever he gets the chance.
You don't know if you're ready for when that day comes.
The path leading to the shrine is completely deserted.
At this hour of the night, the only sounds are the murmur of the wind drifting through the treetops and the soft crunch of gravel beneath your footsteps. The stone lanterns lining the path cast a faint glow over the steps, enough to paint your long shadows between the torii gates leading to the main shrine building.
With Dōma, silence has gradually become something unusual. The two of you walk side by side while he absentmindedly observes the shrine, the paper streamers swaying in the breeze, and the wooden prayer plaques where worshippers leave their written wishes. You, on the other hand, are only aware of him.
"I don't understand why we pray so much to a deity that doesn't exist," your voice breaks the silence without warning.
Dōma lifts his gaze toward a small row of ema gently swaying beneath the shrine's roof.
"Because they like believing someone's listening."
"And does that work?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"It doesn't matter whether it works," he says, pausing briefly as he runs his tongue across his lips. "They just need to believe it will. Humans like taking shelter in that whenever they want to escape pain."
Dōma falls silent, simply watching the wooden plaques for a few seconds before starting to walk again. You follow without saying anything, letting the silence settle between you once more.
When you reach the highest point of the shrine, you decide to stop. From there, most of the town stretches out below you, dotted with tiny lights that are still glowing despite the late hour. The air is colder here, and a gentle breeze stirs a few loose strands of your hair.
You rest your forearms against the wooden railing, and Dōma comes to stand beside you. It doesn't take him long before he turns his face toward you.
"The way you're looking at me is starting to worry me," you say, unable to bear the silence.
The corner of his lips curves ever so slightly. "Which way?"
"That way," you reply, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye with a faint frown.
When you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze, he's looking at you exactly the same way as before. There's no trace of the teasing smile he usually wears when he's trying to get under your skin, nor that childlike look that's always accompanied by endless questions.
A knot slowly forms in your throat, there's something in his eyes that makes your skin prickle.
He looks vulnerable.
Beneath the silver light of the moon, his eyes seem to lose any resemblance to those of a human being. The colors melt into one another as though someone had spilled paint across his irises, catching flashes of pink, gold, and turquoise every time the breeze stirs the branches overhead.
They're beautiful eyes, unreal, so mesmerizing that it's easy to forget they belong to a demon capable of painting an entire forest with blood.
A creature for whom you're betraying the Demon Slayer Corps.
"Are you going to answer me?" you ask almost in a whisper, unable to stop your hands from trembling.
"You're very beautiful."
Your lips part slightly, once again unable to find an answer ever since this whole madness began. For weeks you've learned to trace the origin of every one of his gestures, but this time, you can't.
The compliment hangs between the two of you, as fragile as the silence that follows it.
Dōma doesn't look away, the moon continues reflecting in his eyes, making their colors shift with every slight movement of his head. The pink fades into gold, then an almost crystal-blue appears, one you've never noticed so clearly before. He's beautiful, painfully beautiful.
You wonder how many people have died staring into those same eyes without ever realizing they were the last thing they'd see in their lives, and yet right now, you can't find even the slightest trace of cruelty in them.
Your heart pounds so hard against your chest that you wonder if he can hear it too, he probably can, demons hear everything.
You lower your gaze for a moment, unable to endure that intensity any longer. Before you can gather your thoughts, though, you feel cold fingers slipping beneath your chin.
Dōma gently tilts your face back up with a tenderness that contradicts the strength you know he possesses.
"What's wrong?" you ask, your voice coming out far shakier than you'd intended.
He takes a few seconds before answering. His eyes deliberately wander across every corner of your face, as though he's trying to memorize it.
"I had an idea," he says, just like he did that night weeks ago.
"That never ends well," you joke weakly, playing along.
The shadow of a smile briefly crosses his lips before disappearing almost as quickly as it came.
"No," he says, slowly shaking his head. "This time it's different."
His thumb absentmindedly brushes along the line of your jaw in slow caresses that send butterflies fluttering through your stomach.
Dōma's gaze slowly drops to your lips.
"You're very beautiful," he repeats, this time in a quiet voice.
"You already said that," your lips begin to tremble beneath Dōma's attention.
"It's not enough, darling."
His lips find yours with an almost reverent slowness, as though even in that final moment Dōma is still wondering why he feels the need to do it. You've kissed Dōma far too many times to be surprised by a gesture like this.
You know the coldness of his lips, the faint sweet scent that always seems to linger around him, and the carefree way he leans down whenever he feels like stealing a kiss from you.
But this kiss isn't like any of the others.
It's not one of those absentminded kisses while he calls you "darling" with that insolent smile, it isn't one of those fleeting kisses he shares with you before disappearing among the trees as effortlessly as he arrived, nor is he trying to make you react or see what expression you'll make afterward.
Dōma lingers against your lips for a moment that seems to stretch far longer than it should, motionless at first, as though that simple contact alone is enough to quiet every thought that's been stirring inside him for weeks. Then he deepens the kiss.
His thumb strokes your cheek while his lips move against yours with a gentleness that slowly unties the knot that had been tightening around your chest.
Your fingers end up clutching the collar of his haori, while Dōma's leave your cheek to carefully slide down to your waist. His touch is still cold, but it no longer startles you.
His mouth parts yours as his tongue slips inside, turning the kiss into a scorching one that draws a soft moan from your lips. With insulting ease, as though you weigh absolutely nothing, he lifts you off the ground. The movement is so smooth that you barely have time to let out a small gasp before finding yourself sitting on the shrine's wooden railing.
He immediately steps between your legs to keep you from losing your balance.
Dōma tilts his head and finds your lips again and again, like a thirsty man incapable of pulling away from the only source that can quench his thirst.
When you're finally running out of air, you're the one who breaks the kiss just enough to take a shaky breath.
Dōma remains in front of you, still far too close, one hand resting on your waist while the other is still caressing your cheek, as though he'd forgotten to pull it away.
His white hair, always immaculate, has become slightly tousled from the wind and from your own fingers, which are still gripping the collar of his haori. A few loose strands fall across his forehead, casting soft shadows that soften his features.
His rainbow eyes are just as beautiful beneath the moonlight, but now they seem darker, deeper, like the surface of a lake after someone has thrown a stone into it and the last ripples are beginning to fade.
Dōma's lips are slightly parted, faintly flushed after your long kissing session.
He looks so beautiful that it steals your breath away.
"I think I was wrong," Dōma says, his voice rough enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"About what?" you murmur, still dazed from the kisses.
"I thought I was learning how people in love behave," his hand slowly leaves your cheek to find yours. "But it's been a long time since I needed to watch other couples."
Your heart skips a beat. "Dōma…"
"I don't watch what they do anymore, it's boring." His eyes return to yours. "All I think about is wanting to do those things with you."
Tears blur your vision as all the weight that's been building on your chest for weeks suddenly disappears.
Dōma tilts his head in confusion. "Are you crying?"
A shaky laugh escapes you through your tears.
"You're an idiot…" you murmur so affectionately that the words lose any intention of sounding like a reproach.
Before he can ask why, you close the little distance still separating the two of you and bury your face against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around him. Dōma goes completely still, surprised, before cautiously wrapping his arms around you in return.
"Ah," slips from Dōma's lips. "This is… interesting."
His chin slowly comes to rest on top of your head, and you let out a small sound of confusion.
"I used to think it was silly that you smiled whenever I did things like this," he says, his eyes remaining fixed on the darkness surrounding the shrine. "Now I'm the one doing it."
“Is it good when I touch you here? Or maybe here?” + gen narumi - if you only do jujutsu characters then yuta??? Thank you 🫶🏻
︵ ೀ mdni. yuta eating you out
the end credits are already rolling on the tv, but it’s not like either of you care anymore. not when yuta is pressed close against you on the couch, kissing you senseless while his touch makes your skin tingle.
his fingers trace down slowly, barely there, light enough to make you shiver as they follow the curve of your side.
“is it good when i touch you here?”
yuta's fingers brush over your breasts through your thin shirt. he circles your nipples so softly you arch into his hand.
“or maybe here?”
his palm slides lower, over your stomach, then slips under the waistband of your shorts. his fingers dip inside your panties and brush your pussy. you’re already wet. he spreads your folds with two fingers and rubs your clit in slow, lazy circles.
“yuta…” you breathe and spread your legs wider on the couch.
he presses a little harder on your clit and then pushes one finger inside your tight cunt, then adds another, curling them deep.
yuta watches your face the whole time, eyes dark. “you’re so wet already.” he pumps his fingers in and out and rubs your clit with his thumb at the same time.
you grip his shoulders and rock against his hand. he leans in and kisses your neck, then sucks hard enough to leave a mark. his fingers move faster, fucking you deeper. “is it good when i fuck you like this?” he whispers against your skin. “tell me.”
you nod and yuta smiles. he kisses you once, deep and hungry, before starting to move lower. his mouth trails down your body, leaving soft kisses over your chest and stomach until he reaches your inner thighs. there, he slows, pressing gentle kisses to the soft skin, each one softer and more deliberate than the last as he moves lower.
he kisses your clit gently first, lips soft against you. then he licks you, tongue flat and warm, dragging up your slit. you shudder. yuta kisses your clit again, sucks it lightly between his lips, and pushes his tongue inside you.
yuta kisses your pussy like he kisses your mouth—slow, hungry, and wet. his hands hold your thighs open as he buries his face deeper and kisses your folds, licks inside you, then sucks your clit while his tongue pushes in and out.
“so fucking sweet,” he groans against you. he slides two fingers back inside you and curls them while he kisses and licks your clit nonstop.
your thighs start to shake around his head. yuta doesn’t stop. he keeps kissing your clit, sucking it, licking it, tongue sliding inside you between kisses until your back arches hard off the couch.
when he finally pulls back, lips shiny, he looks up at you with hazy eyes. “you like it?” he asks, all shy now. he looks almost embarrassed, cheeks warm as he watches your face. and all you can do is nod.
