ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 SUMMARY: flirting with your guests is a regular on your youtube show… but flirting with SPIDER-MAN hits different, especially ‘cause he flirts right back!
ⓘ CONTENT WARNINGS: flirting, teasing -> confident fem! reader ノ dialogue heavy ノ back-and-forth banter ノ heavyyyy fluff ノ couple of uses of y/n!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: wow, me not posting smut for once— fluff will appear on this page every once and a while. my guilty pleasure watch is “chicken shop date” and love the idea of spider-man flirting heavyyyy. god, i can’t wait for brand new day! btw, i don’t own chicken shop, that shit belongs to amelia diloldenberg, only using the idea!
NEW NOTIFICATION!
CHICKEN SHOP DATE with y/n l/n has uploaded a new video: SPIDER-MAN | CHICKEN SHOP DATE #214
(2 hours ago…)
it took about two years to finally get the man on your show… but finally, someone from spider-man’s personal life finally listened to you and got him on your youtube series.
peter? loved your show. he loves the guests and the style of the show and your laid back personality compared to the other shows on youtube. he always found late night shows too… forced, other people had weird questions, but yours? yours was perfect
the only issue? they asked for… him. so now, here he was, dressed in his spider-man suit, mask halfway pushed up to reveal his mouth and a part of his jawline, and a camera on him… steaming hot chicken and fries sitting in front of him.
and here you were; internally freaking out that you were really interviewing him, the fucking king of new york himself. spider-man. fucking spider-man. the wall crawler!
the restaurant atmosphere wasn’t tense or quiet but rather warm and nervous. maybe it’s cause you’re interviewing world famous superhero, possibly. but even spider-man across the table was nervous as he tasted the food.
but then, spider-man speaks the first words of the video. “you know… this is really good chicken.”
“thanks, we try to make the chicken at least some what edible… like me.” you reply to him, taking a bite of your own food; it’s pretty good, you will agree with him like that.
immediately, peter could feel his heart do a little flip thing that he’s felt before… but never to this extent. he doesn’t let it show though, he knows he can’t be too confident on this show— just be friendly, flirt back, and don’t overshare too much. “well it’s good cause i’m hungry. i didn’t eat before coming.”
you lean back in your chair, pointing to him. “so how do you work out? considering you’re a… human spider after all.”
he chuckles lightly, covering his mouth with the top of his hand before speaking, pointing to his own body. “the spider-like qualities don’t really… stick in terms of… appetite and stuff like that.”
“oh? it doesn’t.”
“no, luckily i’ve gotten good at maintaining sweat and all that jazz.”
[video cuts to an outside shot of the shop; nighttime with the moon bright and the lights of the chicken shop lit brightly; Y/N’S CHICKEN. ON 45TH STREET]
peter takes another bite of the chicken as he swirls the straw around in his chosen drink. “you know… we’ve probably met before.”
“oh yeah?” you challenge. “you think as spider-man we’ve met or as your secret alias thing?”
he shrugs as he scratches his left cheek with his fingers. “i mean, probably as both… sorry if i didn’t remember you if i did save you once; i save a lot of people.”
you put your chin on your hand as you completely ignore his defense. “you have been avoiding me”
“have i?” he asks, tilting his head.
you nodded. “yeah, been trying to get you on this show for two years up to this point… seems like my calls to your manager didn’t reach you.”
he nods his head even if he doesn’t agree with your sentiment. “i don’t have a manager darling, it’s just me… who the hell would you have called in the first place?”
“i tried the daily bugle but they hung up on me, i think i was talking to jameson himself."
“yeah… he doesn’t really… fancy me all too much.”
putting a chicken strip into your mouth, you chew on it before putting your knuckles to your mouth, swallowing it as you respond. “oh that’s so unfortunate.”
peter points his french-fry holding fingers at you in agreement. “that’s what i tell them because i don’t do anything wrong and yet they have an issue!”
“i mean, what did you do to them?” you question, a teasing tone to your words.
peter shrugs. “i don’t know.”
“did you like, fuck jameson’s wife? flirt with his daughter in front of him?” you ask, adding possible solutions to j.jonah jameson’s undying hatred for the wallcrawler.
“not that i know of.” he answers, sipping from his straw. “spider-man doesn’t usually do the hit it and quit it stuff so i know i didn’t do anything to him personally.”
you crack a smile at his words. “so spider-man doesn’t fuck a civillian he saves if they ask hard enough?”
he shakes his head. “nope… not trying to have a son or daughter running ‘round and it uh… reveals my secret identity because of dna and everything… plus, not trying to give my powers away.”
“selfish.”
“reasonable.”
[video cuts to a woman’s arm, your arm, putting the fries from the deep-fry basket onto the tray, ready to serve to the next customer]
you eat a couple of fries before steering the conversation somewhere else. “so we all know new york is the weirdest of weird places… what’s the weirdest thing you’ve interrupted while swinging?”
spider-man chuckles behind his glass. “uhhhh… basically, i accidentally landed… right in between a proposing couple on one of those garden rooftops.”
“was there like a serial killer on the roof? what happened?” you ask.
“uh… the ring rolled off the roof and the guy nearly fell trying to catch it.” he explains, rubbing the back of his head as he chews on a fry, taking the time to scratch the back of his neck as well. “they still got engaged.”
“did you go to the wedding?”
“no, wasn’t on the guest list.”
you click your tongue. “you know; i would invite you to my wedding.”
he smiles bold. “oh really? you think i could look good in a suit?”
“you’d be invited as the groom and not a guest.” your tone deadpan despite the smile on your lips.
peter nods in understanding— he tries to hide his blush at flirty words. “ohhhhh.”
[video cuts to a close up on the chicken’s shop menu… damn, in this economy, it’s surprising to see a 4 chicken tender and fry combo for seven dollars. the sound of the kitchen can be heard in the background.]
peter fixes his mask to make sure it doesn’t reveal too much before he speaks again. “i noticed that the colors of the show’s logo match my suit.”
you look up, smiling as you eat another piece of chicken. “oh yeah?” you cover your mouth to swallow before finishing your sentence. “you like it?”
“it’s an honor, sweetheart.”
[video cuts to the grill inside the kitchen, two pieces of texas toast sitting butter side down]
“is it true that all superheroes are fuckboys and fuckgirls?” you ask.
peter looks up at you, eyes of the mask widening before shortly going back to regular position, waving his hand is dismay. “nah, most of us are professional. i know the human torch and hawkeye and that knobhead from bludhaven, what’s his name?”
“nightwing?” you finish his question, remembering that black hair bird gymnast sitting across from you.
he snaps his finger. “yeah, that kid… bro, he gives us a bad rep ‘cause he’s always flirting with his fans… it’s like totally crazy the type of stuff he pulls with ‘em.”
“so you, spider-man, don’t flirt with your own fans?” you question him, raising a brow as you lean forward on the table.
the webslinger shakes his head. “nope. not trying to have my name trending for flirting.”
“well i’m a fan and you’re flirting with me right now…”
“if you wanna spin it like that.”
[video cuts to the soda station in the shop; all sodas are available except mountain dew. a sticky-note is placed at the bottom of the dispensary, reading very simply; out of order.]
“i’ve asked people out a lot.” you begin, swinging around the half-eaten chicken strip in your fingers. “and have gotten no’s back.”
peter interrupts with a smile, pointing to the ceiling of the restaurant. “in this way or like… in a real way?”
“no… no…” you begin, tilting his head at the accusation that this restaurant is not a real way. how dare he. “well, this is real, but…”
then, spider-man busts out into a fit of laughter— serious, unbridled laughter. you just made spider-man laugh and there’s something good about that. there’s something sweet about having that power over someone so much more powerful.
“stop laughing damn it!” you say, reaching over and smacking the back of his shoulder, which only makes him laugh. “this is a serious issue!”
“oh i know it is, y/n, that’s why i’m laughing!” he tries to explain in between laughs, finally leaning back in his chair.
you look at him dumbfounded, but a smile doesn’t stop from appearing on your lips. “you think you’re so fucking funny.”
“i think you’re funny, darling.”
[video cuts to a still shot of the outside deal; free desert with a purchase over $10, and in this restaurant? that’s pretty easy to get… so obviously, free cakes and free brownies were flying all over that damn restaurant]
“are you seeing anyone?” you ask him, stealing one of his fries.
he shakes his head as he does the same to you; stealing a much bigger fry than you stole. “not right now, it’s kinda hard to date with the whole… superhero stuff. why? you seeing if you have a chance?”
“maybe, why does that matter?” you press him, leaning back and crossing your arms.
he mirrors your action; key sign of someone liking you, mirroring your actions. “just asking. it’s hard to try to be on a date and suddenly an idiot is trying to rob a bank down fifth avenue.” he explains, motioning with his hand.
you nod along. “are you feeling any danger around us?”
he puts his fingers on his chin; surprisingly? his spidey-sense haven’t gone off… maybe this is a sign. “nope, for once, my little inside radar ain’t going off.”
and you almost read his mind perfect. “aye, it’s a sign we are made for each other.”
“can you handle heights?” he asks.
you shrug. “possibly, why you asking?” you question.
peter sticks his tongue to the inside of his cheek, visible to the screen as he scratches the back of his neck, a blush clear on his cheeks. “maybe after this, i can show you what a little web slinging with spidey is like.”
[video cuts to an empty version of the chicken shop; the red and white tables nice and pretty, the lights vibrant inside the restaurant, in the background has two workers behind the cash register.]
“so… as we wrap up our date… speak now or forever hold your truth, they say.” you offer him before sipping on your drink.
peter thinks for a minute before grinning bright. “eh, you have my number, this won’t be our last date.”
4,912 COMMENTS (sort by…)
add a comment…
user431 (2 hours ago)
i have never seen two ppl flirt so hard before and go absolutely no where | 34K likes
user01 (2 hours ago)
HE WAS BEATING HER AT HER OWN GAME AND I LOVED EVERY SECOND OF IT | 12K likes
╰ user43: she wasn’t trying to stop it either
╰ user04: when he asked her to go web-slinging 🫦
user69 (2 hours ago)
would pay exponential amounts of money to see an uncut version of this | 128K likes
user420 (2 hours ago)
the random nightwing stray???? 😭😭😭 | 44K likes
╰ user55: bro is FUMING
╰ user67: he’s impregnating one of his fans just to make spidey more mad at the fact that he’s giving them a bad rep
╰ user58: and i’m the baby mama!
╰ user06: sorry! the baby mama is actually me!
╰ user88: i need to see them interact!
╰ user77: i fear spidey is putting him through the wall
johnnystorm (2 hours ago)
this motherfucker has no game istg | 404K likes
╰ mattthelawyer: how does he have the bucket right in front of him and yet still not score???
╰ johnnystorm: dawg idk, this is baddd
╰ user100: how tf is matt the blind lawyer typing if he can’t see shit?
╰ user44: user100 never heard of asking siri to read the comment out loud
user667 (2 hours ago)
their sex tape would go crazy | 69K likes
user111 (2 hours ago)
watching this after being broken up with was NOT a good idea lmaooooo | 101K likes
ironfistyoass (2 hours ago)
and i thought i was bad at realizing flirting attempts | 91K likes
╰ user789: it’s not even that he’s bad at flirting, it’s just that neither of them will fucking admit shit 😭
peterbparker (2 hours ago)
loved this one y/n, great interview! | 1K likes
╰ user123: jolly aah mf
╰ user457: basic ass comment
╰ user843: ur that mf from the daily bugle, u know spider-man, get this motherfucker on game or tell him to pass the controller!
╰ peterbparker: you think I know spidey personally?
╰ user843: yes. get on it.
user674 (2 hours ago)
i love how he says he doesn’t want to be on trending for flirting with fans and yet he’s been #1 trending for 2 hours bc of this interview 😭😭 | 690K likes
user999 (2 hours ago)
imagine if they become the next rpf final boss like superman and lois lane | 55K likes
╰ user885: their sex tape didn’t leak, this couple’s will atp
╰ user798: still can’t believe they actually became a thing
╰ user321: loved how they went from denying their relationship every single time they were seen out together. the amount of times “i’m just interviewing him” was said is insaneee
╰ user541: everyone remembers that casino video leaking of batman, wonder woman, green lantern, and the flash putting bets of them ‘cause even they were shipping them!
╰ user999: everyone was there for the sky photos
╰ user561: when they got photographed fucking on the daily planet logo 😭😭😭
masterlist is here! click here for more!
ⓘ KENTLUV3R’S WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and don’t repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.
pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader
content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!
comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡
— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !
w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)
a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭
The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.
SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??
NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!
You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.
You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.
Then something had swung overhead.
A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.
You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.
He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.
Spider-Man pushed off the wall.
Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.
You had run.
Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk.
By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.
He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human.
Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.
You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.
He turned his head.
For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.
You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.
Still, your stomach dropped.
Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.
You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.
After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.
You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.
Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.
Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.
Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.
Lucky meant hearing him talk.
That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.
“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”
The guy swung at him.
Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His head snapped toward you.
You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.
Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.
Then he pointed at you.
“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears.
Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”
“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”
A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.
“You noticed?”
His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”
You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”
“You are practically dating the damn tape.”
“I respect boundary lines!”
His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”
The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”
“That is relatively worse.”
It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.
Before he left, he looked down at you again.
“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder.
You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”
There was a pause.
Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.
“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”
Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.
Peter remembered you after that.
He didn't mean to.
He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.
But you, you became hard not to notice.
You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.
He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.
That made his stomach twist.
The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from.
Peter hated them in the abstract way he could.
He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.
He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.
Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.
It was relief.
Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.
“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.
You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.
Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”
Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”
“So am I.”
He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”
Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”
“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”
You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”
His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”
That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.
“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood.
He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”
You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”
You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”
“No.”
A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”
Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”
You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots.
You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly.
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Bleeding?”
“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time.
Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.
Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.
“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.
Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”
Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”
A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”
“Eventually is not good enough.”
You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”
“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.
The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.
Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.
Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”
“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more.
He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”
You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”
Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”
He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.
You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.
That was the lie at the center of it.
You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises.
He wasn't invincible.
But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.
You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.
It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.
It was the pauses he had.
The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.
That was what kept pulling you closer to him.
The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.
Your phone lit up.
Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.
SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??
STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.
Your friend stopped talking.
“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.
She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”
“It’s close.”
A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”
“I’ll stay back!”
She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”
The echo of his words should have slowed you.
It didn't.
Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.
Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.
The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.
You froze.
For once, your body understood before your obsession did.
Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.
Peter saw you from the ground.
Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.
His blood went cold.
“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.
You did not.
Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.
Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.
The strand hit your waist and yanked.
Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.
The street exploded white-blue.
Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.
For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.
Spider-Man lifted his head first.
“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you.
You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express.
“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”
The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”
Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”
You emphasized better. “I’m not.”
His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.
He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.
Then, he looked back at you.
You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.
The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.
“Stay here,” he all but demanded
You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so.
He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”
“I heard you.”
“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”
“I’ll stay.”
Peter really didn't believe you.
But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.
You stayed.
For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.
“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”
A crash came next.
“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”
Another loud noise of impact.
You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.
The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.
Badly so.
He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.
You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”
Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”
His answer came too quick. “So am I.”
The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his.
He stepped closer.
“What is wrong with you?”
The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.
You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”
“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”
Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”
“I didn’t know it was going to—”
“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”
You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.
“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.
Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his.
“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”
Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”
You looked up again quickly with widening eyes.
There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself.
Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.
“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.
Peter forgot how to breathe.
Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.
But that was not how you said it.
You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.
You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity.
You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.
Peter hated how easily that worked on him.
He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.
“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time.
Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”
“Want to know me.”
You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”
“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”
You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”
Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”
You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know you don’t want the rest.”
You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.
“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression.
He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge. “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”
The confession landed badly.
You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.
Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”
“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more.
Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”
Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”
“You followed me home?”
He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”
You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”
“I was making sure you were safe.”
Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.
“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession.
Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”
You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”
“I notice threats.”
“You think I’m a threat?”
His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”
“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.
Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.
You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.
“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him.
The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
You let out an exasperated groan, one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”
“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”
Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”
“It should be.”
“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.
Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.
He should have left.
He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.
Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”
You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m not joking.”
You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”
“Do you?”
Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”
He stepped closer this time.
You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.
Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.
“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.
You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.
It mattered.
The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.
“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.
His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”
Your voice hadn't lost its lightness, but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”
Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”
Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.
It was a warning with a pulse.
“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.
You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”
His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”
“When you’re hurt?”
Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”
You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”
He went quiet.
That was answer enough for you.
You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.
But he was still holding your wrist.
And, he hadn't let go.
“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him.
“I did.”
“Tell me again.”
Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist.
Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.
“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away.
Neither did you.
The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.
You reached up with your free hand.
This time, you touched his jaw.
Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.
“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.
Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”
Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”
“No.”
That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.
You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.
Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.
The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.
“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders.
Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”
“To this.”
You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.
“I’m not saying no.”
Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words.
He stopped an inch from you.
The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.
Peter caught your fingers again.
“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning.
Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.
Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.
Only that.
The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.
You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice.
His mouth found yours before you could say anything.
The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.
You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”
You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”
“You sure?”
You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”
“You keep saving me.”
Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”
Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”
He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.
“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily.
You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”
His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”
You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”
He answered by kissing you again.
This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.
The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.
When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.
“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe.
The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I get it.”
“You could’ve died tonight.”
You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”
Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.
“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.
There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.
“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw.
For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.
Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.
“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in.
You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”
His silence moved over you slowly.
He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.
But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.
“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting.
Your reply came back softer. “At what?”
“Letting people stand this close.”
Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”
You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”
“Great.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s really not.”
You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”
That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.
“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding.
A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”
He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”
“What tone?”
“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”
You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”
Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”
“I think you’re avoiding.”
“I think you’re concussed.”
“You asked if I was hit.”
His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”
You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.
He looked at your mouth again.
You noticed.
This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.
The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.
You gave back as much as he took.
That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.
“Careful,” he said again.
This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”
His hand stilled on impact of your words.
“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again. “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”
Peter listened without interrupting.
That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.
Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”
“I won’t.”
His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”
You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”
He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”
You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”
Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”
“That seems really excessive.”
“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”
You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”
“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”
You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.
Peter did take you home.
Not immediately, though.
The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.
Peter moved differently while carrying you.
Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.
By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline.
Mostly.
He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him.
A laugh escaped you before you could control it. “You really do know where I live.”
Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”
Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”
“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”
The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”
“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils. “Not in a way I’m discussing.”
You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.
The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet.
Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.
You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.
“You’re not coming in?”
Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”
You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”
“You were most of them.”
“Still.”
His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.
You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.
“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong.
Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.
He really should have said no.
But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.
Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.
The room felt too small with him in it.
Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.
“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue.
“I’m injured.”
You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”
Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”
You stepped closer.
He watched you do it.
The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.
Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.
“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly, more hesitant than you'd have imagined.
Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.
“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”
The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.
A low sound left him.
“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer.
Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”
The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”
Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.
His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.
“That hurt?” you whispered against him.
“No.”
A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”
“Maybe.”
Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.
Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.
He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.
“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.
“You keep kissing me.”
His mouth hovered above yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved after that.
The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home.
Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.
“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could.
Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”
Peter pushed. “You swear?”
“I swear.”
“And if you see me on that app—”
You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”
He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”
“Now.”
You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”
Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”
You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.
He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.
It felt strange to let it go.
Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.
You deleted it.
Then the second one.
Then the third.
Peter said nothing while you did so.
When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.
“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite. “Happy?”
“No.”
You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”
“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”
Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”
“I’m known for that.”
You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.
The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear.
He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had.
Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.
His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."
“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.
"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."
“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough.
You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.
Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.
"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"
"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."
Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.
"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"
You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.
"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."
He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.
“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.
"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."
You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.
"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."
"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.
"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"
You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.
"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.
The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.
Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.
"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.
“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.
The mask came off.
You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.
One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.
"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."
“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.
Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.
“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth.
Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands.
The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.
"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.
"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"
“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass.
The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.
The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.
"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"
Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.
Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.
Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.
He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.
"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"
You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.
"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."
His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.
"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."
You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"
His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."
The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.
"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"
His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."
“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”
His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.
"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"
You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.
"Fuck—I'm—"
"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."
You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.
"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"
"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"
His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"
The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.
"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."
Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.
"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"
His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.
"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."
Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.
"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"
His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.
A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.
"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.
"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."
You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"
His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.
"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.
You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.
"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.
Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.
"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."
You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."
Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."
The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.
The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.
You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.
Consciousness returned in pieces.
Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.
Your eyes cracked open.
The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.
You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.
You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.
Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.
Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:
P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.
A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.
"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."
Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.
The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.
★ summary: when spider-man comes to yelena for help, he doesn’t expect you to be there. you don’t expect for him to be so hot
★ pairing: spider-man x widow!reader
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, public sex, accidental vouyerism, web kink, web play?, enhanced!sperm, cum play, cream pie, mask stays on during sex (but reader is into it)
★ word count: 5.7k words
★ notes: putting myself in horny jail for this one
The steam curling on top of the water was thick enough to blur the edges of the room, hot enough that every inhale burned pleasantly at the back of your throat. It clung to your skin in a permanent sheen, damp strands of hair sticking stubbornly to your temples while eucalyptus hung heavy in the air. Next to you, Yelena dissolved into another fit of laughter, the movement of her shoulders sending a wave across the pool that splashed directly into your face and soaked the hair you’d spent the last ten minutes trying to keep dry.
“Сестра,” you hissed through a laugh of your own, swatting uselessly at the water before shoving her shoulder. “I told you to stop doing that.”
“Your hair,” She droned on, eyes rolling dangerously hard. “You look fine, hair will be fine there’s good essential oils in the water.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully.
Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.
“Were you expecting company?”
She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.
“Oh. Right.”
A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day.
Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”
“W-what?”
“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered.
“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?”
Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.”
His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“
“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.”
He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.
Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“
You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.”
His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger.
“…Seriously?”
You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.”
His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.
“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.”
You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?”
“I forgot.”
“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.
You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost.
Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.
The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.
You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately.
Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off.
“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?”
He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.”
“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“
You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago.
The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?”
You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again.
“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.”
“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.”
“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch.
“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”
You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”
“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement.
“Yes, can we?”
“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.”
“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet.
The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.
“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”
“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.
“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.
Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”
”It is more like possession."
You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.
Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.
“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”
You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs.
“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”
Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”
“I’ve seen your belly button.”
All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered.
“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”
“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”
The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.
”You’ve scared him off.”
“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.
Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.
News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last.
The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????”
You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything.
“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “
“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”
You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.
“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”
“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”
“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”
A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”
“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”
You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”
“So what’s next?”
“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”
He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”
“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing”
“Oh? That’s it huh?”
“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to.
Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”
“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.
Instead, silence answered you.
The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity.
You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.
I’m at your office. Where are you?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
running 2 get food
Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.
do u want blini
wait no dumplings
there's an ice cream cart do u want
of course u want why do i ask
Then another.
I'll get them all brb
there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country
You couldn’t help smiling.
thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea
Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.
yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time
Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.
You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.
By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.
A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.
So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.
”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.
“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself.
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”
“I’ll just wait here.”
“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.”
“Are you sure?”
”Yes.”
“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”
That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”
He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask.
“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”
“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”
”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.”
“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.
He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.
It was then your eyes caught the scar.
Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.
He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”
One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.
”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.”
“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.”
“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?”
He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.”
He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.
You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.
“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”
“Y-Yeah…”
The word caught somewhere in his throat.
A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.
His eyes betrayed him.
For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.
“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.”
“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.
He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.
“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”
Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”
Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view.
“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated.
“Do you shoot webs from other places?”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”
A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“I said that’s a shame.”
“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”
For a long second he simply stared at you.
“What? I like spiders too, you know?”
Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.
“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.”
“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?”
He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you.
“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”
Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.”
He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.
For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.
“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?”
“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.
The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.”
“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?”
He shakes his head, “I try not to.”
You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.
“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek.
“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric.
You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.
“Is this okay?”
“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced.
Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones.
“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing.
“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch.
“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.”
He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins.
“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?”
“I-“
“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“
One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it.
He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?”
You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth.
One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds.
“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits.
“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit.
“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.”
Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist.
“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.”
“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”
There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically.
In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you.
He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt.
There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd.
“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.”
Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?”
“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.”
“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out.
“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs.
“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you
Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh.
You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.
“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.”
“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again.
When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“
”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.”
“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm.
“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.
“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.”
“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time.
You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him.
“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you.
“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.
“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him.
“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“
“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.”
He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his.
“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…”
“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.
You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs.
“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.
He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.”
“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.”
He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened.
“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.
That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name.
You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again.
“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.”
The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries.
“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.”
“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.”
“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you.
“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.”
“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head.
The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 : after a long patrol, peter climbs through your window exhausted, bruised and still half in the spider-man suit. a stupid joke about whether spider-man could eat you out while hanging upside down turns into peter taking the question far too seriously, and what starts as teasing curiosity becomes a filthy little experiment neither of you wants to stop. 18k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : 18+ . adult!peter parker x fem!reader . established relationship . porn with little plot . spider-man suit kink . upside down oral . cunnilingus . panties kink . overstimulation . multiple orgasms . spit + cum play . messy kissing . face licking . blowjob . handjob . riding . boob worship . nipple play . neck biting . vocal needy peter . floor humping . cum leaking . eating cum out
navigation : kofi .
PETER PARKER HAD DEVELOPED the deeply irritating habit of treating your apartment window like the front door, although calling it a habit made it sound newer than it really was. Somewhere during the months you’d been together, you’d stopped jumping whenever something landed against your fire escape after dark,
stopped reaching instinctively for whatever heavy object happened to be nearest when the window frame suddenly scraped upward, and started recognising the difference between Peter arriving normally and Peter arriving after the kind of patrol that had gone badly.
Tonight landed somewhere in the middle. There was a heavier thump outside than usual, followed by several long seconds of silence, then the faint metallic rattle of somebody getting their footing before your window finally began creeping upward from the bottom.
You were curled beneath a blanket at one end of the couch with some terrible action movie playing on television, and instead of turning around, you merely glanced toward the reflection in the darkened glass across the room as one red-gloved hand appeared around the frame.
Peter was apparently attempting to enter quietly, which might’ve worked considerably better if his shoulder hadn’t knocked against the side of the window and made him mutter something irritated beneath his breath. You waited until half his body had disappeared through the opening, one leg still awkwardly outside while he tried not to catch the suit on the frame, before you finally called, “You know normal boyfriends use the door.”
Everything behind you stopped. Completely. For a second, there wasn’t even the sound of fabric moving, and when you finally turned your head slightly, Peter’s masked face had appeared around the side of the curtain, one white lens narrowed at you while the other remained slightly wider in a look that somehow managed to communicate exhausted offence without revealing an inch of his actual face.
He stayed like that just long enough to make your mouth twitch before finishing his climb inside, landing carefully with one boot against the floor and pulling the second over the sill. Peter straightened with a small roll of his shoulder, glanced down at himself as though checking he hadn’t brought half the fire escape in with him, then looked toward you again.
“Normal boyfriends don’t usually have to explain why there’s blood on their shirt to the neighbour in 4B,” he said eventually, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask and flatter than the dramatic defence you’d expected.
The word blood made your amusement disappear at once, your gaze dropping instinctively across the red and blue suit as you searched for whatever tear or stain he was referring to, and Peter noticed before you could even sit upright.
Both of his hands lifted immediately in a placating gesture, palms facing you while he shook his head once. “Not mine.” The tension left your shoulders almost as quickly as it had arrived, and even beneath the mask you could see the tiny shift near his mouth that told you he’d noticed.
Peter looked back toward the still-open window, hooking one hand beneath the frame before pulling it shut with considerably more care than he’d shown while climbing through it. “Also,” he added as the latch clicked into place, turning back toward you with the faintest shrug, “the window’s faster.”
You snorted and sank deeper into the cushions, watching him pretend that was the entire explanation. “You mean you don’t want Mrs. Alvarez asking whether you’ve eaten recently.”
Peter’s posture changed immediately, shoulders slumping by half an inch as though you’d found the actual weak spot. He stared at you for a second through the mask, then lowered his chin in reluctant defeat. “That too.”
He reached behind his head and caught the edge of the mask between his fingers, peeling it upward with a tired exhale until his face finally appeared beneath it, and the teasing comment already sitting on your tongue died before it could leave your mouth. Peter looked exhausted.
Not badly injured, not dangerously so, but worn down in the particular way you’d become increasingly familiar with since Spider-Man had stopped being something he squeezed between all the other pieces of his life and started becoming the thing his life seemed to orbit around.
His hair was damp around his forehead, flattened beneath the mask in some places and sticking out stubbornly in others, and a faint bruise was beginning to darken along one cheekbone beneath a streak of grime that travelled almost to his jaw. Peter caught you staring almost immediately.
His eyes flicked over your face, registered the concern there and then moved away before you could say anything, one hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck while the other folded the mask between his fingers. “It looks worse than it is,” he murmured, even though you hadn’t asked, his attention suddenly fixed on the crumpled fabric in his hands.
You didn’t answer straight away. Instead, you slowly raised one eyebrow and let your gaze travel deliberately back toward the bruise. Peter caught the expression from the corner of his eye, closed his mouth and released a quiet sigh through his nose. His shoulders sagged a little more before he looked back at you.
“Actually,” he corrected himself, voice softer now, “that’s probably not true. It looks pretty much exactly as bad as it is.” The dryness of it made the corner of your mouth pull upward despite the lingering concern, and Peter’s expression softened when he realised he’d managed to get even that much of a reaction from you.
You shifted beneath the blanket and patted the empty cushion beside you, expecting him to drop there, but Peter only looked at the space for a moment before walking toward you instead. His steps slowed once he reached the couch, and for several seconds he simply stood between your knees, eyes lowered as if he were deciding whether he wanted to talk about whatever had happened outside.
Then something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped, his hands loosened, and Peter bent forward until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The sudden weight of him made you sink slightly into the cushions, but your hands were already moving before you thought about it, fingers sliding through his sweaty hair and scratching gently against his scalp.
Peter’s eyes closed. His hands settled loosely against either side of your waist, not quite holding you and not quite willing to move away either. “Bad night?” you asked quietly, your fingertips moving more slowly through his hair when you felt the tension still gathered at the base of his neck.
Peter remained silent for a few moments. You could feel him breathing against your shirt, each exhale gradually becoming less tight, before he finally muttered, “Guy threw a parking meter at me.” Your fingers stopped.
Peter must’ve felt it because one eye opened and he tipped his head just enough to look up at you without fully lifting it. “Missed,” he added quickly, almost sheepishly, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.
You stared down at him for a long second, your expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief, until the faintest smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your hand resumed its path through his hair, gently tugging a stubborn strand away from his forehead, and Peter let his face settle against you again.
Several quiet seconds passed before his voice came once more, considerably more bitter this time. “Pigeon got my sandwich, though.” That finally made you look down properly. “Again?” The question came out with enough disbelief that Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed more firmly against your stomach like he was trying to hide from the humiliation entirely. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Eventually you convinced him to eat the leftovers you’d saved, although convincing might’ve been generous considering all you really had to do was remind him they existed.
Peter disappeared into the kitchen with the heavy, reluctant steps of somebody who’d only just become aware of how hungry he actually was, and when he returned carrying the container, he dropped onto the couch beside you with the quiet weight of someone whose body had finally realised it was allowed to stop moving.
He didn’t change out of the suit. He didn’t even remove his boots at first, stretching his legs out and settling them dangerously close to the edge of your rug until you turned your head and stared pointedly at them. Peter noticed after only a second.
His gaze moved from your face to his boots, then to the rug beneath them, before returning to you with a tired expression that made it clear he knew exactly what you were asking without you saying a word. “Really?” he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as if tonight of all nights should’ve granted him immunity. You merely continued looking at him.
Peter held your gaze for another second, then sighed and leaned forward, tugging both boots off before dropping them neatly beside the couch. “Happy?” He looked over at you while straightening, the exhaustion around his eyes making the question sound more resigned than annoyed.
You smiled sweetly and adjusted the blanket over your legs. “Very.” Peter’s lips pressed together in a way that told you he had several responses and had decided none of them were worth the energy. Instead, he sank back into the cushions, shifted the food container into one hand and reached for your ankle with the other without seeming consciously aware that he was doing it.
His fingers closed loosely around you, drawing your legs across his lap before he adjusted the blanket over them with a small tug. It had become one of those quiet habits neither of you had discussed. Peter had grown quieter after patrol over the years, less inclined to fill every empty second with nervous chatter and half-finished thoughts, but the silence never meant he wanted distance from you.
If anything, he touched you more when he wasn’t speaking. A thumb moving over your ankle. Fingers finding yours underneath a blanket. His shoulder resting against yours until he practically leaned half his body into you. Tonight was no different. He ate with one hand while the other remained curled around your lower calf, his thumb moving absently over your skin whenever his attention wandered from the television.
Several minutes passed before your gaze caught the flash of red beneath the coffee table. One of his gloves had somehow ended up there, discarded carelessly enough that you had no idea when he’d even removed it. You nudged his thigh with your heel, making his hand tighten reflexively around your ankle before relaxing again.
“You’re leaving Spider-Man everywhere again.” Peter followed your gaze toward the glove. He stared at it for a second, chewing slowly, then looked back at you with an expression of complete seriousness. “Evidence.” You frowned, waiting for the explanation that clearly wasn’t coming on its own. “Evidence of what?”
Peter swallowed, lowered the container slightly and considered the glove like he was seeing it for the first time himself. “That Spider-Man has poor organisational skills.” The complete lack of expression on his face made you laugh before you could help it, and something around Peter’s eyes softened at the sound.
He glanced back toward the television, but you caught the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not exactly breaking news,” you told him, settling more comfortably against the cushions. Peter nodded once, accepting the criticism with surprising dignity. “Fair.”
The movie had become mostly background noise by the time Peter finished eating, although he watched considerably more of it than you did. Every now and then you’d feel his thumb stop moving against your ankle whenever something particularly stupid happened onscreen,
and then you’d glance sideways only to discover him staring at the television with that increasingly troubled expression he got whenever inaccurate physics seemed to personally offend him.
He’d mostly stopped correcting everything out loud after you threatened to ban him from choosing movies following one particularly unbearable evening involving a collapsing suspension bridge, but his face still betrayed him completely. When one character somehow survived being launched through a concrete wall, Peter’s brow furrowed so deeply that you could almost hear the lecture happening inside his head.
A few seconds later, his eyes slid toward you. You didn’t even look at him fully. “No.” Peter’s eyebrows climbed. He shifted slightly beneath your legs, his mouth opening as though he was genuinely offended by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You finally turned your head and pointed toward his face with one finger. “Your face did.”
Peter stared at you for a beat, clearly considering whether this counted as a fair argument, then pressed his lips together and looked back toward the screen. The movement didn’t hide the little smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later another character ended up dangling upside down from the edge of a rooftop, their body swinging dramatically above several floors of open air, and your attention lingered there longer than it had on anything else in the movie.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Peter. He was leaning deeper into the couch now, one arm stretched along the back cushions while his other hand continued resting loosely around your ankle. The bruise remained visible along his cheek. His hair was still a complete disaster. The upper half of the suit remained annoyingly tight across his chest and shoulders, every shift of his body making the fabric move with him.
A completely unnecessary thought entered your head. You recognised immediately that it was unnecessary. You also knew that Peter would never let you forget it if you actually said it aloud. Unfortunately, restraint had never been your greatest quality around him. “Can you actually stay like that?” you asked eventually, nodding toward the screen while keeping your tone as casual as you could manage.
Peter followed your gaze. His eyes moved from the dangling character back toward you, and he tilted his head slightly as though making sure he understood the question. “Upside down?” You nodded, pretending you hadn’t given the question much thought. Peter’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “Yeah.”
You looked back toward the screen while his thumb began moving against your ankle again. “For how long?” This time he didn’t answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly while he considered it, gaze drifting somewhere past the television as though he was mentally checking his own limits.
“A while,” he said finally. There was another pause. Peter’s lips pressed together, and then he corrected himself with the kind of reluctant honesty that always betrayed him. “Probably as long as I wanted.”
You hummed beneath your breath and kept looking toward the television, although you could feel Peter’s attention remain on you. He knew you too well. Worse, years of relying on tiny movements and split-second changes in body language to stay alive had made him obnoxiously difficult to fool, which meant your attempt at appearing casually interested had probably failed before you’d even opened your mouth.
Still, you pushed your luck. “Wouldn’t all the blood rush to your head?” you asked, keeping your eyes forward while you shifted one shoulder deeper beneath the blanket. Peter’s fingers slowed against your ankle. The scientific part of his brain visibly took over for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the question properly despite the growing suspicion in his eyes.
“Not the way it would for you,” he explained, his thumb resuming its movement as his attention drifted briefly toward the ceiling. “Circulation’s different. Everything compensates pretty quickly.” You nodded slowly as though this information had been exactly what you were after.
For approximately two seconds, you almost got away with it. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Peter’s hand stopped dead against your skin. You didn’t look at him immediately, which only made it worse, because you could practically feel his gaze move over the side of your face.
Several long seconds passed before he finally spoke. “What?” There wasn’t much amusement in his voice yet. Mostly suspicion. You shook your head, pressing your lips together harder in an attempt to flatten the smile. “Nothing.”
Peter’s eyes narrowed slightly. His grip around your ankle loosened, but his hand remained exactly where it was. “That wasn’t nothing.” The certainty in his tone made you glance toward him at last, and you immediately regretted it.
Peter was watching you with the calm, patient expression of somebody who had already realised you were guilty and was simply waiting for you to confess. You shrugged and looked back at the television. “I was just thinking it could have practical applications.” Peter went completely still.
There wasn’t an immediate joke, and that was the first thing that made warmth curl unexpectedly through your stomach. The younger Peter would’ve stumbled over five different responses before eventually choosing one, but this Peter had learned how to let silence sit between words instead of panicking and trying to fill it. His thumb remained motionless against your ankle while he stared at you, face unreadable for several long seconds.
Then his gaze moved toward the television. After another beat it travelled upward toward the ceiling. You watched the tiny crease form between his eyebrows and immediately knew his brain had started working. “Don’t,” you warned, sitting a little straighter beneath the blanket.
Peter turned his head toward you again, blinking once as if genuinely confused by the accusation. “I didn’t say anything.” You gave him a pointed look, because silence had never stopped Peter Parker from being obvious. “You’re thinking.”
One eyebrow lifted. He looked almost offended by the concept. “Usually happens.” You pushed his thigh lightly with your foot, but his hand closed more securely around your ankle before you could actually land the kick, the movement effortless and almost automatic.
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth when you narrowed your eyes at him. “Peter.” Hearing his name in that warning tone only seemed to encourage whatever was happening behind his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling once more, gaze tracking the exposed beam crossing part of the room before returning to you.
“What practical applications?” The question was delivered so calmly that for a second you simply stared at him. Your confidence began disappearing now that he was actually making you explain yourself. Peter waited. He didn’t rush you or start talking over the silence. He simply watched, fingers resting warm around your ankle while his expression remained deceptively neutral.
“You know what I mean,” you muttered eventually. Peter’s eyebrows rose another fraction. “I really don’t.” He absolutely did. The amusement had already started showing around his eyes even if the rest of his face remained composed. You stared him down for another few seconds before releasing a defeated breath through your nose.
“I was wondering if Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down.” The words came quickly once you finally forced them out, and the second they landed between you, your face heated enough that you immediately covered part of it with one hand.
The apartment fell painfully quiet except for the dramatic soundtrack still playing on television. Peter didn’t move. You could feel him staring at you through the spaces between your fingers, and embarrassment rushed in quickly enough that you groaned. “Forget I said anything.”
Peter didn’t laugh. Somehow that was considerably worse. Instead, his gaze slowly travelled upward toward the exposed support beam running across part of your ceiling, and his expression became genuinely thoughtful.
You lowered your hand enough to peek at him through your fingers, disbelief replacing some of your embarrassment when you realised he was actually considering it. “Oh my God.”
Peter glanced toward you. There was the faintest pull between his eyebrows, like he didn’t understand why his reaction was surprising. “What?”
You dropped your hand completely and sat straighter. “You’re actually thinking about it.” His mouth pressed into a line that was very obviously concealing something, although whether it was amusement or embarrassment you couldn’t immediately tell. Peter’s gaze drifted back toward the beam for another second before settling on you. “You asked.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh and shook your head. “As a joke.” Peter didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on yours, and something quieter shifted behind them. Eventually, he tilted his head slightly. “Was it?” The question was soft enough that your body betrayed you before your mouth could, heat climbing further into your cheeks while you shifted beneath his stare.
You crossed your arms defensively. “Yes.” Peter gave one small nod. “Okay.” That should’ve been the end of it. Instead, the ease with which he accepted your answer irritated you instantly. Your eyes narrowed. “Why did you say it like that?” His brow furrowed, but the movement was a little too innocent. “Like what?”
You stared at him in disbelief. Peter’s thumb had started rubbing against your ankle again, slow and absent, while he tried very hard to look like he genuinely had no idea what you were talking about. “Like you don’t believe me.”
For a second he looked down at where his hand rested against your skin. When his eyes returned to yours, his expression remained calm, but the smallest spark of amusement sat behind it. “Because you’re blushing.” Your mouth fell open. Peter gave you a tiny shrug. “Observation.”
You grabbed for the nearest cushion without thinking. Peter caught it before you got halfway through the swing, one hand closing around the edge with ridiculous ease. A quiet laugh escaped him as your expression sharpened, the sound warm and surprised, like he genuinely hadn’t expected you to resort to violence.
“You’re annoying,” you informed him, tugging once at the cushion before giving up when he didn’t budge. Peter pushed it gently back into your lap. “Yeah,” he said, settling back against the cushions with a tiny smile. “I’ve heard.”
The teasing should’ve ended there, but Peter’s attention travelled toward the ceiling again, and this time you watched him properly. His eyes tracked the exposed beam, then the distance between it and the couch, and something in his expression shifted so subtly that you almost missed it.
The Spider-Man part of Peter had always been different from the Peter everyone else met. Not a separate person exactly, but a version of him stripped of some of the hesitation that followed him through ordinary life. Lately, the line between the two had become thinner. He didn’t need to posture or brag about what he could do.
Confidence simply settled over him whenever he knew exactly what his body was capable of. “It would work,” he said eventually. The statement came so casually that it took you a second to realise what he meant. You blinked and shifted your legs slightly across his lap.
“What?” Peter looked back down at you, as though the answer should’ve been obvious from the entire conversation. “What you asked.” His fingers loosened from your ankle and travelled absently higher along your calf before coming to rest near your knee.
The movement wasn’t overtly sexual, but your attention dropped toward it anyway. “Physically, I mean.” Your stomach tightened slightly at the matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve put thought into this remarkably fast.” Peter’s shoulders lifted with a small shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
You stared at him until his expression finally cracked, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. “And you’re the one who asked.” Your eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to regret it.” The response came before Peter could stop himself.
“No, you’re not.” It was quieter than everything else he’d said, immediate enough that both of you paused. Peter seemed to hear himself a second late. Something shy flickered over his face and his gaze dipped toward your legs before returning to you. He cleared his throat softly.
“I mean,” he added, suddenly looking far less certain than he had two seconds earlier, “you don’t look like you regret it.” There he was underneath the maturity, still Peter enough to talk himself straight into embarrassment and get faintly pink around the ears once he realised it.
“You’re getting awfully confident for somebody who climbed through my window ten minutes ago complaining about a pigeon,” you murmured, and the comment made Peter breathe out a laugh as he gently shifted your legs away from his lap.
He pushed himself upright and stood, stretching one shoulder until something clicked quietly beneath the suit. His face tightened for half a second at the feeling before relaxing again, and then he looked down at you.
“The pigeon caught me off guard.” His delivery was so completely serious that your mouth twitched. You gave him a pointed look anyway. “Sure.”
Peter stepped closer until his knees nearly touched yours, and the humour remained in his expression even as something warmer started settling underneath it. He rested one hand against the back of the couch beside your shoulder, leaning forward only slightly, but enough that you had to tip your chin upward to keep looking at him.
Up close, you could see every sign of the night he’d had. The small cut near his temple. The bruise along his cheek. The shadows beneath his eyes that told you sleep had probably been optional far too often lately. Yet his attention had narrowed entirely onto you now.
“You know,” he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly over your face, “you’re making fun of me, but this was your question.” You tried to maintain the same unimpressed expression even as your pulse picked up. “A hypothetical question.”
Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth. They stayed there for one brief second before returning to yours. “Right.” You swallowed without meaning to. His gaze sharpened immediately, because of course he noticed that too.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Very hypothetical.” You placed one hand against the centre of his chest and pushed lightly, though he barely shifted beneath your palm.
“Don’t be smug.” Peter’s brows lifted, his expression instantly innocent. “I’m not.” You gave him a look. Peter lasted approximately another second before his mouth twitched. “Maybe a little.”
His hand moved from the back of the couch to your jaw slowly enough that you felt every second of it, fingertips settling lightly beneath your chin while his thumb brushed once across your cheek. There was nothing rushed about Peter anymore when he touched you like this.
Even when some lingering patrol adrenaline remained beneath his skin, even when you could feel the strength he constantly kept restrained whenever his body moved near yours, there was a deliberate patience to him that hadn’t existed when he was younger.
He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours, but he stopped just short of actually kissing you. His eyes moved between yours, waiting. You were the one who closed the distance. The first kiss was soft, almost frustratingly so considering the conversation that had led to it, Peter’s mouth moving slowly against yours while his fingers remained warm beneath your jaw.
Your hands caught the front of his suit and pulled him closer, bunching the material beneath your fingers, and a quiet breath escaped through his nose as he let the kiss deepen. His other hand settled against your knee, palm warm through the thin fabric covering you, before sliding gradually higher along your thigh.
He stopped well before reaching anywhere intimate, but the weight of his hand there was enough to make your body shift beneath him. Peter noticed. You felt the tiny pause in his mouth against yours before he pulled away just far enough to look at you.
His lips remained close enough to brush yours whenever either of you breathed. “Still hypothetical?” he asked softly. Your eyes opened fully and found him watching you with restrained amusement, his thumb still moving slowly against your cheek.
You tightened your grip against his suit. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Peter’s eyes dropped toward your mouth again while he considered that. “A little.” Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, followed the line of your jaw and stopped beneath your ear. His breath warmed your skin there, and when your shoulders shifted involuntarily, Peter’s hand flexed lightly against your thigh. “Mostly I’m curious.”
“You’re such a fucking nerd,” you whispered, although there wasn’t much conviction left behind the insult with his mouth still lingering against your neck. You felt him smile rather than saw it, the movement pressing faintly against your skin before he lifted his head. “You brought science into it.”
You laughed softly and let your hands slide higher along his chest. “I asked whether you could eat pussy upside down. I didn’t exactly submit a research proposal.” Peter looked at you for one long beat, his eyes darkening with amusement before he murmured, “Could’ve fooled me.” You pushed his shoulder again on instinct.
Peter caught your wrist automatically before your hand travelled more than a few inches, his fingers closing around it with almost insulting ease. He didn’t pin it anywhere or tighten his grip. Instead, he turned your hand over slowly and pressed his mouth briefly against the centre of your palm.
The affection of the gesture caught you so completely off guard that whatever retort you’d been preparing disappeared. Peter seemed to notice the way your expression softened, because his own did too before he released your wrist.
He stayed standing between your knees, close enough that the fronts of his legs brushed yours whenever either of you shifted. “There are variables,” he said after a moment. You stared up at him. “There absolutely are not.”
His brows rose, and some of the scientist returned to his face. “There absolutely are.” He wasn’t babbling through the thought process anymore the way he once might’ve. Instead, he considered each thing before saying it, gaze moving briefly around the room as though he were actually planning the logistics.
“Height,” he said first, looking toward the ceiling. His eyes moved downward again, briefly measuring the space between you and the beam. “Angle. Where you’re sitting.” Then his gaze returned to your face and lingered there. “How much you move.”
Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately. “How much I move?” Peter nodded once, maintaining complete seriousness for approximately half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“That seems relevant.” You stared at him. “You’re impossible.” His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. “You like me.”
Before you could give him the satisfaction of answering, Peter stepped backward and tilted his head toward the ceiling again. His gaze locked onto the exposed beam, and in that instant there was another subtle change in him, the tired boyfriend who’d been sprawled across your lap quietly making room for the man who spent every night calculating distances in fractions of seconds.
He lifted one wrist. The movement was casual, practised enough that he barely needed to look before firing a strand of webbing upward with a sharp thwip, the line attaching cleanly around the beam overhead. Peter gave it one firm tug, testing the hold, then glanced toward you when you immediately sat straighter on the couch.
“Peter.” His hand stopped around the web. He looked at you over his shoulder, expression open but carrying that small spark of amusement he’d been trying and failing to hide for the last ten minutes. “What?”
Your eyes travelled from his face to the line stretching toward the ceiling and then back again. “You’re seriously doing this.” Peter didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly toward your legs, then moved back to your face, and despite all the quiet confidence from seconds earlier, a faint flush began creeping along the tops of his ears.
That tiny betrayal made your mouth curve. He caught the smile immediately and narrowed his eyes just slightly. “You started it,” he reminded you, voice softer now. Then Peter caught the web firmly with one hand, planted the other palm against the wall and stepped onto the vertical surface as naturally as somebody else might climb a staircase.
There wasn’t any theatrical flourish to it. One second he was standing beside you, and the next his body moved smoothly upward, muscles shifting beneath the suit as his hands and feet stuck effortlessly to the wall. You watched him climb, your eyes travelling farther than you intended before Peter stopped halfway toward the ceiling.
He turned his head and looked down at you. His gaze immediately caught yours somewhere around his waist before you could drag it back toward his face, and the little smile that appeared told you he’d noticed exactly where you’d been looking.
Peter adjusted his grip around the web, briefly glanced toward the ceiling as though genuinely checking the logistics one final time, then looked back down. “For the experiment,” he started, trying for clinical and failing because his voice had gone noticeably lower,
“I’m probably gonna need your underwear out of the way.” The words hung there for a second. Peter’s expression shifted almost immediately afterward, confidence giving way to sudden self-awareness as he visibly replayed the sentence inside his head.
His lips pressed together. His cheeks warmed another shade. Then he looked off toward the wall and muttered, “That sounded better in my head.”
You should’ve laughed at him, because the faint colour spreading over Peter’s cheeks after his own terrible choice of words was painfully endearing, but the amusement caught somewhere in your throat when you realised how fast the atmosphere in the room had changed.
The oversized shirt you’d thrown on earlier suddenly felt considerably less innocent where it hung loose around your body, its hem barely covering the tops of your thighs and leaving nothing underneath except the soft cotton panties already clinging wetly to your cunt.
There wasn’t a bra beneath the shirt either, because there hadn’t been any reason for one when your original plans involved a couch, leftovers and probably falling asleep against Peter before the movie finished, but now you were painfully aware of your nipples tightening beneath the thin material
and the way the shirt shifted against them whenever you breathed. Peter noticed too, because of course he did, his eyes dropping for half a second before flicking guiltily back toward your face as though getting caught staring somehow mattered after the conversation you’d just had. That tiny flash of embarrassment only made the heat curling through your stomach worse.
You shifted against the cushions without meaning to, thighs pressing together beneath the hem of your shirt, and the movement made you feel exactly how wet you’d become. Your panties were warm and damp against your pussy, slick spreading through the cotton where it pressed between your folds and dragging against your clit every time you moved, making the ache beneath it noticeably sharper.
It had happened gradually enough that you hadn’t properly noticed at first, beginning as nothing more than a little warmth when Peter started taking your stupid question seriously, building every time his voice dropped or his hand lingered against your thigh or that quiet Spider-Man confidence replaced the awkward embarrassment in his face. Now there was no ignoring it.
Your cunt felt swollen beneath the thin fabric, your clit throbbing against the soaked cotton, and squeezing your thighs together only forced the material tighter against you in a way that made your breath catch. Peter’s eyes dipped toward the movement, and the way his jaw tightened told you he knew exactly what was happening.
He was still clinging halfway up the wall when his gaze settled on your thighs properly. You watched the exact second he noticed the damp centre of your panties beneath the loose hem of your shirt, because his expression changed so slightly anyone else might’ve missed it, the amusement fading into something heavier while his mouth parted around a silent breath.
You swallowed beneath the weight of his stare and slowly let your knees fall apart by a few inches, the oversized shirt sliding higher over your skin until more of your bare thighs were exposed to him. Peter’s eyes followed the movement helplessly before darting back to your face, almost like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t just stared straight between your legs.
You let him struggle for another second before tilting your head and asking, “You gonna keep analysing it from up there, Parker, or are you actually planning on proving something?”
The words came out more confidently than you felt, and Peter’s lips parted immediately like some smart response had occurred to him, only for his gaze to fall between your thighs again and apparently wipe the thought straight out of his head.
He forced himself to look toward the ceiling instead, taking one slow breath that expanded his chest beneath the tight suit while he visibly tried to collect himself.
The pink across his cheeks didn’t disappear, but something else settled over his expression, quieter and more focused, that familiar shift where Peter stopped looking like the tired man who’d climbed through your window and started looking like Spider-Man calculating exactly what his body needed to do.
He tightened one hand around the strand of webbing he’d attached to the exposed ceiling beam and planted his opposite palm firmly against the wall, fingers adhering instantly to the surface. Peter gave the web a hard downward tug to test the hold, then another, his forearm flexing beneath the suit while he checked the angle and distance above you.
Even though both of you knew his webbing could support far more than his weight, he still treated the setup seriously, eyes travelling along the line to the beam before returning to the open space in front of the couch. Watching him turn something so filthy into a genuine logistical problem made your pussy pulse again.
Once Peter was satisfied, he pushed himself upward. One foot stuck to the wall, then the other, his knees bending as he climbed higher with that unnerving ease that always reminded you his body didn’t obey the same rules as yours.
He moved slowly enough that you could watch every controlled shift of muscle beneath the suit, hands and feet alternating against the wall until his head was nearly level with the ceiling. Peter paused there, twisted enough to look over his shoulder at you and immediately caught your gaze somewhere lower than his face.
The suit had pulled tight across his stomach and hips from the position, leaving very little to the imagination, and the slight lift of his eyebrow told you he knew exactly what you’d been looking at. He didn’t tease you for it, though. He only swallowed, glanced down toward your spread thighs again, then deliberately turned his attention back to what he was doing before either of you embarrassed yourselves further.
Peter shifted both feet from the wall onto the ceiling itself, one after the other, until he was crouched completely above you like gravity had simply stopped mattering. Both palms pressed flat against the ceiling while his knees bent beneath him, and his messy brown hair had already started falling away from his forehead.
He repositioned one hand, then slowly rotated his hips, moving one foot and then the other until his back faced the wall and his body was aligned directly above the space between your knees. The movement was controlled and strangely graceful, every adjustment precise enough that you could tell he was already thinking about where his mouth needed to end up.
Then Peter caught the webbing again with both hands and released his feet from the ceiling. His legs unfolded above him as his body gradually lowered beneath the beam, gravity pulling him straight until he hung fully upside down in front of you.
His hair dropped toward the floor immediately, soft brown strands hanging messily away from his forehead and making him look unmistakably like Peter despite the Spider-Man suit covering everything else.
He gave the web another firm pull, tested his weight, then released one hand and twisted his shoulders slightly to make sure he wasn’t going to rotate once he started moving against you. His free palm briefly pressed against the wall beside him, steadying his body while he adjusted the webbing around his wrist and lowered himself another few inches.
Peter’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he measured the distance between his face and the edge of the couch, then looked at you, down toward the floor from his inverted perspective and back toward you again. “Too high,” he muttered quietly to himself, releasing a little more web until his upside-down face was almost level with your knees.
The seriousness of it should’ve been funny, but there was something obscene about watching Spider-Man carefully calibrate the exact height he needed so he could eat your pussy comfortably.
You couldn’t help smiling at him while he made one final adjustment, and Peter caught it from the corner of his eye. His brows pulled together as he stretched one arm toward the wall again, using his palm to stop the last slow swing of his body before becoming almost perfectly still.
“What?” he asked, a faintly defensive edge slipping into his voice as though he suspected you were about to make fun of him. You shook your head slowly, letting your gaze wander down his inverted body again because there was something unfairly attractive about how comfortable he looked hanging there.
“Nothing,” you murmured, and Peter’s mouth twitched because neither of you believed that for a second. Once he was satisfied with the position, he released the wall and let both hands drop toward you, flexing his fingers experimentally while checking whether maintaining the position took any actual effort.
Apparently it didn’t. He looked almost irritatingly relaxed hanging upside down in front of you, like this was simply another perfectly reasonable way for him to spend an evening.
“Okay,” Peter murmured eventually, and his voice had gone noticeably rougher than before. His eyes travelled from your face down toward the oversized shirt pooled around your thighs, then lower still until his gaze settled on the damp cotton between them. You watched his throat work when he swallowed.
The change in him made you scoot forward without being asked, the couch cushions compressing beneath your weight as you moved toward the edge, and Peter immediately adjusted in response. He released tiny lengths of webbing at a time, lowering himself inch by inch until his face lined up perfectly with the space between your thighs.
Every time you shifted forward, he compensated automatically, like some part of his brain was mapping the distance before you even stopped moving. You’d watched Spider-Man judge impossible gaps between buildings in fractions of seconds, twist through traffic and catch himself midair without hesitation, and now every bit of that ridiculous coordination was being devoted to putting his mouth exactly where you wanted it.
When you finally reached the edge of the couch, Peter’s upside-down face was directly between your knees. His hair almost brushed the floor beneath him, and his shoulders hovered close enough that your thighs could touch them if you spread a little wider. The humour disappeared from his expression the moment you did.
You let your knees fall apart slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction while the hem of your oversized shirt slid higher and exposed more bare skin until the soaked centre of your panties was completely visible to him. Peter’s eyes followed every inch of the movement.
His lips parted when he saw how dark the cotton had become between your legs, and his breathing changed before he said anything, one deeper inhale expanding his chest before he released it slowly through his nose.
You felt another warm pulse of slick leak from your cunt into the fabric under his stare, making the already damp cotton cling more tightly to your folds.
Peter looked back toward your face for a moment, then down again like he simply couldn’t stop himself. When your own gaze travelled down the inverted length of his body in return, tracing the suit over his chest and stomach before reaching his hips, you immediately noticed the shape beginning to push against the fabric between his thighs.
Peter was getting hard just from watching you spread your legs for him. His cock thickened beneath the suit until the material stretched visibly tighter around it, the outline becoming harder to ignore every time his eyes returned to the soaked cotton covering your pussy.
Seeing that reaction made your cunt clench. Peter noticed where you were looking and let out a tiny, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat, but the flush crawling over his upside-down face did absolutely nothing to stop his cock from straining harder against the suit.
He reached for you carefully once you were settled. Both hands slid around the backs of your thighs, palms warm against your skin as he gently pulled you a little closer toward the edge until your covered pussy hovered only inches above his mouth.
The strength in his grip was obvious despite how careful he was, fingers spreading against your thighs while he adjusted you into exactly the position he wanted and then immediately loosening again. His eyes returned to your panties.
Peter’s tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip before he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband at one hip, his knuckles brushing your skin and making your stomach tighten. “Lift up for me,” he murmured,
and the slight roughness in his voice made the request sound considerably dirtier than it needed to. You planted your hands against the couch and raised your hips, watching Peter’s gaze darken as he started pulling the cotton slowly downward.
The panties peeled away from your pussy with a damp little drag that made heat rush straight into your face. Peter’s eyes snapped toward the movement, watching the fabric separate from the slick caught between your folds before he guided the waistband over your ass and down your thighs.
You lifted one leg, then the other, allowing him to slide them completely free, and cool air hitting your bare cunt made you inhale sharply. Your thighs twitched around his head while your pussy clenched around nothing.
Slick immediately gathering glossy between your swollen folds now that nothing covered them. Peter stared. For several seconds he didn’t seem capable of doing anything else, your panties held loosely in one hand while his eyes traced every wet inch of you.
You expected him to throw the panties somewhere. Instead, his attention dropped to the fabric in his hand. The centre was visibly soaked, dark with your arousal, and Peter’s fingers tightened around the cotton almost without him realising it.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly, something embarrassed already creeping across his expression, before he lifted the panties toward his nose and inhaled. His lashes fluttered shut.
The pathetic little whimper that escaped him sounded completely involuntary, soft and needy enough that his entire body went still the instant he heard it. Peter’s eyes opened again, cheeks burning while he stared at the underwear still held against his face like he couldn’t believe his own reaction.
You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing, but Peter caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed in warning, though whatever dignity he was trying to recover disappeared when he pressed the soaked cotton more firmly beneath his nose and took another slower breath. His mouth parted.
Another tiny, broken sound caught somewhere in his throat, and his cock visibly twitched beneath the suit at the same time. “Peter,” you breathed, his name coming out somewhere between disbelief and a moan, and the sound made his eyes snap back toward yours.
There was embarrassment in them, plenty of it, but there was something hotter underneath now, a kind of needy fascination he clearly couldn’t hide.
He lowered the panties from his face but didn’t let them go. Instead, Peter’s gaze travelled between your legs again, settling on your exposed pussy where your folds were already shiny with slick.
Your lips were swollen from arousal, parted enough that he could see the wet little opening lower down and the way your cunt clenched every time his eyes lingered there.
Peter stared openly. His tongue moved across his bottom lip while his breathing grew a little heavier, and you watched another visible throb travel through his cock beneath the suit. “Fuck,” he whispered almost absently,
the word slipping out before he seemed aware he’d actually spoken. When your pussy clenched again in response, a fresh bead of slick gathered at your entrance and began sliding downward through your folds, and Peter’s eyes locked onto it instantly.
He leaned closer, but instead of putting his mouth on you immediately, the hand still holding your panties moved between your thighs. Peter folded the soaked cotton loosely around two fingers, his eyes lifting toward yours as though checking your reaction before he touched you.
The first drag of fabric over your clit was almost unbearably light. Damp cotton brushed across the swollen little bud, carrying your own slick with it, and your hips jerked forward before you could stop yourself. Peter’s lips parted around a quiet breath. He did it again, slower this time, rubbing the wet fabric directly over your clit in a small circle while watching your face with intense concentration.
The texture made everything feel filthier. The panties were already soaked from being pressed against your cunt, and now Peter was using that same wet patch to stroke your clit, dragging the soft cotton over it until the fabric became even slicker.
Your thighs spread farther around his head, and Peter’s cock twitched visibly beneath the suit when he saw you deliberately open yourself wider for him. He rubbed the panties against your clit again, applying a little more pressure this time, and a shaky moan slipped out of you before you could swallow it.
Peter’s expression changed immediately. Something pleased and slightly wrecked moved across his face, his eyes dropping toward the way your pussy glistened beneath the fabric.
He shifted the panties lower for a second, dragging the soaked cotton through your folds and pressing it lightly against your entrance before pulling it back toward your clit.
The sensation made your cunt clench against the fabric, smearing more slick into it, and Peter’s eyes went almost painfully dark when he watched your body wet the panties even further.
He brought them back toward his face without thinking, took another breath against the newly soaked cotton and whimpered again, louder this time. The sound made your stomach tighten so hard it almost hurt.
Peter looked genuinely pathetic about it, hanging upside down with your panties clutched in one hand, cheeks flushed, cock straining against the suit and eyes half-lidded because apparently smelling and touching your wet cunt at the same time had overwhelmed whatever remaining dignity he possessed.
“You like that way too much,” you murmured breathlessly, watching Peter’s expression tighten in embarrassment before his gaze returned between your thighs. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he dragged the panties once more across your clit, slow enough to make your hips chase the pressure, then let the fabric fall away from you while keeping it clenched in his fingers.
Your pussy looked even messier now, slick spread over your swollen folds and clit from the rubbing, and Peter stared at the shine covering you. His mouth opened slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared against his bottom lip. You could practically see the moment restraint disappeared.
Peter leaned closer without touching at first. Warm breath rolled across your exposed cunt, making your thighs twitch around his shoulders, and his eyes lifted toward yours from between them. The look on his face made your pulse jump.
There was still a little awkward Peter beneath it, still that faint flush along his cheeks, but the confidence had settled back over him now that he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
He closed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth directly against your pussy. The first contact was open and wet, his lips settling over your slick folds before his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance upward.
He started at the wet little hole already leaking for him, catching the slick there with the tip of his tongue before flattening it against you and licking all the way through your folds. When his tongue passed firmly over your clit, your entire body jerked.
One hand flew into Peter’s hanging hair and closed around a fistful of it while your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Peter groaned straight into your cunt when you pulled him closer, the vibration travelling through your clit
and making your hips buck hard enough that both of his hands immediately returned to your thighs. He steadied you with effortless strength, fingers digging carefully into the soft flesh while his mouth stayed exactly where you wanted it.
Being upside down didn’t hinder him in the slightest once he found the angle. If anything, Peter seemed fascinated by figuring out what worked from the position, lowering himself another fraction on the web and turning his head until he could bury his mouth comfortably against you without straining his neck.
His tongue pushed between your folds again, licking through the slick coating you before dipping lower toward your entrance. He collected everything your body gave him before dragging it back toward your clit, smearing your arousal over the swollen bud with broad, messy strokes.
You could hear how wet you were every time his mouth moved. Soft, filthy sounds filled the apartment beneath your breathing, and Peter seemed to fucking love every one of them.
His nose brushed against your clit when his tongue slid lower, nudging it accidentally before he realised the reaction it caused. Your hips jerked. Your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Peter’s eyes opened wider and immediately did it again on purpose, pressing the bridge of his nose against your clit while his tongue worked lower through your folds.
The combination made a broken sound tear from your throat, and Peter groaned directly against your pussy like hearing you lose control was affecting him just as badly. His cock jerked visibly inside the suit. Even upside down, you could see the thick outline trapped against the fabric, painfully hard and twitching every time you moaned his name.
When Peter finally wrapped his lips around your clit, your back arched away from the couch. He sucked slowly at first, tongue pressing against the sensitive little bud inside his mouth while your thighs shook around him.
Your grip in his hair tightened until you were practically using it to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Peter let you. More than that, the pathetic moan that vibrated against your cunt when you pulled his hair told you he fucking liked it.
His hands spread your thighs wider, fingers firm but careful, and he buried his face deeper between them until his mouth and chin were shining with your slick.
Every time you forced yourself to look down, the sight made the pleasure worse. Peter looked obscene hanging upside down between your legs, messy hair falling toward the floor while his mouth worked relentlessly against your cunt.
Your pussy was visibly swollen around his face, wet folds spreading around his tongue every time he licked upward, slick coating his lips and gathering along his chin.
Whenever he pulled away just enough to breathe, you could see your arousal glistening across his skin. Then his mouth would immediately return, like even a few seconds away from tasting you was too long.
Peter’s eyes were half-lidded but intensely focused. Whenever you made a particularly desperate sound, they opened wider and fixed on your face, watching for the exact movement that had caused it before he repeated whatever he’d done.
His tongue slid back down to your entrance, circling it slowly before pushing inside just enough to make your cunt tighten around him. Peter whimpered when he felt you clench. The sound came muffled and needy against your pussy, followed by another little twitch of his hips in the air as if his body was searching automatically for something to grind his cock against.
Your gaze travelled down his inverted body again, following the tight suit over his stomach and hips until you found the thick outline straining between his thighs. Peter was fully hard now. Painfully hard from the look of it, the fabric stretched tight enough around his cock that every involuntary twitch was obvious.
He hadn’t touched himself once. He was getting that worked up purely from being between your legs, from licking your cunt and smelling your wet panties and feeling your pussy clench around his tongue. The knowledge made another rush of slick spill from you.
Peter caught you staring at his cock. His eyes followed your gaze as much as his inverted position allowed, and for a second embarrassment flashed visibly across his face. It didn’t last long.
Something filthier replaced it, something hot and needy and almost proud when he realised you were watching exactly how hard eating you out had made him. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth back toward your pussy. Then he wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard enough to make your whole body arch.
The cry that tore from you was loud enough that Peter’s eyes widened for half a second. Then something pleased flickered across his face. He sucked again, slower this time, tongue pressing insistently against your clit while his lips pulled around it.
Your thighs shook so badly against his hands that he tightened his grip enough to keep you comfortably spread. Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, and you ground shamelessly against his mouth, using him while he hung there between your legs. Peter moaned like the idea of being used for your pleasure was doing something terrible to him.
His cock twitched again. Hard. The movement was obvious enough that you couldn’t stop staring, and when Peter noticed your eyes drop there, another pathetic little sound vibrated against your cunt. “Fuck, Peter,” you gasped, voice breaking around his name while your hips rolled harder against his tongue.
He answered by dragging one long stroke through your pussy, licking from your entrance all the way over your clit before immediately repeating it. Your own slick coated his tongue, lips and chin, and every time he licked you clean your body seemed determined to make another mess for him.
He looked completely gone on it now. Flushed, breathless, hanging upside down with your soaked panties still twisted around one hand and his cock straining desperately beneath the Spider-Man suit while his tongue worked over your cunt like he couldn’t make himself stop.
Every few seconds his fingers tightened around the panties, almost like he’d forgotten he was still holding them until the smell reached him again. Once, he brought them briefly back beneath his nose while his mouth hovered inches from your pussy and took another deep breath, eyes closing as a shaky whimper escaped him. The sight was so fucking filthy that your cunt clenched hard enough for Peter to see it.
His eyes snapped open. He watched your pussy contract around nothing, slick shining at your entrance, and immediately dropped the panties away so he could put his mouth back on you. His tongue pressed against your clit with quicker little strokes now, then slowed deliberately whenever your hips started moving too frantically.
Peter was learning you too easily, teasing without even seeming to mean to, changing rhythm every time he felt your thighs tremble or heard your breathing break. The pleasure tightened lower in your stomach, hot and heavy and increasingly difficult to ignore.
Your head fell back against the couch. The oversized shirt had ridden high over your stomach from all the movement, leaving most of your thighs and lower body completely exposed while Peter kept you spread open for him. Your mouth stayed open around helpless sounds that only seemed to encourage him.
Every time you whispered or moaned his name, Peter’s cock jerked beneath the suit and another needy sound escaped into your pussy. He was so hard from eating you that it looked genuinely uncomfortable, but he still never reached down to touch himself.
When your thighs began shaking harder around his head, Peter tightened his grip just enough to steady them. His eyes lifted toward your face from between your legs, his expression flushed and desperate despite the control in every movement of his mouth.
His lips were wet. His chin was slick. Your panties were still clutched in one hand. His cock was painfully hard beneath the suit. He looked utterly wrecked by your pussy and somehow still completely determined to keep going until you were worse.
Whatever stupid joke had started this had disappeared completely. There was nothing hypothetical about Peter hanging upside down between your legs anymore, mouth buried against your dripping cunt while your thighs trembled around his head and your fingers pulled at his hair.
The experiment had stopped being about whether Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down somewhere around the moment he’d whimpered into your soaked panties. Now it was just Peter licking, sucking and grinding his mouth against you with his cock painfully trapped inside his suit, apparently determined to find out exactly how badly he could make you fall apart before he finally had to come back down.
Peter was so completely lost between your thighs by that point that whatever embarrassment he’d carried into the whole thing had burned away, leaving him flushed, needy and devastatingly focused on your pussy. His tongue kept working over your swollen clit in slow, wet circles before flattening firmly against it, and every time your thighs trembled around his head his fingers flexed into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly where he wanted you.
Your hips had stopped pretending to stay still, grinding shamelessly against his mouth whenever he found the right pressure, and Peter took every movement without complaint, letting you push yourself harder against his tongue while he moaned beneath you. The slick noises coming from between your legs were impossible to ignore now, wet and messy every time his mouth dragged through your folds, and Peter seemed to get more worked up with every sound.
Your gaze kept slipping down the inverted length of his body toward the cock straining inside his suit, and this time you noticed the fabric over the head had begun to darken. A tiny wet spot had appeared where his tip pressed against the material, followed moments later by another glossy bead of precum soaking through when his cock twitched violently at the sound of you moaning his name.
Peter noticed exactly where you were staring, his eyes following your gaze as much as the upside-down position allowed, but instead of becoming shy again, he let out a pathetic little whimper directly against your cunt.
The vibration rolled through your clit and made you jerk against him, your fingers tightening in his hair while another bead of precum seeped through the suit, leaving the fabric visibly damp around the head of his cock.
He hadn’t even touched himself, hadn’t reached down once despite how painfully hard he looked, and knowing that eating your pussy alone had him leaking into the Spider-Man suit made your stomach pull tighter with pleasure.
Peter felt you getting close before you managed to tell him. Your breathing had become uneven and broken, your thighs trembling constantly instead of occasionally, and every slow circle of his tongue made your cunt clench helplessly around nothing. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair when his lips closed around your clit, and Peter answered with a hungry moan, sucking the swollen little bud while the tip of his tongue rubbed firmly over it.
Your stomach tightened painfully. Heat gathered lower and lower until your entire body felt wound around the sensation of Peter’s mouth, and when he sucked again while his tongue flicked against you, the pressure finally broke. Your orgasm hit hard enough that your body went rigid before immediately falling apart beneath it, hips bucking into his face while your pussy clenched and pulsed through each wave. Peter didn’t stop.
He groaned against you as you came, keeping his lips and tongue pressed against your clit while fresh slick spilled across his mouth, coating his tongue, lips and chin as he licked you through every trembling aftershock.
Your thighs tried to close around his head, but his hands held them apart with gentle strength while you cried his name and ground against him, too overwhelmed to care how messy you were making his face.
The sight of you cumming seemed to hit Peter almost as hard as it hit you, because his cock jerked sharply beneath the suit and another wet bead of precum pushed through the fabric, joining the dark patch already spread around the tip.
By the time the orgasm began fading, your whole body had gone loose and shaky against the couch, your clit still twitching with sensitivity every time Peter’s tongue passed over it. You had to tug gently at his hair before he finally understood that you needed him to stop, because he’d become so absorbed in licking the last of your slick from your folds that he seemed genuinely reluctant to pull his mouth away.
Peter left one final kiss against your pussy before lifting his head, and the sight of him made something hot stir inside you all over again despite how sensitive you still were. Your slick was smeared all over the lower half of his face. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from eating you, his chin glistened beneath the light from the television, and there was even a faint shine along the edge of his cheek where your arousal had spread while you ground against him.
Peter looked up at you from his inverted position, breathing heavily, hair hanging messily toward the floor and expression completely satisfied with what he’d done to you. You reached toward him before you’d even fully decided what you wanted, fingers sliding beneath his jaw and turning his upside-down face slightly toward you.
His eyebrows lifted in question, but Peter stayed perfectly still when you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across his chin. The taste of your own slick hit your tongue immediately, warm and intimate from where it coated his skin, and Peter’s mouth fell open around a soft sound when you licked another stripe upward toward the corner of his mouth.
You cleaned your arousal from his face slowly, tongue passing across his jaw, chin and swollen lips, deliberately gathering every wet trace he’d left there until his skin was almost clean.
Peter watched you the entire time. His eyes were darker now, following the movement of your mouth with obvious hunger while his cock continued twitching helplessly inside the damp suit. You licked the final streak of slick from his bottom lip and sat back just enough to let the mixture of your arousal and saliva collect deliberately in your mouth instead of swallowing it.
Peter’s expression shifted as he realised what you were doing, his eyes widening slightly before dropping toward your lips. You kept one hand beneath his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. “Open your mouth,” you told him softly. Peter obeyed immediately, lips parting and tongue visible while he looked at you with the same needy openness he’d shown when he’d sniffed your panties earlier.
You leaned closer until your faces were only inches apart, held his gaze and spat the slick mixture straight onto his tongue. Peter made a quiet, breathless moan when it landed in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he closed his lips, swallowed everything you’d given him and then ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip like he didn’t want to waste even the taste left behind.
You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and his cock jerked beneath the suit hard enough that another tiny bead of precum soaked through the already damp material. The reaction pulled a satisfied smile from you, and Peter looked almost dazed when you brushed your thumb across his wet lower lip before telling him, “Come back down.”
Peter reacted immediately, although he was noticeably less composed than he’d been when he originally positioned himself above you. He reached upward along the webbing and pulled himself toward the ceiling with one arm, the muscles across his stomach tightening beneath the suit as he brought both feet back against the surface above him.
His palms adhered beside them while he twisted his hips and shoulders, carefully turning himself from the inverted hanging position into a crouch against the ceiling. He released one hand, planted it firmly against the wall and transferred one foot onto the vertical surface before the other followed, movements still controlled despite the obvious erection trapped painfully between his thighs.
Peter climbed downward quickly, peeling one hand and foot from the wall at a time while the remaining limbs kept him anchored, until he was low enough to simply push away and land softly on the floor in front of you.
He had barely straightened before you stood. Your legs immediately betrayed you, knees wobbling from the orgasm strongly enough that Peter’s expression changed and one hand shot instinctively around your waist to catch you.
A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him, but it lasted barely a second because you grabbed the front of his suit, pulled him toward you and kissed him hard. Peter stumbled half a step before recovering, one arm tightening around your waist while the other hand slid behind your neck, and then his mouth opened against yours without hesitation. You could still taste yourself faintly on his tongue when it met yours, the knowledge of what he’d just swallowed making the kiss feel filthy in a completely different way.
There wasn’t any of Peter’s earlier shyness left once you were standing together. He kissed you with an open hunger that made it obvious how long he’d spent desperately hard while concentrating entirely on you, tongue pushing against yours while his hands moved restlessly over your waist and back.
Your body pressed flush against his, and the instant his cock was trapped between your stomach and his suit you could feel exactly how hard he’d become. You slid one hand down between your bodies and covered the thick bulge through the fabric, pressing your palm firmly against his cock. Peter immediately broke the kiss with a loud, helpless moan against your mouth, hips jerking forward into your hand before he could stop himself.
He’d never been particularly quiet when sex was involved, and now that the embarrassment was gone he didn’t bother holding back anything. Every slow stroke of your palm over his cock pulled another sound from him, sometimes a rough groan from deep in his chest, sometimes a higher broken moan when your fingers rubbed directly over the damp fabric covering his sensitive head.
You could feel the heat of him even through the suit, his cock solid beneath your hand and twitching hard whenever your thumb circled the tip. Peter rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes squeezing shut while his mouth remained open around another needy sound, then immediately kissed you again like he couldn’t stand being separated from you for even that long.
You kept palming him while you kissed, fingers tracing the full outline of his cock through the suit from the base to the leaking tip. The wet patch of precum had spread enough that the material felt faintly damp beneath your fingertips, and when you rubbed over it Peter shuddered visibly.
His hips rolled forward on instinct, pushing his cock harder against your palm while his hand tightened against your waist. “Keep doing that,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough and broken, and you barely gave him time to finish before dragging your palm slowly down the length of him again.
Peter moaned openly into your mouth, completely unconcerned with hiding how good it felt. There was something incredibly sexual about how expressive he was, the way every touch pulled an immediate reaction from him, whether it was his breathing catching, his stomach tightening beneath the suit,
his cock jumping against your hand or another sound spilling straight into your kiss. The shy colour remained faintly across his cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment anymore. He wanted you to know what you were doing to him.
The oversized shirt still hanging around your body suddenly felt like far too much clothing. You pulled back just enough to catch the hem with both hands and dragged it slowly upward over your stomach, and Peter’s attention immediately dropped toward the movement.
The fabric rose past your ribs, exposing more bare skin, and his breathing changed when the lower curves of your boobs appeared. You pulled the shirt completely over your head and tossed it somewhere behind the couch, leaving yourself naked from the waist up in front of him. Peter went completely still for a second.
His cock was still pressed against your hip through the suit, his lips remained wet from kissing you, but his eyes dropped straight toward your boobs with such naked appreciation that your nipples hardened beneath the attention alone.
His hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, palms settling around the soft weight of your boobs before his thumbs brushed across both nipples. The contact made you inhale sharply, and Peter’s eyes immediately lifted toward your face to watch your reaction before returning to your chest.
He touched your boobs like he couldn’t get enough of them. His hands squeezed gently, thumbs rubbing across your hardened nipples before his fingers spread underneath and lifted them slightly in his palms. Peter leaned forward and kissed the upper curve of one boob, then another kiss lower, then another closer to your nipple until his tongue finally dragged slowly across it.
Your fingers slid into his hair as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and sucked, and Peter groaned softly into your skin when you pulled him closer. His free hand kept kneading your other boob, thumb circling the nipple before pinching it lightly enough to make your back arch toward him.
He switched sides after a moment, kissing his way across your chest and taking the opposite nipple into his mouth while his hand returned to the first. Peter looked almost drunk on touching you, mouth warm and wet over your boobs while his cock repeatedly twitched against your body.
Every little sound you made encouraged him, and between kisses he murmured how soft you felt, how pretty your boobs looked in his hands and how badly he’d wanted to get your shirt off since you’d spread your thighs for him earlier.
Eventually you had to pull him away by the hair because Peter seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night with his face buried against your boobs. He lifted his head reluctantly, lips swollen and damp, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on your face.
Your fingers travelled down the front of his suit, and the second Peter realised you were trying to get it off, his own hands immediately joined yours. He peeled the upper half away from his shoulders first, dragging the tight material down his arms and exposing his chest and stomach inch by inch.
You ran your palms over the warm skin as it appeared, feeling the lean muscle underneath while Peter breathed harder beneath your touch. The suit gathered around his hips, and he hooked both thumbs under the fabric before pushing it farther down.
You helped, dragging the material over his hips and thighs while Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the suit finally released what it had been compressing for the last several minutes.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath the second his cock sprang free. It was hard enough to stand heavy against his lower stomach, thick and visibly flushed from being trapped inside the suit while he ate you out. The head was darker than the rest, glossy with precum, the slit wet enough that another clear bead gathered while you stared before slowly rolling over the rounded tip.
A thick vein ran visibly along the underside of his shaft, disappearing near the base where dark curls spread above it, and every few seconds his cock gave another involuntary twitch toward his stomach. The skin looked stretched tight around how full he was, his balls drawn close beneath the shaft from how painfully aroused he’d become without touching himself.
Peter looked down at you watching him and let out a shaky breath, but there was no attempt to cover himself or hide anymore. His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was still ruined from your hands, his lips remained swollen from your kisses and your slick, and another bead of precum had already formed at the tip of his cock by the time your eyes returned there.
You watched it swell slowly at the slit before dragging your gaze back up Peter’s body and meeting his eyes. His throat moved in a hard swallow when he saw the expression on your face, and without breaking eye contact, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.
Peter went completely still when your knees touched the floor, his entire body seeming to lock around the sight of you looking up at him from beneath your lashes. For all the confidence he’d carried once he had his mouth between your thighs, this was different, because now there was nowhere for him to hide from how badly he wanted it.
His cock stood hard and heavy in front of you, thick enough that your fingers barely looked like enough when you wrapped one hand around the base, and the heat of him against your palm made your stomach tighten all over again. Another bead of precum gathered at the slit while you watched, glossy and clear, swelling slowly before beginning to slide down over the flushed head.
Peter’s breath hitched when you leaned forward instead of touching it with your fingers, and the sound broke into a low moan the second your tongue caught the bead from his tip. He tasted salty and warm, the precum spreading across your tongue as you dragged it slowly around the head, taking your time with the sensitive ridge until Peter’s hand shot out and braced against the wall beside him.
His mouth had fallen open already, eyes fixed on you like he couldn’t look away even if it killed him, and when you licked over the slit again, his hips jerked forward so sharply he immediately choked out, “Sorry, sorry.” The apology only made you smile around him, because he looked ruined before you’d even properly started.
You kept one hand around the base of his cock while the other settled against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palm as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his shaft. He was so hard that every vein stood out beneath your mouth, the thick one underneath pressing against your tongue when you licked slowly from the base back to the tip.
Peter made a broken sound above you, not quiet or restrained, just openly needy, his fingers spreading against the wall as if he needed something solid to keep himself upright. You circled the head with your tongue again, then kissed the slick tip in a deliberately soft, filthy little gesture that made his cock twitch against your lips.
“Don’t tease,” he breathed, voice rough and already unsteady, and when you glanced up at him, his face was flushed so deeply that even his ears were red. You rewarded the plea by taking the head of his cock into your mouth, lips sealing around him while your tongue pressed firmly against the underside.
Peter’s reaction was immediate and loud, a full moan spilling out of him as his head tipped back, throat exposed, chest rising hard with every breath. The sound made your pussy clench even though he wasn’t touching you anymore, and you hummed around him just to feel the way his whole body shuddered.
The vibration nearly took his knees out. Peter’s other hand flew into your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just grabbing like he needed to hold onto something before his body forgot how to stand. You took him a little deeper, jaw stretching around the thickness of him while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t fit yet, twisting slowly at the base.
His cock was hot and heavy on your tongue, precum smearing against the roof of your mouth as you worked him in shallow, wet pulls. Peter kept making sounds with every motion, soft gasps turning into rougher moans whenever your lips tightened or your tongue dragged over the sensitive head on the way back up.
He tried to watch you, but every few seconds his eyes squeezed shut like the sight was too much, only to open again almost immediately because he clearly couldn’t stand missing it. Your free hand slid higher up his thigh, nails lightly dragging against his skin, and his cock jumped in your mouth hard enough to make you pause.
Peter looked down quickly, breath catching when he saw the way your lips were stretched around him, and the hand in your hair tightened before loosening again in the same second.
You pulled off just enough to breathe, letting your lips drag slowly over the head before he slipped free with a wet sound. Peter’s hips twitched toward your mouth again, desperate for the warmth he’d just lost, and you looked up at him while stroking him with your hand instead.
His cock was slick now from your mouth and his own precum, your fingers gliding more easily as you pumped him from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head each time you reached it. “Look at you,” you murmured, voice low as your gaze travelled over his flushed face, his open mouth, the way his chest kept lifting quickly. “You were so noisy eating my pussy, and now you’re even worse.”
Peter let out a strained laugh that broke halfway into another moan when your thumb pressed directly over the slit. “Can’t help it,” he admitted, his voice rough and breathless. The honesty in it made heat lick up your spine.
He wasn’t trying to be controlled now, wasn’t trying to make some awkward joke or act composed, and when you leaned forward to lick a slow line up his shaft again, he moaned your name so openly that you felt it between your legs. You took him back into your mouth before he could say anything else.
This time you pushed deeper. Your lips slid down over him inch by inch while your hand tightened at the base, and Peter’s entire body went rigid above you. His fingers threaded through your hair again, trembling slightly as he fought the instinct to buck into your mouth, and you could feel the restraint in every tense line of him.
You hollowed your cheeks and dragged upward slowly, then sank back down, wet heat closing around him while your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Peter swore under his breath once, sharp and helpless, then immediately fell into a string of broken sounds that barely formed words at all.
His hips began moving in small involuntary rolls, not enough to take control, just enough to chase the rhythm of your mouth, and you let him because the desperation of it made your thighs press together. Saliva gathered at the corners of your lips, mixing with the precum leaking from him until every stroke sounded slick and obscene.
When he looked down again, his face went utterly wrecked, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. “You look so good like that,” he said, the words uneven and breathless, like they’d been dragged out of him against his will.
You moaned around him at the praise, and Peter nearly folded. His hand left the wall and landed on the back of the couch instead, gripping it hard while his other hand stayed buried in your hair. You pulled back, breathing through your nose, then took him deeper again, relaxing your jaw until the head of his cock pressed farther into your mouth and made your eyes water slightly.
Peter noticed instantly, his expression flashing with concern through the haze of pleasure, and his hand loosened in your hair as if he was ready to pull you off. Instead, you looked up at him and kept going, letting your tongue move against him while you held his gaze. That did something awful to him.
His mouth fell open, no sound coming out for half a second before a loud, broken moan finally escaped. His cock pulsed against your tongue, precum spilling thicker now, and you swallowed around him just enough to make his thighs tense beneath your hands. “Baby,” he gasped, the pet name sounding almost ruined, “you’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.”
You pulled back again, but only to lick across the head and smear the mess over your lips before taking him back in. Peter looked down at your mouth, then at your eyes, and the flush across his face deepened into something almost feverish.
You stroked the base with your hand while sucking the head, tongue flicking over the slit each time more precum gathered there, and his hips began to shake with the effort of keeping still.
Every sound he made was raw and immediate. A gasp when you tightened your lips. A moan when you dragged your tongue underneath.
A broken little whimper when your hand slid lower and cupped him gently while your mouth kept working over the tip. His cock throbbed heavily in your grip, the skin slick and hot, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body kept tensing, releasing, then tensing again.
Peter’s fingers curled through your hair without pulling, his eyes never leaving your face now, and the naked want in his expression made your own body ache. He looked like he wanted to apologise for how desperate he was, but every sound coming out of him said he didn’t want you to stop.
You didn’t. You sank down again, slower this time, taking him as far as you comfortably could while your hand worked the rest in a tight, wet rhythm. Peter’s head tipped back, throat working around a helpless moan as his stomach muscles tightened sharply.
His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, and you felt the exact moment he started losing control, the rhythm of his breathing breaking apart while his hips gave another restrained little thrust.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice strained and shaky. You answered by moaning around him and looking up, letting him see that you’d heard him and weren’t moving away. Peter’s eyes snapped back down to yours, stunned and overwhelmed, and the sight of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him seemed to push him right to the edge.
His hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on, and he made the softest, most wrecked sound when your tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock. Then his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling against your tongue, and he came with a loud, broken moan, spilling hot into your mouth while his hips jerked forward once before he caught himself.
You kept your mouth on him through it, taking every pulse while Peter trembled above you. His cum coated your tongue in warm, salty bursts, and his sounds turned softer but no less desperate as you slowly worked him through the aftershocks.
His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, fingers shaking slightly as he looked down at you with his mouth open and eyes blown wide. You didn’t pull away until his cock softened only a little against your tongue and his breathing had turned ragged enough that each exhale sounded almost pained.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, a thin string of spit and cum connected your lower lip to the flushed head for a second before breaking. Peter stared at it like the sight might actually finish him all over again.
You swallowed slowly while looking up at him, and the tiny sound that left him afterward was almost pathetic. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the filth of the moment, and for a second neither of you moved.
Then you leaned forward and pressed one last slow kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, just enough to make him twitch and suck in a sharp breath. Peter’s knees actually bent slightly that time, his hand dropping back to the wall for balance while he gave you a breathless, almost wounded look.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice hoarse and uneven. You smiled up at him, still on your knees, lips wet and swollen, your thighs sticky from your own earlier orgasm and your chest bare beneath the dim light of the room.
Peter looked at you like he didn’t know whether to pull you up and kiss you or collapse right there in front of you. His cock was still slick between you, sensitive and flushed, a little cum still glistening near the slit, and even though he’d just finished, the way his eyes moved over your face and boobs made it obvious he wasn’t done wanting you.
He reached down carefully and slid his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up with a softness that somehow made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Then he bent, caught your mouth in a deep, messy kiss and moaned when he tasted himself on your tongue.
The kiss didn’t stay soft for even a second. Peter bent over you with one hand still beneath your chin, mouth opening immediately when yours did, and the taste of him on your tongue made his whole body tense like the filth of it had travelled straight through him. You rose from your knees slowly, legs still unsteady, but the second you were upright your hands went to his chest and pushed.
Peter let you move him without resistance, stumbling backward until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he dropped onto it with a breathless little sound. His cock was still flushed and slick from your mouth, softer than before but not fully down, lying heavy against his lower stomach with the head still wet and sensitive.
Peter looked up at you with messy hair, swollen lips and a dazed kind of hunger still all over his face, like he should’ve been spent but wasn’t even close to done wanting you. You climbed over him before he could say anything, one knee sinking into the cushion beside his hip and then the other until you were straddling his lap, your pussy hovering over his cock while he stared down between your bodies.
His hands immediately went to your waist, fingers spreading over your skin like he needed to feel you everywhere at once. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him twitch weakly in your palm, still wet with spit and cum, and Peter’s breath caught when you dragged the softened head through your folds.
He made a broken sound when you pressed the tip against your entrance, his eyes snapping up to your face as if he hadn’t expected you to move so quickly. You didn’t give him much warning. You sank down slowly, pushing the slightly soft head inside your wet pussy and feeling your body stretch around the thickness of him even before he was fully hard again.
Peter’s mouth fell open. His fingers tightened on your waist, and the noise that came out of him was low and helpless, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of your slick cunt surrounding him while he was still sensitive from cumming in your mouth. “I wanna feel you get hard inside me,” you murmured, leaning down until your mouth brushed his ear, and Peter’s hips jolted upward beneath you at the words.
You took him deeper inch by inch, your pussy hot and soaked enough to pull him in despite the softness still lingering in his cock, and every little squeeze of your walls made him swell more against you. Peter’s head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising sharply as he tried to breathe through it.
You could feel the change happening in real time, his cock thickening inside you, filling you more completely with each pulse, going from pliant and sensitive to heavier, harder, more insistent as your body clenched around him. The feeling was filthy enough to make your own breath shake, because you could tell exactly when he tipped over from recovering into needing you all over again.
Once Peter was hard inside you, the stretch became almost too good. His cock filled you properly now, thick and hot, pressing deep every time you lowered your hips until your thighs trembled around his lap. You started riding him slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders while you lifted yourself almost to the tip and sank back down with a wet, aching drag.
Peter groaned loudly, not bothering to hold back, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass so he could help guide the movement. His fingers kneaded into you, spreading you slightly each time you took him back in, and the pressure made his cock feel even deeper as your pussy swallowed him over and over.
“You feel so good,” he breathed, voice rough against your throat as he leaned forward, mouth dragging along your neck. You tipped your head to give him room, and Peter immediately took advantage, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp.
His cock jerked inside you at the sound, and you answered by rolling your hips harder, grinding down until your clit rubbed against his body and your cunt tightened around him. Peter’s mouth opened against your neck in another moan, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your skin before he sucked a mark there like he wanted you to feel him even after this was over.
His hands couldn’t seem to settle in one place. They gripped your ass, slid up your back, then came around to your boobs with a kind of greedy tenderness that made your rhythm falter. Peter cupped them while you rode him, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your hips moved in slow, filthy rolls over his cock.
Every time you sank down, his palms squeezed the soft weight of your boobs, and when you lifted again his thumbs circled your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You moaned his name and leaned back slightly, giving him more room to look, and Peter’s eyes dropped immediately to the way your chest moved with every bounce of your hips.
He looked wrecked by it, flushed and open-mouthed, his cock twitching deep inside you as he watched his hands cover your boobs. You shifted your own hands down from his shoulders to his chest, dragging your thumbs over his nipples in return. Peter’s reaction was instant.
His stomach tensed, his hips jerked up into you and a sharp moan broke out of him before he could swallow it. You did it again, slower this time, brushing both thumbs over his nipples before pinching lightly, and Peter’s head tipped back with another loud, helpless sound as his cock pulsed inside your pussy.
You rode him harder after that, spurred on by every noise he made. The couch creaked beneath you both, the slick slide of his cock in and out of your pussy growing louder as your arousal mixed with what was left of his cum and your spit.
Peter’s hands returned to your ass, gripping you tighter now, fingers digging in while he helped pull you down onto him. You could feel him everywhere, deep in your stomach, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, and each time your clit rubbed against him another pulse of pleasure tightened low in your belly.
Peter kept kissing and biting your neck between moans, sometimes missing your skin entirely because his head would drop forward when your pussy clenched particularly hard around him.
“I can’t,” he gasped at one point, though he didn’t sound like he wanted you to stop. His hips kept rising into you, sloppy and eager, meeting every downward roll of your body like he couldn’t stand not being as deep as possible.
You threaded one hand through his hair and pulled his head back so you could kiss him, and Peter moaned into your mouth when your thumb brushed his nipple again. For a while it was just that, your bodies moving together on the couch, your pussy taking him again and again, his hands on your ass, his mouth on your neck, both of you getting close but not quite falling over the edge.
Then Peter seemed to decide he needed more. His grip on your ass shifted, fingers spreading wider, and before you could fully process the change, he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and stood with you still wrapped around him. The movement made you gasp, arms flying around his shoulders as his cock drove deeper inside you from the sudden lift.
Peter held you easily, one arm locked beneath your ass while the other hand gripped your hip, and the sheer strength of him made your pussy clench so hard that his eyes squeezed shut. “There,” he breathed, voice strained and wrecked, adjusting his hold until your back was slightly arched and your thighs were tight around his waist. Then he started fucking up into you.
The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs, his cock driving into you from below with a force the couch hadn’t allowed, and Peter’s moan broke apart against your neck as he did it again. His hands gripped your ass, spreading and lifting you so he could fuck upward into your pussy in deep, rough strokes that made your whole body bounce against him.
You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging over his skin, while his mouth found your neck again and bit down through another loud groan. Every thrust pushed him deeper, every upward snap of his hips dragged a helpless sound from you, and Peter’s control seemed to unravel completely when he realised this was what would make you both cum.
It happened fast once he was standing. Your body was already oversensitive from the first orgasm and from riding him, and now every upward thrust punched pleasure through you so sharply that your thighs started shaking around his waist. Peter felt it immediately. His grip on your ass tightened, holding you open and lifted while his hips worked up into you with desperate rhythm.
His mouth moved messily over your neck, biting, kissing, breathing your name against your skin in broken pieces. You could feel his cock swelling even harder inside you, the head dragging against that deep sensitive spot until your whole body started to go tight. “Peter,” you gasped, and the way his name broke out of you made him moan loudly against your throat.
His thrusts got rougher, less controlled, his stomach pressing against your clit every time he drove up, and that final pressure was what sent you over. Your orgasm hit while he was still holding you off the floor, your pussy clamping down around his cock so hard that Peter nearly stumbled back into the couch.
He caught himself, swore softly under his breath, then came with you, hips jerking upward as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. His cum filled you in hot, heavy pulses while your own release soaked around him, the mixture making every tiny aftershock wetter and messier as he held you through it.
Peter collapsed back onto the couch with you still in his lap, both of you breathing hard, his cock still buried inside your trembling pussy. For a few seconds neither of you moved. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands spread over your ass and lower back, and every little twitch of your cunt around him made him exhale shakily against your skin.
You lifted your head first, dazed and sticky and aching in the best way, then shifted your hips carefully until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Peter looked down between your bodies, still breathing hard, and you followed his gaze.
Cum immediately began to drip out of your pussy around him, thick and white, mixing with your slick as it slipped down over his cock and gathered messily between your thighs. The sight made Peter’s mouth part around a silent breath. You lifted yourself another fraction, letting more of it spill out of you in a slow, obscene drip, and his fingers tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind.
You slid two fingers through the mess, scooping up the mixture of his cum and your release before bringing it to your mouth. Peter watched, completely transfixed, as you licked your fingers clean slowly, tongue dragging between them until nothing remained.
You didn’t let him recover from the sight. You leaned in immediately and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth so he could taste the mixture you’d just licked from your fingers. Peter moaned into the kiss, arms tightening around you as his tongue met yours, and the cum-slick taste moved between you in slow, filthy swirls.
You kissed him deeply, letting it coat both your tongues while you still hovered over his softening cock, your pussy dripping onto his lap. Peter didn’t pull away. If anything, he kissed you harder, one hand sliding up your back while the other cupped the back of your head to keep your mouth against his.
When you finally separated, his lips were wet and his eyes were unfocused, his chest rising quickly beneath yours. You stayed there in his lap, legs weak, body sticky, your boobs pressed against his chest and his cum still leaking slowly from your pussy.
Peter looked down between you one more time, then back up at your face, and the ruined little sound he made told you he was already thinking about putting his mouth back there to clean up the mess himself.
Peter didn’t just think about it. He did it.
One second he was staring down between your bodies with that ruined, hungry look still all over his face, eyes fixed on the slow mess of his cum and your release dripping from your pussy and slipping over his softened cock, and the next his hands were already moving. There wasn’t much teasing left in him now, not in the clever, shy, almost nervous way he’d had earlier.
He was too far gone for that, too warm and wrecked and needy, and the little sound he made when more cum slipped out of you was almost pained. His hands tightened around your hips, and before you could even ask what he was doing, Peter shifted beneath you and turned you carefully, one arm braced around your waist so he didn’t let you fall while he guided you down onto your back across the couch.
Your body was loose and heavy from both orgasms, legs still trembling, and Peter handled you like he knew exactly how sensitive you were, even as his expression made it painfully obvious he was barely holding onto his own restraint.
He moved between your thighs with a kind of eager clumsiness that felt so completely Peter, rushed because he wanted it so badly, gentle because it was you.
He pulled your legs up over his shoulders, one at a time, kissing your calf as he settled you open beneath him. The position folded you back just enough that your pussy was completely exposed to him, wet and swollen and messy with everything both of you had left there.
Peter stared for a second longer than he needed to, his mouth parting as his eyes followed the thick drip of cum slipping from your entrance and sliding down through your slick folds. His cock, already softening but still heavy and flushed, twitched weakly against his stomach as he leaned closer.
You saw it happen, saw the way his hips shifted against the couch cushions below him before he even reached your pussy, and the sight made your breath catch in a tired, breathy little laugh. Peter’s eyes flicked up toward your face, cheeks red, but this time he didn’t apologise.
He only turned his head and pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, mouth warm and messy against your skin while his hands held you open.
The first lick made both of you shudder. Peter dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, catching the mixture of his cum and your slick where it had gathered against your entrance before licking upward with a deep, open-mouthed hunger that made your stomach tighten even though you were already oversensitive.
You gasped, fingers grabbing at the couch beneath you, and Peter groaned directly into your pussy like the taste had hit him harder than expected. He did it again, slower, tongue pressing between your swollen lips and collecting everything messy and wet from you as though he couldn’t stand the idea of wasting any of it. His eyes fluttered for half a second, and then his hips rolled downward against the floor beneath him.
The motion was small at first, almost involuntary, his body chasing friction while his mouth stayed buried between your thighs. Your legs tightened over his shoulders when you realised what he was doing, and Peter made a needy sound into your cunt as his cock rubbed against the carpet with another desperate little grind.
He licked you clean like it mattered to him. Like it was something he needed. His tongue moved slowly over every slick inch of you, dragging through your folds, circling your entrance, then sweeping upward toward your clit with enough care that he didn’t overwhelm you but still made your whole body twitch beneath him.
Each time he tasted more of the mess, his hips pushed harder against the floor. You could hear the rough little breaths he dragged in between licks, hear the quiet, broken moans he tried and failed to smother against your pussy, and every one made the scene feel dirtier. Peter Parker, still half on his knees, still bare and flushed and sticky from you, was eating his own cum out of your cunt while rutting against the floor like he couldn’t help himself.
His hands stayed locked around your thighs, thumbs rubbing your skin in little soothing strokes that didn’t match the desperation of his mouth at all. You looked down at him through heavy lashes, exhausted and turned on all over again, and whispered his name so softly it barely made it past your lips. Peter answered by pressing his face closer, tongue pushing gently into your entrance while his hips gave another needy grind beneath him.
You were too sensitive to take much more, but Peter seemed to know that without being told. He didn’t try to make you cum again. He didn’t suck hard at your clit or push you past what your trembling body could handle. Instead he cleaned you with slow, filthy devotion, licking away the cum that slipped from you, kissing your folds when your thighs shook too much, murmuring soft, breathless little sounds against your skin whenever you squirmed.
His mouth was wet with both of you now, lips shining, chin slick again, and when he finally pulled back to look at your pussy, his expression had gone almost dazed with satisfaction. There was still a little mess at your entrance, and Peter’s eyes fixed on it instantly.
He leaned in one more time, tongue dragging carefully over the spot, and his hips rocked against the floor again with a low, helpless groan. The sound made your chest tighten, fondness mixing with the heavy satisfaction still buzzing through your body. He was completely shameless now, noisy and needy and wrecked, but still so careful with you that it made your heart ache in the middle of all the filth.
When Peter was finally satisfied, he didn’t move away from you immediately. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then another to the other one, mouth soft and warm where he’d just had you shaking. His hands slid down from your thighs to your hips, thumbs brushing lazily over your skin as he lowered your legs from his shoulders.
You were limp enough that he had to help guide them back down, and he did it with a tired tenderness that made you want to pull him up and keep him there. Peter kissed the inside of your knee, then the top of your thigh, then slowly made his way upward. His lips travelled over your hip, across the lower curve of your stomach, and then higher still, leaving warm little kisses over every inch he could reach.
He looked exhausted now, properly drained, his hair a complete disaster, his mouth still wet, his eyes half-lidded with that soft post-sex haze that made him look younger and sweeter again. By the time he reached your ribs, his body had already started to sag with the weight of everything you’d both done.
He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasn’t really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peter’s arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.
His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.
His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.
You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything you’d said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. “We can clean up later,” you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.
Peter’s quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds he’d made for you. “Later.”
with your love life in ruins, the last thing you want to do is think about romance. unfortunately, between passive-aggressive notes and an infuriating neighbour named 4B who won’t leave you alone, love might not be done with you just yet
pairing: frat!jo x reader
content: mdni idiots in love, satoru as a faceless voice for a while, larping abt frats again, one (1) frat party scene, voyeurism, p in v, slightly intoxicated but consensual sex, cunnilingus, slight public sex/hidden sex 30k+
note: there are some images in this fic for immersion but if there's any difficulty in reading them, please click the alt text option! alternatively, you can read this on ao3 !!
When you eventually gained the courage to break up with your shitty boyfriend, you knew it would be a public spectacle considering he’s the vice president of Tau Delta Phi. What you didn’t expect, however, was to find yourself spotlighted in the living room of some random houseparty, an empty red plastic cup in your hand and whatever had been inside now poured over your ex-boyfriend’s head.
It was almost funny watching humiliation and rage surge across Naoya’s face, marked by that red-hot blush you’ve seen far too many times, spit flying from his mouth when he yells that you’ll regret this, he’ll make sure you do. To no surprise he had you kicked out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road at 2am, alone, slightly intoxicated, and with a massive hole punctured through your concept of love.
Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.
ARTS505: Screen Media Practice
Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love”
Weighting: 30%
Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m.
Length: 3–5 minutes
For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.
Go fuck yourself.
The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.
Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.
She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.
Okay, so maybe you do miss her.
Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.
Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself.
It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment. Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.
shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in
we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio
but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out
you: ?
utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study
shoko: booo u whore
you’re a cockblock y/n
you: i literally didn’t do anything
if anything utahime is cockblocking you
but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break
shoko: we aren’t
utahime: we are
shut the fuck up shoko oh my god
shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy
you: im going to kill my new neighbour
hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad
shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth
you: hell no im not a snitch
utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things
hows the assignment going?
shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!
you: ? do u want me to snitch or not
and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?
shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth
also come lib
you: give me a sec
i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied
utahime: yeah thats actually scary
write a note or something
shoko: and then come library
you: give me fifteen minutes
Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.
It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.
You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.
Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.
There, problem fixed.
With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.
Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.
By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.
You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.
are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue
also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b
You crumple the note in your hand.
That fucking asshole.
The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.
You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.
snitch
A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.
you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all
You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.
you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me
You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.
and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon
It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.
then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now
You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.
i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door
so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is
It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.
also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons
You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.
digimon is NOT just for kids
You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.
For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.
Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.
The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.
hey 4a,
first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth
— 4b
Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.
4b,
sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something
— 4a
You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.
4a,
thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening
also important question do u own a screwdriver ??
thanks, 4b
You frown then write back:
why?
Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.
i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge
do u own one or not? please.
— 4b
The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.
u better give this back
You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.
people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck
You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door.
“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.”
The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.
When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor.
Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note.
returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz
You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet.
Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work.
If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness.
Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it.
You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted.
It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead.
Your own weakness pisses you off.
With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength.
You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze.
“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”
You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?
“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.
You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.
Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”
You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.
“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”
A pause. You scrunch your nose.
“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”
You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.
“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”
There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.
“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.
“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”
“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”
“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”
“And did you tell her that?”
“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."
“You’re never getting a second date.”
He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”
Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.
You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.
“Hi.”
There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”
Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.
There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.
You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”
You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”
“I’m sick, jackass.”
He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”
Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”
That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”
“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”
You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”
There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.
“Oh, I might be into this.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”
“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”
“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”
You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”
“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”
You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”
His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”
“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”
“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”
“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”
“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”
That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.
“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”
That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”
The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”
You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”
“Okay, six months, not bad.”
Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”
4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”
You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”
“Is there room for one more?”
A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”
You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”
“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.
4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”
“Trust me, that was the plan.”
You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.
“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.
“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”
“And would you try?”
You sip from your glass, ignoring him.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”
“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”
You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”
Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks.
He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first.
He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part.
So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression.
Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice.
Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that.
It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them.
But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster.
Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.
The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.
Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning.
“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest.
The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.
Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.
Because Gojo doesn’t lack.
Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting.
The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find.
When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator.
A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note.
im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b
You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out.
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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you.
“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.”
“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness.
She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”
“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.”
“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.”
You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up.
“What is it?”
Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen.
gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions?
It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.”
The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him.
You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite.
You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”
“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”
You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”
She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.”
“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”
Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”
“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”
“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently.
“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.”
You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”
Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”
You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”
“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”
“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”
“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.”
The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.
“I just thought you should know.”
You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”
“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.”
“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.”
“I thought you were over your ex?”
You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut.
You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram.
So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you.
What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.
“Y/N?”
You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”
Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”
“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”
That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”
“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.
“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”
You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”
Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts.
The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying.
Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece.
You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.
feeling better?
A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.
You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.
“The fuck—”
“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.
From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”
You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”
There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”
“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”
You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”
“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”
You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”
“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.”
You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy.
For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.
“So,” you start.
“Yeah?”
“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”
“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.”
You hum. “What course are you doing?”
“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”
You snort. “Nerd.”
“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”
“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?”
He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.
“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?”
You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done.
“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”
Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.”
You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”
“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”
You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.”
He hums. “You never know. I get around.”
That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?”
“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”
You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”
He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”
You sigh. “Kill yourself.”
“See, this is what I mean.”
“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”
He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”
“I’m not being grouchy.”
“At least try and make your point come across.”
“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”
“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.
The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.
“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”
You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”
“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”
You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”
“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”
You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.
Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.
“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”
There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”
Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”
“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”
Fuck, that was on your list too.
“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.”
“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?”
You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.”
“Really? That sounds stressful.”
“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.”
“Because is it ever that serious?”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar.
“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.”
“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.”
“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.”
“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.”
A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.
“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.
Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.
“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”
“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”
“I’m superseding my opinion.”
“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”
You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.
The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.
But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.
The lighter takes three tries to catch.
“What’s that clicking sound?”
“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.
“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”
“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”
The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.
You hit record.
“Okay, your turn,” he says.
You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”
“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”
“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”
He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”
You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.”
“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly.
“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.”
“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?”
“Google is free.”
You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.”
The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright.
There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?”
“Please, it was a fluke.”
“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”
You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor.
He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?”
“Consider it a formal complaint.”
“I’m snitching to the landlord.”
“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.”
“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.”
You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move.
For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both.
Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise.
“Oh!”
From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.”
You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”
“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”
“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”
“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”
Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything.
Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button.
On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?”
You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?”
You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it.
Your face warms.
Stupid.
So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window.
“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke.
“Good luck with that.”
“Good luck with your love thing.”
You look down at the camera again.
“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”
Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.
You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.
One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.
You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.
“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.
“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.
He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.
You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”
It’s a routine you’ve come to love.
Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.
You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react.
Probably.
Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day.
It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him.
Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell.
Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.
A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave.
And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru.
He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs.
Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake.
A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car.
You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?
A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar.
You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking.
“Hey, you in the band shirt!”
Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning.
No.
No, because that voice—
You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body.
And what a body.
Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets.
He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally.
“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.”
Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.
Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer.
“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”
You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.”
Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone.
Gojo blinks.
You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time.
Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him.
His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you.
“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”
You shake your head.
“Scooter? Skateboard?”
“No.”
“How do you get around?”
“Feet.”
He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice.
“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”
“I don’t have anything for you to wash.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.”
You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!”
“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.”
You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?”
Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”
You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin.
Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!”
“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”
He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”
You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”
“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”
“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”
Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”
You grimace.
He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”
“I don’t have five dollars.”
“For just three dollars—”
“No cash.”
“For one encouraging word—”
“Not happening.”
“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly.
“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?
He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.”
“How are you so blatantly shameless?”
He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.”
Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower.
Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly.
“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?”
“Those are the only options?”
“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.”
“Add a financially unavailable option.”
“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.”
“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.”
Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.
“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”
Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall.
You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage.
“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”
“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.”
“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”
“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.
Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”
You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest.
“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.”
“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.”
“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”
“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him.
“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”
“No.”
“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.”
“I’m not giving you a fake name either.”
“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”
“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?”
“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.”
You need to get out here right now.
You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”
“But it feels like we know each other.”
“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.”
“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”
You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face.
“First initial?”
“N. For No.”
“Last initial?”
“O.”
“Does it have an A in it?”
“Do you know when to quit?”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”
You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus.
“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”
His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”
For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.
His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission.
Then someone calls, “Satoru!”
His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.
He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?”
You both look over in the direction of the carwash.
Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo.
“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?”
Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.”
“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.”
Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”
“She asked for you.”
The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully.
A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away.
Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed.
“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around.
You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
4B is Gojo Satoru.
Gojo Satoru is 4B.
Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.
You never do wear that band shirt again.
Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again.
It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour.
That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down,
4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.
So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.
After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.
The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.
It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.
You wonder if you should bring it up.
It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep.
You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication.
You should probably bring it up.
But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop?
In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken.
You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away.
There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
But you definitely did not.
You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.
But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts.
The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt.
Fuck.
You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall.
You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough.
Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander.
You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away.
It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”
“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”
He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft.
“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.”
“Since when?”
You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged.
“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”
Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping.
In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.”
His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own.
He turns around.
You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.
“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”
You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.
The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”
“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.”
You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.”
He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.”
You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”
He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”
“Satoru!”
His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”
Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”
You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”
He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”
He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.
“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”
You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”
“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.”
Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”
In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”
“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.
He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”
You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.
The sounds from his side of the wall change.
There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.
You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.
The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room.
You’re not a freak. You can’t be.
You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do.
Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?
You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw.
You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?”
“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”
You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting.
“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.”
“What does that mean?”
“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.”
You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”
“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?”
“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”
“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?”
You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.
Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.”
She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”
Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something.
You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you.
Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.
Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands.
“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention.
“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.”
“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.”
“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.”
“What favour?”
“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”
Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”
Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence.
Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”
You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back.
“So? What do you want?”
“I need help finding someone.”
You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue.
“For revenge or…?”
He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?”
She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?”
“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”
There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs.
“Hey, breathe through your nose.”
You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.
“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.”
You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse.
Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat.
Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”
Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday."
You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically.
Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”
“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying.
You try to shake your head as subtly as possible.
“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”
You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her.
“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?”
He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”
Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.”
“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”
Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”
“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.”
Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.”
“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.”
For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt.
Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.”
You kick her foot again.
“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”
Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”
You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly.
“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”
“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful.
“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.”
He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door.
You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”
“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out.
“Where are we going?”
You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”
“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”
“Please, Shoko. Please.”
She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”
You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.”
“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.”
“He almost knows.”
“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”
You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”
“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”
“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”
Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up.
“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.”
The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you.
“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”
“I know that,” you grumble.
“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.
“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”
Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.”
“Uh.” You blink. “What?”
“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.”
“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?”
You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.”
Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”
You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall.
Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?”
You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face.
You sigh.
“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”
Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality.
Or maybe it’s just you.
But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you.
And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc.
He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number).
When it doesn’t come, he slumps.
Fuck, he was so far gone.
It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it.
He also wants you.
Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen.
utahime: party this weekend
show up or dont
idc
He snorts.
gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm
its chill though if u dont want me there
i wont go ive got plans anyway
Another notification drops down after he hits send.
shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend
that was a mistake
DO NOT COME
Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes.
Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem.
A problem for who?
Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard.
gojo: actually ykw
wouldn’t miss it for the world <3
utahime: wait im uninviting u
gojo?
i said u cant come
dont leave me on read you dick
Gojo laughs, turning off his phone.
He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you.
“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.
The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”
There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.
Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.
You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.
Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.
Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.
Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously.
You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face.
The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life.
Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek.
You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway.
Then your stomach drops.
Gojo.
The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal.
What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys?
Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.
There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun.
It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs.
You turn away before he can look your way.
The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first.
By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic.
So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room.
Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals.
For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are.
But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear.
Maybe.
The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope.
“Having fun?”
Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this.
And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his.
His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y.
You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.”
Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.”
“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.”
He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.”
You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya.
He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.”
He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?”
Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.”
“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”
“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words.
“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.”
“Fuck off, Naoya.”
His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.”
“You put your hands on me!”
“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.”
“Well, it felt ugly.”
For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges.
“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.”
The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing.
You take another step back.
“I said leave.”
Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”
“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down.
His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him.
Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?”
Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”
“Move,” you hiss.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?”
“You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”
Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack.
But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it. It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair.
“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation.
Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell.
“Not your business, Gojo.”
“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?”
You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”
Gojo glances back at you.
You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly.
“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.”
Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”
He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair.
Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop.
Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you.
“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s the president of—”
You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.”
Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly, “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”
Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill.
How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there.
“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.”
“It has to be me, Satoru.”
Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.”
Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.”
Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?”
Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”
He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you.
“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”
“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone.
You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger.
Naoya’s face pales.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?”
Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.”
The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again.
Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?”
You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.”
Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile.
“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.”
You nod and adjust.
Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”
Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.”
“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.”
“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo.
“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.”
Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.”
Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”
You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”
“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.”
You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya.
For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene.
And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him.
You slap him.
The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it.
Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good.
Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”
“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”
Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?”
Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.”
The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks.
Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”
“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”
“I was invited.”
“By who?”
Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.
A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”
“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”
“How did he get inside?”
Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party.
But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none.
“Creep,” someone mutters.
“Get him out,” another voice says.
Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—”
“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!”
Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way.
It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is.
The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going.
You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall, both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust.
The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops.
You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.
“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?”
“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down.
His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates.
“Okay, it might sting a little.”
Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.”
You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood.
His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs.
“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.”
You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.
“Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”
He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”
You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days.
Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.
Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.
He smiles at you cheekily.
“Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.”
‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.
“You!”
“With him?”
“Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?”
Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire.
Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.
Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”
You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away.
“No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”
“Why are you here then?”
“You threatened me to come.” You point out.
“Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.
You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”
“That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”
You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”
Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?”
“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”
“You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”
“Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”
When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”
Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”
You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest.
You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.
Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”
“I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”
“Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.
You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.
“That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.
“That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”
Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”
“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.
Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.
“We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”
Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.
So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.
You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.
Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?”
You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.
Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.
The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”
“It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip.
“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”
You hum. “Maybe.”
“I think I would remember someone like you.”
That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.
“Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.”
“Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.”
“Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”
The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.
“Maybe if you gave me a name.”
You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.”
His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.
“I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.
“Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.”
As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind.
Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.
Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.
“Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.
Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.
“Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”
Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.”
“And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.
You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it.
“Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”
“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”
“Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.
Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.
He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?”
“Take me to the bathroom?”
Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold.
“Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”
Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.
He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.
“Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.
He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.”
“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”
You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.
“You cold?”
“What?”
“Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”
You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”
“It’s not that,” you bite your lip.
“Then what is it, pretty?”
“You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”
Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”
He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”
His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.
“You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.
The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”
His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately.
“That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”
He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak.
“Please,” you whimper.
“Please what? Use your words, pretty.”
“Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.
He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows.
“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.
You nod, rutting forward pathetically.
“Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.”
He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”
He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.
“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.
The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.
“Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back.
“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?”
But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.
“Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.
Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.
“Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile.
“I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!”
Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.
“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”
You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark.
“Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.”
“Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—”
“Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged.
“You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.”
Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand.
“Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns.
Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.”
He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.
“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”
You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!”
Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”
Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace.
“Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.”
The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.
“That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck.
“Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.”
He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.
“You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.”
You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much.
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.”
He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.
“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.”
His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain.
“Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.
“I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.”
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you.
He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh.
“Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.”
Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.
“Still with me?”
You nod, before you fall forward into his arms.
When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.
You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.
For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.
How the fuck did you get home?
Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.
And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.
You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text.
shoko: alive?
actually don’t answer if you’re dead
if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok
You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking.
you: im alive!!
thank u so much for taking me home btw
i owe u :3
She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears.
shoko: i didn’t take u home (?)
gojo did obv
he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out
You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label.
water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru
Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers,
because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me
“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away.
You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.
There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room.
the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3
“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in.
There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door.
no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?
You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror.
face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor
Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead.
There’s another note stuck to the towel rack.
if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor
From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes.
clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist
welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan
water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower
drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug
soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(
in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper
You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers.
The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey.
eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush!
The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><”
You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname).
Satoru.
Satoru.
Satoru.
Then, you find the last one on your front door.
if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru
And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.
Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.
You let out a short scream.
He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand.
“Oh—”
It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a rush.
“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?”
“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”
You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”
His face falls. “Was that not cute?”
You blink. “Cute?”
“Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.”
“The sticky notes?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”
You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?”
“Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?”
“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?”
His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.
“I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”
Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.
Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.”
“Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”
“You literally panicked ten seconds ago.”
“Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”
Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”
“No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”
It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.
“I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.”
“Are you asking me out?”
He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him.
In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.
You almost pull back.
But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.
He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.
One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.
There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.
You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.
“So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”
From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.
“Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”
Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do.
a/n: oh my GOD this is another draft that i started writing in 2023 (?) and is affectionately known by my friends and i as the jorkin' it fic <3 b99!au fic coming next !! not that i don't love the other fics i've written but it's definitely my favourite wip so i hope you all love that one too! thank you so much for reading until the very end and i hope u enjoyed :3
⋆.˚ synopsis: word has been spreading around that there'll be a new teacher at jujutsu tech highschool—you! excited to finally fulfill your dream of teaching and nurturing the next generation of sorcerers, you're ready to give it your all. your co-worker satoru gojo however, doesn't seem too thrilled at the idea of having (what he assumes to be) a spy for the higher-ups hovering over him all the time. but the more he gets to know you, the more of his expectations you completely shatter. and he can't help but find himself intrigued...
⋆.˚ starring:
── sunshine!reader: bright, optimistic, and hardworking, a real bucket of sunshine. grade one sorcerer who was approved to teach by the higher-ups. people tend to underestimate you because of your kindhearted nature and easygoing attitude, but you're quite strong.
── satoru gojo: overworked, exhausted, and still being expected to shoulder the world's responsibilities, gojo doesn't have the time nor the interest in playing ice-breaker with his new co-worker who probably won't last a week.
⋆.˚ tags: sfw, smau/chatfic + actual text, strangers to friends to lovers, bantering and competitiveness, fluff, happy ending, canon universe
Synopsis: You're childhood best friends with Satoru Gojo, who you've been avoiding ever since he got into a motorcycle accident. When your mutual friends force you to go to his birthday party, feelings arise, and clothes come off!
Pairing: Gojo x Reader
Content (MDNI): Biker!gojo, Scar!jo, childhood friends to lovers, gojo did almost die in a motorcycle accident, physical rehab, reader mentions being afraid to see gojo's lifeless body, but he's not dead, gojo is battered up (scar!jo), pwp if you squint for the first five hundred words, body worship, they're both pervs hk, p worshiping, p slapping, slight marathon if you also squint, idiots in love, filthy and i mean filthy dirty talk, fingering, creampies, man-handling...i think that's it
Word count: 10.2k...i got carried away. sue me.
A/N: I haven't published fan fiction in YEARS, mind you, but this one TikTok that talked about Scar!Jo being Biker!Jo, after an accident, and i just had to write it.
It was rare for you to hate anything. It was even rarer for you to hate anything related to your friends. You strongly disliked the way Toji would kick his feet up on your coffee table whenever he was over. You were agitated by how nitpicky Geto was whenever everyone went out to eat. You were irritated by the loud scream Yuji and Choso let out after they splashed you with water at Nanami’s last summer party.
You hated Gojo’s motorcycle. You downright despised the unnecessarily loud, clunky, piece of metal death machine that Gojo so happened to still proudly (stupidly) love. Your dislike for that motorcycle really started when he first showed up to your place at nine at night to pick you up for Shoko’s thirtieth birthday party. You walked for fifteen minutes out of the neighborhood before Gojo finally convinced you to get on, and you absolutely despised it. You especially detested the way your legs wobbled, both feeling so unsteady because of the motorcycle, and also from having to grip Gojo so hard that his cologne still hadn’t fully detached from your mind.
However, the biggest reason you hated that motorcycle was that it almost cost you your best friend. It’s been months since you got that call from Geto telling you Gojo was in the hospital because of a motorcycle accident. Apparently, it was pretty bad; he had been unconscious from the amount of blood he lost. Surgery was inevitable if he survived, and by Shoko’s words, it was a miracle that he did. Now every time you see a motorcycle, a pit of disgust builds inside of you, and it takes every part of your rational mind not to bash the thing apart outside of a random store. So, as is normally the case, you silently seethe throughout the day until it’s been so long you just get over it, though a motorcycle wasn’t always necessary for that to happen.
“So are we going to talk about it?” Shoko’s words confuse the hell out of you. It must be obvious the way she sighs, and Geto laughs without looking up from his phone, probably texting another girl. “Are you going to continue to sit there and pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“So, I actually have no idea what you’re talking about?” Another bold-faced lie to two of the people you care about the most.
“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. Next week, not ringing any bells for you?” You retrace the days until you’re hit with an upcoming December 7th. Now Suguru's smugness makes sense. Instead of admitting that you know what they’re talking about, you slump back into the couch and pick the next best option— playing dumb.
“Hmmm, nope. Nothing’s coming up.” That finally pulls Geto away from his phone, and Shoko puts her unlit cigarette down, to just deadpan. Their stares linger long enough for you to finally give in with a sigh. You couldn’t ignore his existence forever. “Yeah, I know.”
“We’re throwing something for him. You should be there.” That uncomfortable pit in your stomach opened up again. It had been months since you last saw Gojo. You didn’t even see him when he was in the hospital; you couldn’t bring yourself to. Seeing him all managed up, tubes sticking out of him, face uncharacteristically unresponsive to you made you nauseous, but not seeing him all that time made seeing him now harder.
“I don’t think either of us wants to see each other, or else we would have by now.”
“You don’t want to see him for some reason, but he wants to see you.” Suguru’s words hit the dead center of your armor, stinging you a little.
“He asks about you all the time,” Shoko adds, another stinging sensation.
“It’s honestly starting to get annoying.” You can’t help but laugh at Geto’s words. If anyone was being forced to put up with Satoru, it’s Suguru. They’d been best friends for what felt like a lifetime. You’d know, you and Satoru had been friends for an actual lifetime. You remember when Suguru Geto first became friends with Satoru, after all, Satoru practically forced you two to get along. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed your shared obnoxious best friend.
You’d actually be doing more than lying, whatever is worse than lying. That's what you’d be doing if you said there wasn’t a Satoru-sized hole in your life.
Anyone in their right mind would miss their childhood best friend. Especially if they beat the odds against dying, but that feeling of seeing Gojo— stupidly walking around, talking, and somehow taking all the space when doing so, laughing loudly with no regard for volume—felt wrong. All you could imagine is his lifeless body on the operating table, and a bunch of words you wished you had said hanging on your lips. If you’re being honest, that’s the reason you won’t see him. You were too much of a coward to admit you were madly in love with your best friend, and after surviving, you don’t think you could hide it from him anymore.
If he didn’t feel the same, it might kill you on the spot. To know that the person you loved more than anything got the chance to live again, and you can’t be there because of something as potentially one-sided as feelings, was too much. The lump in your throat builds, and you’re blinking back tears, realizing the two other people in the room were watching you struggle.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s probably mad that I haven’t seen him, and I don’t blame him. Why would he even want me there?” Shoko sighs and turns around with a simple "whatever," but Suguru keeps his eyes on you, unmoved by your words.
“This is his first birthday after almost dying, and all he wants is to see you. I’m not saying you have to stay long, but…” His phone vibrates in his lap, a loud buzz filling the room and cutting him off, “…give the guy a proper goodbye if you’re set on not seeing him anymore. He deserves it.” With that, he hops up off the couch and answers whoever is on the other side of the phone.
You hate Suguru Geto so much. You hate how good he is at reading people and getting under their skin without all the information. However, you’re sure that he knows that you’re head over heels for his best friend. Which makes you standing inside of Satoru’s house dressed up, and almost about to pass out, even more sinister on his part. Shoko had warned you it was a surprise party, but you didn’t think sitting in Satoru’s place without him would make you feel so nauseated.
It was almost the same. The same art that you put up on his living walls still held in place, the couches you fell asleep on way too many times to count, even the busted KitchenAid mixer that Toji had gotten (stolen) from his ex (situationship) still sat on the polished marble counter—a perfect capsule of time, unmoved by the months of change in Satoru’s life.
You wondered if he had stayed the same?
“Nanami just texted me! Everyone in position!”
For those few minutes of you hiding alongside Suguru and Shoko, you felt the anxiety at its peak. Palms sweating profusely, heart about to break your ribcage, breathing rapid enough that it makes Shoko pull you towards her. Calming you down slightly enough to force a smile on your face when the lights come back on and scream surprise. For a moment, you forgot that you hadn’t seen your best friend in months until your eyes looked past his familiar white hair. His ghostly pale skin is covered in deep beige scars. They litter his body, one after the other, past his black top, and you assume the rest of his body.
That accident was written all over him. Seeing him didn’t make you as sad as you expected. It made you angry, angry at yourself for making him go through this change by himself. That anger almost completely takes you over before your eyes bounce to his— the same blue eyes that always make your breath catch. Gojo could never hide what he was thinking. The look of utter shock caught in his eyes pointed directly at you. He looked like he saw a ghost, and just as you were getting ready to say something, Haibara moved forward with his specially decorated birthday hat.
The party moved on as normal, or as normal as a party could while you’re actively dodging the host. Especially, after he stared you down whenever the group sang Happy Birthday. You managed to avoid the birthday boy at his own party. The getaway plan was even better. You’d go to the garage to grab another case of beers for everyone before saying goodbye. Fortunately for you, no one was nearby to see you sneak into the dark room. Clumsily, you look around trying to find the switch, praying you don’t accidentally open the garage door, before finding it.
Instead of your sweet ticket out of the party, you’re met with a motorcycle. Satoru’s motorcycle, specifically. In absolute pristine perfect condition. Something about seeing the motorcycle made you livid. Why the hell would he keep something like that around?
“If you were planning on never speaking to me again, I highly recommend not coming to my birthday party at my house.”
The words immediately freeze your anger into fear. Your heart drops to your feet when you turn to be met with a clearly very pissed-off Gojo. Arms crossed his broad chest, making him only look wider. Unlike most other people, Satoru's eyes get brighter when he’s angry, pissed, or irritated. Right now, two piercings, cold blue eyes stared down at you, locking you in place. You scramble for words to say, looking around for anything that could help you before you see it again, and your anger comes back.
“You still have the motorcycle?” The words come out with more bite than you mean, but right now, you really want to scream at him for being so reckless. He scoffs before laughing, almost maniacally.
“Are you kidding right now? You avoid me for months, and the first thing you have to say is some smart remark about the motorcycle? Seriously Y/N? No, how are you? No, are you okay? No, I’m sorry that I ghosted my childhood best friend during the hardest part of his life?!”
He’s right. You know he’s right. Anyone in their right mind would’ve cussed out. Screamed in your face, kicked you out of their home, and told you never to see them again. Yeah, that stupid motorcycle pissed you off, but he’s more right now.
“Gojo…”
“No! I’m not done.” He closes the door behind him. The music of the party muffled, leaving only you two truly in the moment. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text me. You didn’t let me know if you were okay. I’ve been up for months trying to get as much information about you as possible without crossing the random wall you put between us, Y/N.” He was beyond angry; he was livid.
“Gojo-“
“Do you know how awful it feels to have to learn how to walk again, all while worrying if the most important person in your life is okay? For the first person you think of when you wake up from almost dying, to not want anything to do with you?” His bright eyes start to redden with tears. Satoru was always sensitive, something you’ve always loved about him. “Every day, part of me hoped you would come through that hospital door, and every day you didn’t. My first friend, the last person I’d expect not to show up, did!”
“Gojo.”
“Why are you here now?! Why, after all this time, did you show up here? Especially if you were going to leave before I could say anything to you. If you were going to leave, haunt my fucking house and me, then you should’ve never come.” His voice cracks at the end, and that’s when he finally looks away from you. He’s right, you should’ve never come to his house or this party. You should’ve been a better friend. You should not have fallen in love with him. He was so upset with you in a way he had never been before; it felt like it was eating you alive. He shouldn’t be crying on his birthday. He should be laughing, making others laugh, annoying everyone in his general vicinity, being the Satoru Gojo you had the opportunity to fall in love with over the years.
You hadn’t even noticed your own tears building before they dropped. Throat tightening, you struggle with what to say. So you settle for the easiest option.
“I’ll leave.”
“No.” His head whips around, as if the two words startled him. “Not until you tell me why you disappeared?”
“Gojo.”
“I deserve to know why my best friend of almost three decades decided to stop talking to me for no apparent reason.” The misty-eyed stare between you is strong. Neither of you is backing down in silence for what feels like an eternity. Somewhere in between his anger and frustration, a pleading look flashes across his face. He needed the truth, and you were too scared to admit it. The words taste like bile just thinking about them. “Y/N please. You don’t have to stay. We don’t ever have to speak again. Please tell me.” The words come out so sweet, sweeter than you deserve, and it finally makes you snap.
“I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at you like that. I didn’t know how I could ever look at you as lifeless. No one wants to see the person they’re in love with barely grasping onto life. I didn’t have the courage to face you, and I couldn’t see you again without telling you that I’m in love with you. I couldn’t take it knowing I’d lose you after you got a second chance, because I can’t help but love you, Satoru. I know I’m a coward, and you deserve a much better best friend, but if you want an answer. I’m scared that knowing how I feel will make you not want to be around me, and I just can’t take that.”
You’re a mess. The makeup you had on definitely was ruined. The anxiety of the confession burns through your body, followed by the lightheadedness of the relief. If you don’t get out of here soon, you’re definitely going to pass out.
“You’re in love with me?” All you can do is nod.
“I’m so sorry-” Satoru cuts you off. More specifically, his lips are what cut you off, and it takes you a full second to register that Satoru Gojo was kissing you. When the second did register, you’re quick to follow through. Hands finding his chest, and slowly up to his hair. His lips taste like whatever fruity seltzer he’d been drinking before, but they were as soft as they always looked. Slowly, but surely, the anxious and timid kiss grew needy and feverish. Somehow, your back is pressed against the fridge, and you’re clawing at both his shirt and hair. Satoru’s no better; his hands are focused on keeping you close, but his foot kicks your legs apart enough to slot his thigh right against you. Lips locking slower and messier each time, both of you practically out of your mind.
A loud thud is what pulls you away from the rather starving man in front of you. You don’t realize how desperate you were for air until you see how heavy you’re breathing. Satoru just kissed you. You two just made out. He has you pressed against his fridge because you two were making out. Sixteen-year-old you is probably somewhere losing her mind right now.
Before you can question what that noise was, Toru is pulling your face back towards him. He’s holding himself a few inches away, close enough that if you could lean and close the gap, you would, but far enough for Satoru to keep you back.
“You love me?” The question barely comes out above a whisper. You attempt to nod, but his hand keeps your head from moving. “Uh uh. I need you to say it.” His words are quick, but soft, like he’s afraid to break the moment with his need to hear you say the four simple words, so you do.
“I love you, Satoru.” His brows scrunch together like the words almost hurt him. “Are you okay with that?”
“What do I have to do to keep you here?” Maybe it’s the blood coming back to his head, but his question catches you off guard.
“Huh?”
“What do I have to do?” he repeats, “to make sure you don’t stop loving me, Y/N?” You can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he sounds.
“I could never stop loving you, Satoru.” His eyes finally open to meet yours. He obviously was both amused and upset by your answer.
“Just tell me anything. I need you not to leave again. It’ll kill me.”
“Gojo. That’s not funny.” You try to move back to emphasize your seriousness, but the now warm stainless steel presses back against you.
“I’m not joking. I can’t have you leave again. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you for you to tell me you feel the same. If you leave me now, I don’t think my body can withstand that. So please.” Your eyes widened.
Gojo loves you back.
He’s been waiting on you this whole time, as you had. Two idiots dancing around the fact that you both were hopelessly in love with the other. You’re so happy you could cry, and the tears do start to come, but Satoru squeezes your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.
“Tell me what I need to do to make sure you don’t leave me again.” You try to think of anything, but you keep drawing a blank, until that stupid hunk of metal shines over Satoru’s shoulder. Your entire body freezes up, and you feel that irrational anger coming back.
“Get rid of the bike. That thing almost took you from me.” He looks behind him briefly before snapping back to you.
“Deal.” Before he can open his mouth to say another word, you’re putting your lips back on his, dragging him back to you. Just like a perfect match, it feels like second nature to kiss Satoru. He knows just where to put his hand without getting into deep water. Just a row of deep, slow kisses, until you go to pull him closer and he does the same. Leaving you to grind harder than expected on his thighs, a pathetic moan tumbling out of you. Satoru breaks the kiss, bright blue eyes peering down at you in shock.
“Sorr-” His hands drag your bunched-up dress across his thigh again, forcing another breathy moan out of you.
“You sound better than I could’ve ever imagined, and I’ve imagined a lot.” He does it again, this time flexing this strong muscle, making you fall forward in a shudder.
“Tell me what you’ve imagined?”
“Oh, my god.” The heat between your thighs builds as you gleam under Satoru’s gaze and shamelessly ride his thigh. “This. Turning you on. Making out. Making you feel good.” The way his soft lips lightly trail down your neck, kissing between the confessions. It’s dirty and pulls another moan from you. Grinding down on his thigh shamelessly harder this time. “Making you cum for me, and just for me. Over and over, just like how I’m going to now.”
It’s pathetic how much you’re chasing your own orgasm, but the high of the confession is lighting every nerve in your body on fire. He smells good, he tastes good, he feels good, and he’s all yours. As if he reads your mind, he presses his thigh into you, practically lifting against the fridge.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, Satoru.” You pant, eyes rolling back in your head, at a particularly rough drag. “I’m so close. Oh my-”
He snaps his thigh from you, and it practically hurts. You chase the feeling of the rough denim material, only for him to press your hips into the fridge. Pulling you into a sloppy kiss, tongues lazily meeting, almost your dying protest. You try to get his attention even though you could barely focus, by pulling his hair, but it just makes him moan unashamedly, hands squeezing at your waist. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are so low you’d think he was high if it wasn't for the obvious blush across his face or the swollen, spit-covered lips. He stares at your eyes, slowly bouncing between your lips and your eyes, questioning something.
“I was so close.”
“I know. I heard.” You’re sure your blush is now matching his. His chest shudders with anticipation. “Can I ask you a big favor?” At this point, you’re convinced you’d do anything for this man.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get rid of the bike if you get on it.” Scratch that. You’d do anything but get on Satoru’s once highway ticket to death.
“No.”
“Y/N-”
“No! I’m not letting you take me out on a ride. I hate that stupid bike.”
“We’re not going out. I just-” His eyes avert from yours, looking up at that garage ceiling. Are his ears turning red? “-I just want you to get off on it.” A beat of silence passed, and then another. By the time the fourth passes, Satoru closes his eyes and swallows in obvious embarrassment.
“What?” How the hell does one get off on a motorcycle? Let alone one that tried to kill your best friend?
“It would be in park! You wouldn’t have to go anywhere, but here. It’s a thing I’ve had for a while, and I dunno...” He rambles on and on before he finally looks back at you with an absolutely hopeless look in his eye. Past the point of pleading, this is his entire ego on the line.
“Is it something you really want?” He nods before the sentence ends. You think long and hard about it before looking in his eyes and sighing. You’re just as hopeless as he is. “Fine, but don’t be hurt when this doesn’t end up working.” His entire body lights up with a new vigor, arms wrapping around you and lifting you easily over the bike. You knew Satoru was strong, but he lifted you like it was nothing, which shouldn’t be possible after all his body had gone through.
You’re pressed against the metal head of the bike, thanking your earlier judgment that you wore a skirt. Satoru looks like he’s about to explode from just staring at you sitting on the damn thing. He swallows hard again—it’s kinda cute. His eyes are locked on where your panty-clad cunt is meeting the cold black metal.
“Satoru?” You squirm at the intensity of his stare.
“Right, m‘sorry. You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this. I thought it would never happen.” His eyes finally look at yours, softening when he sees the worry in your eyes. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.” You mull it over for a second before letting the fear creep in.
“No. I want to do this for you.”
“Jesus, don’t say that.”
“But I do. I want to recreate every little fantasy you have about me locked away.” Satoru shuts his eyes and drags a hand down his face, bringing a cocky grin to your face. You’ve always liked teasing Toru. He shakes his head in some form of restraint before narrowing in on the start.
“If you’re uncomfortable at any point or want it to be over, you tell me, and I’ll toss the thing to the curb faster than you can blink.” He’s serious, and it is sweet enough to warm your heart and ease your nerves, but you can’t help but giggle at him. “You ready?” You give him a small nod, and the engine revs, filling up the garage.
Your question about how one gets off on a motorcycle gets answered as soon as the metal rattles against your swollen clit. Immediately, your body slumps forward.
“Oh my god-” The vibrations are so strong, you know your entire body is shaking with the bike. It feels so good. It feels even better when you lift your eyes to see Satoru staring down at you like you just set off his world. Another strong vibration has you loudly moaning. There’s no way you’re not going to cum fast. “Satoru, it's so good.”
“Yeah?” You nod, unable to say anything that’s not an incoherent mess. How you two can hear each other over the loud ass engine is a miracle you’re not going to question. This stupid motorcycle is pushing closer to an orgasm than you’ve been able to bring yourself to in months. The harsh shift of the metal against your clit is too much; you’re too sensitive, forcing you back searching for some reprieve, but Satoru is quicker. “Nuh uh. Don’t run from it, baby.”
Oh, he’s an evil son of a bitch. Hands forcing your hips to grind hard into the rapidly shaking metal, leaving you with no escape. You reach out to grab his wrist, hoping it would alleviate the pressure, but it doesn’t.
“Want you to cover it, baby. Need you soaked so I can lick you clean and give you another one. So I can get you wet all again when I sink into that pretty pussy, and make you cum all over again.”
“Wan-ahh to fuck me, Toru? Oh fuck!” He smiles and wipes the thin line of drool you have yet to notice.
“Yes. More than anything. I think I can cum from just thinking about it. I’ve gotten off more times than I can count.” If you were in a better state of mind, you’d probably ask him why, but instead all you can say is—
“I’ve gotten off you, too, Toru.” It’s rushed, and there was definitely some kind of curse word thrown in there, but it works. Satoru’s ears are burning red, and his mouth is gaped open, hands slowing their motion to a teasing rhythm. “Ngh- All the time.”
“Tell me more.” His words are just as quick as yours. “Y/N, please tell me more.” You’re trying so hard to focus on him and his words, but the way Satoru keeps pushing you into the vibrations is making you want to tip your head back and ride out the feeling that’s starting to cool in you. One of his hands holds your face, forcing you to look at him.
“I- I think about you touching me, Toru.” It’s all you can manage.
“Like how I am now?” You nod, or nod as best as you can in Satoru’s grip.
“Think about how good your hands feel when you touch me. H-oh, how- they’d feel better in me.”
“Want to know what I think about when I’ve gotten off to you?” You’re quick and eager to nod. “When we were sixteen, the first time I ever saw you in a real swimsuit, I wanted to lay you on my bed and eat you out until you were begging me to stop. I think I fucked my hand raw to the thought of it.” Your eyes widen at the confession. You’re sure there’s a huge sopping mark on the metal, from how wet you were.
“I still had braces-”
“And they were cute. You’ve never not been beautiful. There’s never been a moment when I haven’t thought you were beautiful.” What? The rush of emotions fills you, almost over-taking the lust-hazed brain you had. The tears in your eyes are becoming more out of the random sincerity, than the overwhelming pleasure between your legs.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.” He’s quick with it. Mouth dropping right on your pulse point, and dragging his way to your ear. “Always will. Thought you were beautiful the first time I met you. I thought you were beautiful when you gave me that pity dance at prom. I thought you were beautiful at graduation. I think you’re beautiful now, riding my motorcycle in an inch of your life, and I know you’ll be beautiful when I take you upstairs and fuck you full.”
Everything is too much. His cologne, the sweetness of his words, the filth rolling off his tongue, the battering of the shaking metal against your clit. It’s no surprise when your vision starts to go white.
“S-Satoru. I’m gonna-”
“Yeah? You want that?” You’re nodding dumbly, as to be expected by now. “Baby, you’re dripping off the bike.” Were you? Oh well. “Gonna let me clean you up with my tongue before I take you inside and show you everything I’ve wanted to do to you for years?”
“Oh my god, Satoru.” Your hand flies on the bike onto one of Satoru’s forearms for leverage. Nails digging into his skin so hard that it would surely leave marks.
“I know, baby. Just say yes for me. You can do that, c’mon.”
“Yes-fuck. Yes! Please.” His face lifts from your ear, blue eyes focused on your face in just enough time to watch you fall over the edge. Eyes rolling back, mouth hanging open, surely nothing but obscenities and Satoru’s name coming out. You don’t know if you’ve ever cum this hard in your life, but it just won't stop. It’s probably embarrassing how pathetic you look on Satoru’s bike, the same bike that you hated for so long. That now you probably hate just a little bit less.
By the time you’re coming down, the motorcycle is off, and Satoru is peppering sweet kisses up the side of your neck. The sweetest of words leave him that are barely being comprehended. His face finally comes into view again, albeit a little hazy.
“You did great, baby.” That signature Satoru smile was there again, pointed at you. It felt great, almost better than that insanely strong orgasm you just had. You hadn’t realized just how desperately you needed a Satoru Gojo smile aimed at you until you finally got it again. The music inside the house cuts through the moment.
“Satoru, the party-” His hands leave your face, swinging your body towards him before he drops to his knees.
“It can wait.”
“Satoru-”
“I distinctly remember someone telling me I have a mess to attend to, and from the looks of it, I got a lot to clean up.” Curse Satoru and his height. There’s no way any normal man could get on his knees and still be taller than his bike, but Satoru Gojo has never been normal. His slow kisses up your still quivering thighs make you also want to forget the party. Hell, if you could make everyone in this house disappear right now, you would.
“Everyone is inside.” He leans in closer, with another sloppy kiss.
“I’m aware.” His breath tickles the inside of your sensitive thighs.
“Everyone wants to celebrate you.”
“They’ll want to celebrate me later.”
“Satoru, it's your birthday.” You hate the way your voice wavers.
“I’ll have other birthdays, but since it’s my birthday, why don’t you let me have my gift?”
“Be serious.” Satoru’s eyes flicker up to yours, a look so stern it snatches the air out of you. He is being serious.
“If you don’t want to do this, I will walk away right now, happily. I’d never make you do something or do something to you that you don’t want, but I’m not leaving unless you and you alone don’t want me.” The intensity in his voice makes a shiver go down your spine. “Because right now, Y/N, I couldn’t care less about this damn birthday party.”
That throb in your heart gets mistranslated somewhere down in the pussy, because you’re practically inching your lower half closer to Satoru’s face, forcing him to be face to face with your soaked panties.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Satoru’s eyes glistened over as he'd just seen something amazing. Before you can say anything, he pulls your legs closer and further apart before slotting his face right against your core and taking a deep inhale. Only to let out the most pathetic moan ever. “And you smell so good. Wonder if you taste just as good?”
You practically jolt at the long drag of Satoru’s tongue against your covered pussy. The sensation was almost too much; you’re still so sensitive from your orgasm from just a few minutes prior. Here he was eating you out through your panties like a madman.
“T-Toru!” Your body tenses at the unabashed groan he lets out, against you. When his mouth latches against your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, you damn near scream his name out. Your hands find their way into his messy white locks, tugging harder than you meant to.
“Haa— do it again.” Oh, Satoru was overly freaked out. His sharp nose catches your clit perfectly, long tongue stuffing itself into your core through the cloth, sure enough, your hands are pulling Satoru’s pale hair again, earning yourself a pathetic moan from him.
“T-Toru, are you, shit- gonna take them off?” Without a word, he yanks them down like he’s crazy. The fanning of hot breath against your core makes you twitch. He pulls away slightly enough before dragging two fingers through you; the loud pop of your wetness is almost deafening against the muffled music. You watch him gather your sex all down his fingers, watching your previous orgasm damn near run down his wrist before he drags his eyes to yours, and puts the fingers in his mouth.
Your jaw unhinges at the sight. Satoru Gojo is lapping at his fingers, greedily sucking and making out with them. Pale skin flushed, eyes so hazed over they could be mistaken for black, moaning like a porn star over the taste of your pussy. His other free hand comes down to palm himself over the jeans that seem way too tight for him, eyes rolling back. It was almost like he was alone, but it was you he was tasting. It was downright pornographic and depraved, and it was severely turning you on. Your body is turning into a furnace from how hot the scene made you.
This would be an image that would stick with you forever.
“Fuck you taste perfect. You are perfect.” Is he…pussy drunk?
“Satoru…are you okay?”
“Yes.” He pops the digits out of his mouth. “Gonna be better after I eat this pussy, and get her all ready and stretched for me.” Satoru’s mouth is back on you before you can do anything. If his hands hadn’t already locked your legs back into place, you surely would’ve fallen off the bike.
Satoru was starved. Lewd slurps fill the air enough to make your ears hot in embarrassment and pleasure. Satoru could’ve sworn he was in heaven.
That he ever actually got out of that hospital bed, and died right there on the table, but the very real sounds of your pretty moans, the feeling of your twitching legs around his head, the addictive taste of your wet cunt, it was all too real to be fake. So much better than all the filthy fantasies he had stored in his head for years. If the perfect rough drag of his scarred lips right before they latch to your clif again didn’t get you, then the feeling of his fingers pressing against your opening will.
“Toru, I’m s-so sensitive.” If he heard you, he didn’t say anything, instead letting out a high-pitched, muffled moan against your core that has you shutting your eyes. When those pretty fingers you’d always wished were in you instead of yours were, it takes everything in you not to ride them, as the work past the ring of muscle, stretching you so good.
Satoru is so close to cumming his pants. You’re just as fucking warm and wet as he knew you’d be, and it’s driving him insane. Well, he’d already gone insane when he watched you cum on his bike, eyes rolling back with his name on your swollen lips. If he were any less of a man, he would’ve gotten it on camera and watched it over and over again, have it etched into every part of his body until his wrist snapped in half, every fleshlight he owned was battered, and his dick fell off.
Squelch.
Squelch.
Squelch.
You had the nosiest fucking pussy, and it was making him weaker with every push of his fingers that you cunt greedily swallowed.
“Satoru, you eat it so good.” Had you even meant to say that? No, but Satoru was both so happy and angry when you said that. Happy because you couldn’t keep yourself together enough to keep those inside thoughts inside. He was eating it good; he had been practicing for this day since he found a stray thong you accidentally left at his dorm years ago. He put it on a Fleshlight and taught himself how to eat your pussy. Making his jaw ache until he knew that he’d have you crying out for him to stop because it was too good. Almost cumming in his pants the first fifteen times.
Now that’s why Satoru’s angry. All those fantasies don’t live up to the real thing. He could only imagine what you would say to him in those moments, but you’re here in real life, saying all the dirtiest words he could’ve prayed for. He knew how not to cum in his pants when practicing, but the real thing, oh, it was too much. Which is why he practically sobs into your soaked core, mouth, and fingers, desperately picking up speed to hide the way his hips pathetically fucked up into the tip of dangling foot for any kind of pressure like some ravaged animal.
“Hnng-ah fuck! Are you b-breathing?” Satoru Gojo couldn’t care less about air. He could go back on a ventilator for all he cares. He needs to make you come as soon as possible. His tongue circled your clit, desperate to hear those tantalizing sounds leave you. You were practically dripping down his wrist. When his long fingers graze that sweet spot, that’s when it unravels. “Satoru, I’m gonna-” You try to pull him away, tugging at his hair only for him to smack your hand away and push even further into you.
He needed to make you cum more than anything right now, and he’ll be damned if you don’t cum on his face after he worked so hard.
“So good, so good, so good, I’m- cumming. Satoru, I’m gonna-” Right over the edge you went again. This time, with so much intensity, you think you actually do black out. Satoru doesn’t dare let up, his eyes roll to the back of his skull, watching the thin line of drool hang from your lips as your head tilts back. Wet patch in pants growing as stream after stream of cum leaves his weeping cock right as your foot presses down in uncontrolled pleasure. Obscenely loud, moans escaping you both like you’re getting ready to fuck on camera.
It takes you, silently begging, and both of your hands to get Satoru to come off your poor, battered pussy. Neither of you says a word, just desperately staring at one another, breathing heavily. Satoru’s face is almost completely red except for the beige scars that almost look pink against his skin. Eyes low like eating, you put him in a daze. The entire lower half of his face is soaked, soft lips puffy and glistening, just begging to be kissed. Though you’re not fully down, after waves of your orgasm are still hitting you, you can’t help but lick your lips.
“Don’t.” Satoru’s voice is hoarser and deeper than it was when you two first walked in here. Something about him was laced with lust and want. It sent sparks down your body. He sounded so fuckable.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t lick your lips like that. Don’t look at me like you’re starving for me. I can’t-” He takes in a shuddering breath like he’s barely holding on before he pops up. One hand pulling you by your throat for a kiss, making you taste yourself on him, and damn, do you both taste good. Satoru’s hands are the only reason why your wobbly legs haven’t given out from underneath you.
Sloppy kisses that end with loud smacks, an inappropriate amount of whining, and the need to touch everything you could. The scene was enough to make someone look away in embarrassment. You two are stuck on each other, obsessed even. You pull away when the air supply runs out, shivers going down your body.
Have you ever been this turned on? The answer is obviously no. Even fantasizing about Satoru wasn’t enough to get you like this. Satoru has that effect on you.
“I can't resist you.” Seems you have the same effect on him. He can’t help but get a couple more small kisses in before trailing down your face again. “Are you okay?” Satoru’s voice is soft; it's almost sickening.
“I can barely feel my legs.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the end. He’s still your Satoru.
“That’s a problem.”
“I know, how am I going to walk back in there without looking stupid?” Without so much as a grunt (or a warning), you’re being lifted off your feet, body held bridal style with no ease.
“Nah, I mean you shouldn’t be able to walk at all. Guess I got to fuck that mobility out of you?” Your hand swats his chest like an impulse. Cheeks feel as if they could turn red. He makes quick steps to get inside, but before he can open the door, you stop him.
“Everyone is still inside.”
“Then they’ll get out.” He says it like it's obvious.
“Satoru.”
“I’m serious. They’ll either get out, or they’ll hear us. I don’t care about them right now.” He’s insane. That accident took all the common sense out of his head.
“Sat-” It’s too late, the garage door flies open, and you close your eyes, hoping the dark lights hide your ruined makeup, disheveled dress, and loose ponytail. The music doesn’t stop, neither does Satoru, but he does laugh.
“You can open your eyes; no one is here.” What?
You do open your eyes only to be met with the fact that a single soul is in the house. Not even any on the balcony like they were before.
“Wait, does that mean-”
“Now we really don’t have to be quiet.” Satoru doesn’t even pay attention to the empty room, circling the apartment to find his bedroom. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him, making quick strides with you in his arms before he gently tosses you on the bed. He’s almost immediately taking his clothes off, blue eyes almost glowing in the darkness of the room. Satoru practically rips his black shirt off his body before he goes for the belt.
“Wait.” His eyes widened in fear, halting immediately. “Can I take them off?” You think the question might’ve killed him because he stares at you in shock before nodding his head like an idiot. He’s rushing over to the side of the bed, and he has to hold his smile back when he watches you struggle to balance your weight on your knees.
Yeah, he needs one more round.
The moment you get your hands on the belt, it’s over. Heat zaps down Satoru’s spine. As crude as it sounds, he’s never had you this close to his dick before. He doesn’t know just how long he’d last if you were even to stare at it long enough. Before he can bring himself to tell you to stop, you’re already pulling his pants down, damp boxers on display.
“Did you-”
“Yes.” He answers embarrassingly too fast.
“You got off eating me out?” That blush creeps up Satoru’s neck all the way up to his ears.
“Yeah, I’ve gotten off from your perfume lingering in my bed.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but it makes your jaw unhinged enough to flash another sinful image through Satoru Gojo’s head. Making him visibly twitch.
“You’re such a perv, Toru.” The words are meant to be mean, but in all actuality, you’re not any better. The number of times you’ve gotten off to his cologne being stuck in your passenger side seat belt is one too many for you to admit. You shift closer, planting a kiss on his tip through his boxer, making his hips buck into your mouth.
“Don’t.”
“You can get a taste of me, but I can’t get a taste of you?” You drag your tongue across his print and the damp patch, watching his mouth drop slightly, a coy hum on your lips. “That’s unfair, don’t you think?” Toru nods dumbly, body unconsciously leaning into you. “Can I go down on you, Toru? I’ve thought about it so much.”
“Yes. Fuck yes, please.” Satoru knows this is a bad idea. He cannot cum again before he has sex with you, but as he made clear earlier, he can’t say no to you. So when you pull down his boxers only for his dick to smack right against his stomach pulling a weak moan from him, he just prays he has it in him to pull you off before he comes down your throat.
“Toru-” You’re in utter shock. Satoru’s dick is big. Not just big, it’s humongous, he’s fucking hung. No wonder he was so arrogant all the time; he had the size to back it up. “You’re so big.” There’s enough lubricant from his previous orgasm for you to stroke him comfortably.
“Fuck, you can’t say that.” He twitches in your hand as you let the spit from your mouth dribble down his oh so sensitive, bright red tip. He was so cute under your hand, slightly bucking up into your hand unknowingly.
“But you are, and it’s so pretty.” Satoru Gojo loved to be praised. Any person with working eyes could tell you that. “Need to taste it.” You don’t let him say anything before you kiss the tip, earning a soft whimper from him.
So he does whimper? Good to know.
One torturous, slow lick after the other has him clenching his fist by his side until they look like they’re going to pop. When you finally take him in your mouth, every thread in him snaps. Hands find purchase around the back of your head. He was right, you guys don’t have to worry about being quiet anymore. He’s practically moaning like a bitch in heat at every bob of your head. You’re not much better, loud slurps filling the room if it’s not your own pathetic moans around him.
“Shit! I’m- you feel so good-ahh. Hnng- please don’t stop.” Like you would ever, Satoru Gojo has you wrapped around his finger just as much as he’s wrapped around yours. You’re practically dripping all over his sheets at every thrust, gagging a moan every time he tip hits the back of your throat. Spit spilling at the corners of your lips like the Satoru only slut you are. Watching his eyes roll to the back of his head, his chest rise at a sharp breath, the way your name rolled off his tongue. It was breathtaking being the one to make Satoru Gojo fall apart like this.
Just a little more, and he’ll cum down your throat just the way you wanted. Your hand that was absent mindedly drawing rough circles on your clit, moves to cup his spit-covered balls, fondling them gently. The change made Satoru stop with a particularly rough thrust to your throat and rather loud broken whine. One hand gripping your hair with a tight lock, and the other holding your throat in place. His tilted head comes back down, his chest erratically heaving as he gives you an almost pained look.
“Don’t do that.” It’s quick, and thought it didn’t sound as assertive as it was meant to be you pause befoe pushing your luck, moving your hand again, which makes Gojo thrust forward again, a loud gag coming from you, your hand constricting your throat. His other hand knocked yours away. He looks almost lost, torn as he works your throat over him. “I’m not cumming anywhere that’s not inside of you. If you do that, I’ll cum all over your face and waste all of it. We wouldn’t want that now?”
Satoru was so close to coming that the corner of his vision started to turn fuzzy. If he hadn’t stopped when he did this night might’ve taken a different turn. Mouth still full of his cock you shake your head no, eyes hazed over in your own lust. He painfully removes himself from your mouth, cussing himself out internally the entire time. It’s taking everything in him not to pull your warm, wet, hot mouth back over here and fuck it raw.
“Take the dress off.” You scramble to pull the dress over you, moving to the middle of the bed and tossing it somewhere into the abyss. “You’re so good for me, baby. I love it.”
“Yeah?” Oh yeah, you’re gone. Who wouldn’t be looking at Satoru’s perfect body, even if all scared up, he’s still undeniably sexy. “You’re so good for me, Toru.” His weight shifts the mattress as he makes his way over to you.
“I always want to be good for my girl.” His hands grab your ankles, pulling you. towards him. “Need to fuck you good.” That fucked out look on his face is all you see before he’s pushing your hands into the mattress for another sloppy makeout. You could kiss Satoru forever. His tongue knows just what way to lock with yours in the most lewd way, like he was made to kiss you. He pulls back, grabbing the base of his dick, which his hand could barely fit around.
He slowly glides his jerky cock through your wetness, making you both twitch. Saying nothing but watching it slip through and gather more lubricants, the tip hitting your abused clit so sinfully it made your jaw drop.
“She’s so messy.” You couldn’t care less what he was babbling about right now. You just needed him to put it in already.
“Stop teasing Toruuu.” You whine only to get a cocky grin from him. He was letting up, picking up the pace, to watch you squirm.
“You want it that bad-oh.” All that squirming managed to slip the tip in, stopping you both. The smile is wiped clean off his face. Instead, one of awe replaces it as he watches himself fuck the same inch into you, sensitive head trapped between your warm, gummy, wet walls. “You- you- feel so-”
“Yeah, bet it would be better if you actually fucked me.” His eyes meet yours with a hard glare.
“Count.”
“What- oh my god.” Your mouth forms a ‘o’ as he sinks more into you.
“Count. C’mon, my smart girl can tell me how. How many inches are in her right?”
“T-Two.”
“There we go.” He pushes in more, holding back on his bodily urges that are telling him to quit with all the teasing, but he can’t.
Three follows with four, five with six, and by the time you’re at the last two inches, you’re practically shaking. There’s a line of drool hanging from Satoru’s mouth like he’s gone completely brain dead, eyes not disconnecting from where you two meet, like he’s hypnotized.
He is hypnotized.
“Just two more, baby.”
“Eight-ngh Satoru, please. I can’t!” Your body burned at the stretch. No one’s been as big as Toru.
“No. You can.” You let out a high-pitched whine when he finally bottoms out.
“Nine! Fuck Satoru, I’m so full.” Those words bounce off deaf ears. Satoru is falling off this plane of existence; the only thing keeping him grounded is the clench of your core around him, sending shivers down his spine. When he doesn’t move, you call his name, only to hear a muffled moan into your neck. It takes pulling him out of your neck to see what’s happening, finally.
He’s so fucked out he’s not comprehending right. His blue eyes are crossed in pleasure, line of spit rolling down to his thick neck, shaking body completely flushed red.
“Pussy so good. It’s gonna kill me.”
“Toru, I need you to move.”
“I can’t. Need a second. It’s too good.”
“Toru, please, I want you to fuck me. Need you to fill me up.” It’s those words that put Satoru out of his daze, or at least his body out of its daze. His hips roll into yours with a sinfully quick pace. His hands roam your body, trying to find something to feel.
“Want me to cum inside?” He grumbles in your ear with another fast snap of his hips. “Want me to fuck you full?” You nod as best as you can, mouth hanging open with pathetic noises coming from you, and another lewd squelch comes from you. “I think this pretty pussy wants that too. Just listen to her.”
Nothing but the nasty wet smacks filling the room makes your ears burn.
Plap, Plap, Plap.
“She’s practically begging me to pump her full of my cum. She’s so good. She’s so fucking addictive. So much better than anything I’ve used.” You’re half paying attention to him. More focused on how deep his dick is in you. Every thrust feels like the air is getting snatched from you in the best way. Besides, you’re not too far behind him in sounding incoherent.
“Toru, it’s so deep-ngh. I-hic” Were you crying? “Fuck don’t stop. Please don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it. Your pussy is so good to me, you’re so good to me.” One of his hands comes down, forcing your legs to wrap around his shoulders. “I need to fill you. Need to fuck you good. Need it. Need it. Fuck I need it.” The new angle, the stretch, the pressure, it has you seeing stars, and when Satoru hits that one spot, your entire body tenses.
Something’s different.
“Oh my god, Satoru!”
“Right there?” He whines out, head reeling back every time he hits that spongy spot inside. You nod, fat tears rolling down your body, it’s almost too much, but before you can even think about Toru’s already pinning your hips. “Don’t you dare think about running from me. Waited too long for this, for you.” Each bed shaking brutal smack brings you closer, but something is different.
More intense, it’s deeper. It makes your entire body tremble.
“Sssatoru I- something feels-”
“Nuh-uh. That’s not my name.” Fuck he’s hitting it so good you may not be able to tell him. Your back is starting to arch in, tasting your release, which makes your vision come in and out.
“Baby! Something’s different! I’m-” Your cut off entirely by the smack of Satoru’s fingers against your clit, making you jolt in pleasure. You’re so close.
“Don’t call me that. That’s not what you call me. You want to cum, you want me to fill you up so good you’ll be dripping me for days? Then you call me by- FUCK-” Your cunt clenches around him, making his head pop from your ear to the air, making him look at you. He’s just like you—unfocused eyes, pathetic moaning, completely fucked out and pussydrunk to your dickmatized. “You-you call me by my name.”
“T-t-t-” You’re right there.
“C’mon, be good for me and say it.”
“Toru! I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna-” His fingers come down in a harsh rub of your throbbing clit, and you’re gone. Your warning is a faded memory of the past, as the tremors of your orgasm take over. Vision completely gone, ears ringing, in what is the strongest orgasm of your life, given to you by none other than your childhood best friend.
“Oh, my god.” Satoru watches you spray the entirety of the sheets beneath you, his hand, lower stomach, and most importantly, his cock. Never in his wildest dreams did he think watching the girl he loves the most squirt all over would happen, but when it does, it hits him like a bag of bricks. Making him cum so hard he slumps forward, letting out the most pornographic cries, eyes almost shut as he watches his seed mix in with your cum, and it sends lightning down his spine. “It won’t stop.” He doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but you still haven’t stopped. He fucks you through it, almost losing his fucking mind doing so, house full of sounds that would surely get him a noise complaint.
When you both come down from the mutual orgasms, neither of you dares to move an inch. Both of you are still shaking too hard to be fully conscious. It’s only when that tear hits your stomach that you start to come back. Satoru’s head is down, in shoulder trembling just like you.
“Toru?”
“Don’t move. I can’t- don’t move, please.” He sounded so weak, it damn near made your heart clench. “Listen, baby.” You almost yelp at the overstimulation when Satoru gives a few weak, shallow thrusts. A popping squelch rings through the room. “Sounds so beautiful.”
“Satoru, come here.” He doesn’t hesitate, meeting your lips one more time, with the shakiest and sweetest kisses of the night. He gently pulls out, and you groan at the big loss. Missing the fill now that it’s gone. How were you ever going to get anything done now that you know what sex with the love of your life feels like? His head falls to your shoulder, making sure to keep his weight off you. It’s silent for a little while, you two bathe in the post-sex afterglow, until the question in the air rings too loud in your mind. “So what does this mean for us?”
“Don’t ask such dumb questions.”
“I’m serious-”
“I am too. You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Whether that's you being my girlfriend or, preferably, my wife, you’re here to stay. I’m here to stay. We’ve spent too much time avoiding the obvious to be picky about what we are now. We’re in love. Simple.” His arms sling around you, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body felt grounding.
“I love you, Toru.” You declare for the umpteenth time.
“I love you, Y/N.”
It’s your phone that wakes you up from your deep sleep with your boyfriend(?) at what had to be noon.
“Satoru.” You grumble against his chest, refusing to open your eyes.
“Ignore it.” He makes no effort to move. The ringtone faded for all of three seconds before it blares up again, making you sigh.
“I got it.” He pulls you against him again, weakly trying to hold you back. “Toru.”
“Fine.” He rolls over, allowing you to crawl over him to grab the blaring phone, but not before smacking your ass as you bend to do so. You shoot him a dirty look, and he shrugs. “What? It’s great ass, and it’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah, baby, that’s my ass, that's my pussy, that’s my heart, you’re my girl.” You have to bite back a smile at his words. The thought of finally being Satoru’s girl makes your chest all fuzzy.
“So does that mean that’s my dick and my heart?”
“You know it. Now I highly suggest you answer that phone, or else I’ll show you what else your dick can do.” You scoff, but it’s clear by the way your nipples perk up that you’re turned on. Satoru pulls you on top of him, pressing his half-hard dick against your bare cunt. Disregarding who can hear you two, as he kisses down your bare body. You press the accept button before you have half the mind to ride him and show him what his pussy can do.
“Hello?”
“Oh. My. God.” Geto and Shoko’s voices flood the other side of the phone. “This was better than we could’ve imagined.”
“What are you two going on about?” Satoru looks up at you through his pretty lashes, a confused look on his face.
“We called Satoru, not you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Please tell me you two have finally sorted things out. I was plastered by the time Geto was kicking everyone out of the house.”
“I think they did more than just sort it out. I’m never touching that motorcycle again.” Your jaw drops in horror before Satoru grabs the phone from your hands.
“You two really need to get a life.” You make out the words “dumbass” on the other end of the phone. “Uh-huh. Anyway, I got some time to make up for. I'll talk to guys later.” He tosses the phone to the other side of the bed, pulling you closer to him. “Good afternoon, baby.” You giggle at his antics, heart swelling with joy. Everything feels perfect.
“Good afternoon, Toru.”
A/N: I wrote this over the cycle of two ovulation cycles...no regrets! I'm hella rusty too, this might be a mess potench. Also, this wasn't proofread... so my bad!
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: ongoing - march 2026
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, sexual assault, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.
masterlist
CHAPTER ONE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWO
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THREE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOUR
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, implied sexual assault, fight with zuko, zuko is kind of a prick ngl, protective aang, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SIX
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, blood, stab wound, cauterization, lots of fire, a little tension, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, slight panic attack, a very bad injury (not detailed), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
You’re curled up on the couch with Caleb, his warmth seeping into your side as you both watch a mukbang show on TV.
Your legs are draped across his lap, his strong fingers working mindlessly at your calf muscles while his eyes remain fixed on the screen.
It feels normal, domestic—as if the past week never happened, as if he hadn’t reduced you to a trembling, wet mess just hours ago.
“This one’s good,” Caleb murmurs, his thumb pressing into a knot in your muscle that makes you bite your lip. “See how she arranges everything before starting? That’s dedication.”
You nod, watching the woman on screen meticulously organize her feast—steaming bowls of ramen, platters of dumplings, side dishes in perfect formation. Her long nails tap against the ceramic as she explains each item in detail.
Caleb’s hands slide higher, working up to your knee, then your thigh.
The movement seems unconscious on his part, his attention fully captured by the show. His fingers knead and press with just the right pressure, finding tension you didn’t know you were carrying.
It‘s been like this all day—casual touches, lingering glances, as if he’s constantly checking that you’re still there, still his.
The mukbanger on screen lifts a tangle of noodles high above her bowl, the broth dripping in golden rivulets back into the ceramic.
She slurps them with theatrical enthusiasm, her eyes closing in exaggerated bliss as the soup splashes against her chin.
“God, that looks good,” Caleb says, his voice roughening slightly. “Should we order something like that for dinner?”
But you barely hear him. The sight of her lips wrapped around those noodles, the slurping sound amplified by the microphone, has triggered something in your memory.
Suddenly, you’re not seeing the woman on screen anymore—you’re seeing Caleb’s face between your thighs.
Heat floods your cheeks as the memory crystallizes. Caleb tasting you. All of you. Even your...
The thought makes you squirm slightly in your seat.
He’d said you tasted sweet, but you hadn’t believed him. How could you, when part of what he’d tasted was your piss?
Caleb’s thumb presses into a tender spot on your inner thigh, jolting you from your thoughts. His eyes remain on the screen, but his touch feels more deliberate now, his fingers working higher.
The mukbanger slurps another mouthful, making exaggerated sounds of enjoyment. “Mmm, so good, so delicious,” she moans, and the sound is so close to sexual it makes your skin prickle.
What did I taste like? The question bubbles up from nowhere, insistent and demanding. You try to push it down, embarrassed by your own curiosity, but it won’t go away.
Caleb’s fingers travel higher still, massaging the sensitive flesh where thigh meets hip.
His touch is innocent enough—he’s been massaging you like this for years, a habit born from your complaints about sore muscles after classes when you were younger.
The mukbanger lifts her bowl to her lips, drinking the broth directly. “The flavor is so rich,” she says, licking her lips. “Like nothing else in the world.”
Your mouth goes dry. That’s what Caleb had said about you—that you tasted sweet, perfect. But he must have been caught up in the moment. No one could possibly enjoy the taste of... that.
The question sits heavy on your tongue, demanding to be asked. You glance sideways at Caleb, studying his profile.
His jaw is relaxed, his eyes half-lidded as he watches the screen with absent interest, hands still working your muscles on autopilot.
He looks so normal, so everyday Caleb, that it’s hard to reconcile this image with the hungry, desperate man who’d licked his fingers clean after touching you this morning.
Before you can lose your nerve, you nudge him with your knee.
Caleb jumps slightly, his head whipping toward you with startled eyes. For a split second, tension radiates from him—the instinctive reaction of a soldier to unexpected contact—before recognition softens his features.
“What’s up, Pips?” he asks, his hands stilling on your leg.
You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly shy. The question feels too intimate, too weird, even after everything you’ve done together.
Caleb’s eyes dart to the TV, then back to you, misunderstanding your hesitation. “You want something like that?” he asks, nodding toward the screen where the woman is now slurping another mouthful of noodles. “I could order from that new ramen place on Eighth.”
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I’m not hungry.” At least, not for food.
His eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued by your obvious discomfort. “Then what is it?” When you don’t immediately answer, he shifts on the couch, turning to face you more fully.
His hand slides from your thigh to your knee, squeezing gently. “Hey, you know you can ask me anything, right? What’s bothering you?”
“It’s stupid,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to your lap.
“Nothing you want to know is stupid,” he counters, his voice softening into that tone he uses only with you—patient, encouraging, like he has all the time in the world for your questions. “Come on, Pips. What is it?”
You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Caleb waits, his thumb rubbing small circles against your knee, a gesture meant to soothe that only heightens your awareness of his touch.
“You promised,” you finally say, still not meeting his eyes. “You said there was nothing you wouldn’t tell me or teach me.”
His expression shifts, something dark and hungry flashing behind his eyes before he masters it. “I did promise that,” he agrees, voice dropping lower. “And I meant it.”
The mukbanger on screen laughs, the sound jarring in the sudden tension between you. Caleb reaches for the remote without looking, silencing the TV with a click that feels final, momentous.
“Tell me what you want to know,” he says, and it’s not quite a request.
You take a deep breath, gathering your courage. It’s just a question. A weird, embarrassing question, but still just words. And this is Caleb. Your ge ge. The man who’s seen all of you—literally—and still looks at you like you’re precious.
“Okay,” you whisper, heart hammering against your ribs. "Caleb... what did I taste like?”
The question hangs in the air between you, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t believe you actually asked it, that the words escaped your lips.
Heat blooms across your cheeks, spreading down your neck as you force yourself to meet his gaze.
For a moment, Caleb just stares at you, purple eyes widening slightly, mouth parting in surprise. It’s rare to catch him off guard like this.
His grip on your leg tightens fractionally. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows, processing your question.
“What did you taste like,” he repeats slowly, not quite a question.
His voice has dropped half an octave, taking on that rough quality that makes your stomach flutter.
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak again. Now that the question is out there, you feel ridiculous, childish.
But you need to know.
Caleb’s eyes narrow, studying you with such intensity that you want to look away.
“Why do you want to know?” he asks finally, head tilting with genuine curiosity.
The words tumble out before you can stop them. “I know you said I tasted sweet, but I don‘t believe you. You weren’t thinking clearly.” Your fingers twist in the fabric of your shirt. “I mean, I peed on your bed, Caleb. That can’t have tasted... good.”
His expression turns serious, almost academic, like he’s considering how to explain a complex topic to a student.
“You think I lied to you?” There’s no accusation in his tone, just quiet inquiry.
“Not lied exactly,” you hedge, squirming under his steady gaze. “Maybe... exaggerated? In the moment?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You think I was too caught up to notice what you actually tasted like?”
“Something like that,” you mumble, wishing you’d never brought it up.
Caleb shifts on the couch, turning more fully toward you. His hand slides up your thigh to rest on your hip, the touch casual but possessive in a way that makes your breath catch.
“You really want to know?” he asks, and now there’s a hint of something playful in his expression, a teasing light in his eyes. “The full, unfiltered truth?”
“Yes,” you say, lifting your chin slightly in defiance. “I want to know exactly what it was like.”
He hums thoughtfully, his thumb tracing small circles against your hip bone. “It‘s an interesting question, actually. Not many people stop to analyze the experience in such detail.”
The approach surprises you. You’d expected him to brush it off or make a joke, but he seems genuinely engaged with your query, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to discuss how your bodily fluids tasted on his tongue.
“Let me think about this properly,” he continues, gaze drifting upward as if searching his memory. I want to give you an accurate answer.”
His deliberate pause stretches on, and you realize he’s dragging this out intentionally, enjoying your discomfort, your anticipation.
“Caleb,” you prompt, nudging him with your knee.
His eyes snap back to yours, a smile playing at his lips. “Getting impatient?”
You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat burning your cheeks. “If you don’t want to answer—“
“I do,” he interrupts, his hand tightening on your hip. “I’m just trying to find the right words. It’s not something easy to describe.”
His expression grows thoughtful again. “It’s like explaining color to someone who’s never seen it, or music to someone who’s never heard it. The experience is... multi-sensory.”
The way he’s treating this—with such consideration, such seriousness—makes your embarrassment begin to fade, replaced by genuine curiosity.
“But if I had to put it into words,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “I’d say you were mostly tangy. Sharp, but not unpleasant. There was a hint of bitterness from the pee—“ He says this without flinching, as matter-of-fact as if discussing the weather. “—but it wasn’t strong. Your body was well-hydrated, so it was diluted.”
Your face burns hotter than ever, but you can’t look away from his eyes, which have darkened as he speaks, pupils dilating slightly.
“And your cum,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue like something precious, “that was sweet. Not sugary-sweet like candy, but... potent. Rich. Like honey but more complex.”
His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, resting just below your navel. The touch is gentle but possessive, his palm hot through the thin fabric of your shirt.
“There was salt too,” he adds, his gaze never leaving yours. “From your sweat, from your skin.”
His thumb brushes back and forth across your stomach, the movement hypnotic. “It’s like... have you ever tasted something that felt like it was doing you good? Not just delicious but nourishing? Healing?”
You narrow your eyes, ready to call bullshit on Caleb’s flowery description.
Medicine that could cure anything in the world? That’s laying it on a bit thick, even for him.
Your lips part, skepticism ready to spill out—when Caleb’s face suddenly contorts.
Without warning, he coughs loudly, directly in your face, the sound startlingly sharp in the quiet room. You feel the tiny spray of saliva hit your cheeks, and for a moment, you’re too shocked to react.
“What the hell, Caleb!” you sputter, shoving at his chest with both hands. The intimate tension of moments ago shatters, replaced by indignant disgust. “That’s disgusting!”
Caleb rocks back with your push, but instead of apologizing, his face twists into an even more exaggerated grimace. He coughs again, louder this time, one hand flying to his throat in a theatrical gesture.
“Sorry,” he wheezes, not sounding sorry at all. His lips twitch, betraying the laugh he’s fighting to contain. “I think I’m—“ Another hacking cough cuts off his words. “—coming down with something.”
You can’t help but laugh at his ridiculous display, even as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand. “You’re such a child. Cover your mouth!”
Instead of heeding your advice, Caleb launches into a full-blown coughing fit, each hack more dramatic than the last. He pounds his chest with his fist, eyes watering with the force of his performance.
“I think—“ He pauses to release another theatrical cough. “—I might be dying.”
“Stop it!” You‘re laughing now, unable to maintain your outrage in the face of his absurdity. “You‘re not dying, you’re just disgusting.”
Caleb slumps against the couch, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead like a Victorian lady with the vapors. “No, this is it. The end for me. Tell Gran I loved her chicken soup. Tell the squadron my last thoughts were of proper formation flying.”
You roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible to resist, you mean,” he corrects, breaking character for a second to flash you that cocky grin before doubling over in another fit of exaggerated coughing.
Each fake hack grows weaker, more pitiful, until he’s just making soft wheezing sounds. Slowly, deliberately, he begins to lean toward you, his substantial weight pressing against your side.
“What are you doing?” you ask, trying to maintain your stern expression despite the laughter bubbling in your throat.
“Too weak,” he gasps, slumping further until his head rests on your shoulder. “Can’t... sit up... on my own.”
His weight increases gradually as he lets more and more of his body collapse against yours. Despite his lean build, Caleb is solid muscle, and soon you’re struggling to hold him upright, pinned between his body and the arm of the couch.
“Caleb!” you protest, pushing ineffectually at his chest. “You’re crushing me!”
His only response is another pathetic cough, his face sliding from your shoulder to the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, raising goosebumps along your collarbone.
“Need... medicine,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. “Dying man’s... last request.”
The theatrical coughing gradually subsides, replaced by something else—a deliberate inhale, his nose pressed against the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s sniffing you, you realize with a start, drawing in your scent with slow, deep breaths.
“Are you... smelling me?” you ask, torn between laughing and recoiling.
“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your throat. He inhales again, more deeply this time. “You smell so good. Like sunshine. And happiness.”
His nose traces a path from just below your ear down to your collarbone, each breath tickling your skin.
“That tickles,” you protest weakly, squirming under his weight.
Caleb responds by nuzzling closer, his stubble scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck.
Another fake cough, this one soft and directly against your pulse point, followed by an exaggerated sniffle.
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from your chest, your hands coming up to push at his shoulders. When he doesn’t budge, your fingers find his hair instead, tugging gently in reprimand.
“You’re the worst patient ever,” you tell him, still pulling at his dark strands.
The moment your fingers tighten in his hair, something changes. Caleb goes very still against you, his breathing shifting from exaggerated wheezes to something deeper, more controlled.
When he speaks again, the playful wheeze is gone, replaced by a low rumble that you feel more than hear.
“I think I might need more of that medicine.”
His words vibrate against your skin, and you freeze, fingers still tangled in his hair.
“Medicine?” you repeat, your voice embarrassingly high.
Caleb pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with renewed hunger. The fake illness is gone, replaced by something far more genuine—a need that burns in his purple irises, turning them nearly black.
“Your taste,” he clarifies, one hand coming up to trace your jawline with feather-light fingers. “The cure for anything that ails me, remember?”
Your mouth goes dry at his directness, at the naked want in his expression.
“You’re not really sick,” you point out, trying to regain some equilibrium.
Caleb’s smile is slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “But I want the medicine anyway.”
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, making his meaning unmistakable. The hand not occupied with your face slides down to rest on your hip, warm and heavy with promise.
“What do you say, Pips?” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips hover just above yours. “You want to be my healer right? Make me feel alright?”
Caleb’s voice is low and persuasive, his breath warm against your lips. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, squeezing gently.
“Come on, Pips. You’re curious too, aren’t you? Want to see if it tastes different now?”
There’s something hypnotic in his tone, in the steady pressure of his fingers against your flesh. His purple eyes hold yours, refusing to let you look away as he makes his case. “Just a taste. For medical purposes.”
A laugh bubbles up from your chest, breaking some of the tension. “Medical purposes? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
His answering smile is wolfish, predatory. “I’m a sick man, Y/N.” His thumb traces small circles on your inner thigh, each pass bringing him closer to the junction of your legs. “Only one cure in the world for what ails me.”
If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re curious too. Curious if it will feel as good as last time, curious what his mouth will feel like on your bare cunt.
“Okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible.
Caleb’s eyes widen slightly, as if he hadn‘t expected you to agree so easily. “Yeah?”
Instead of answering, you reach for the waistband of your pajama pants. Your hands tremble slightly with a combination of nerves and anticipation, but you don’t stop. In one fluid movement, you lift your hips and push the soft fabric down your legs.
Caleb’s breath catches audibly. “Pips—“
You kick the pants away, leaving you in just your t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties—pale orange with a small bow at the front. Nothing fancy or seductive, just everyday underwear that suddenly feels incredibly revealing under his heated gaze.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you shift on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and spreading your legs in invitation.
“Is this what you wanted?” you ask, your voice steadier than you expected.
Caleb doesn’t answer. He seems frozen in place, his eyes fixed between your spread thighs where your panties do little to conceal the shape of you.
A muscle jumps in his jaw as he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.
You’ve never seen him like this—speechless, almost dazed. Caleb, who always has a quip ready, who’s never at a loss for words, stares at you like a man hypnotized.
A thin line of saliva connects his parted lips, and you realize with a jolt of something like pride that he’s literally drooling at the sight of you.
“Ge ge?” you prompt, suddenly uncertain in the face of his silence.
The familiar endearment seems to break his trance. His gaze drags up from between your legs to meet your eyes, and the raw hunger you find there makes your breath catch.
“You,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “are going to be the death of me.”
Before you can respond, he’s moving, crawling up the couch toward you with predatory grace. His large hands wrap around your ankles, sliding up your calves in a slow caress that leaves goosebumps in their wake.
He positions himself between your spread legs, his broad shoulders forcing them wider to accommodate him.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands continuing their journey up your legs to your thighs. “So perfect for me.”
You watch, breath quickening, as Caleb lowers himself onto his stomach, his face level with your knees. His eyes never leave yours as he presses a kiss to one kneecap, then the other, the touch feather-light and achingly tender.
“Been thinking about this all day,” he confesses, kissing his way up your inner thigh. “About how you taste, how you feel on my tongue.”
Each press of his lips sends a tiny shiver through you, building anticipation as he works his way higher.
His palms slide under your thighs, lifting them slightly to give him better access, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks.
When his mouth reaches the crease where thigh meets hip, you can’t help the small sound that escapes you—part anticipation, part plea.
Caleb smiles against your skin, a flash of teeth that’s almost feral before he continues his journey, now kissing down the center of your body.
His lips brush over your lower belly, just above the waistband of your panties. He takes his time, mapping the terrain of your body with his mouth as if committing it to memory.
Finally, his mouth hovers over the front of your panties. You can feel his breath, hot and damp through the thin cotton, raising goosebumps across your skin. He pauses there, looking up the length of your body to meet your eyes once more.
“I want to remember this,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “The way you look right now, spread out for me. So brave. So perfect.”
Before you can respond, he lowers his head, pressing his nose against the center of your panties and inhaling deeply.
The sound he makes—a groan that seems torn from somewhere deep inside him—sends heat rushing through your veins.
“Even better than this morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling against you through the fabric. His tongue darts out, tracing a line up the center seam of your panties. “Already wet for me.”
You hadn’t realized until he mentioned it, but he’s right—there’s a dampness gathering between your legs, your body responding to his attention with eager anticipation.
“Taste me,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the demand.
Caleb’s eyes flash with approval. His hands tighten on your thighs, and then his mouth is on you, open and hot through the thin barrier of your panties.
His tongue presses against the fabric, seeking the shape of you beneath, licking a broad stroke from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex.
You twitch beneath him, caught off guard by the pleasure that spirals outward from his touch. Your thighs tense, instinctively trying to close against the overwhelming feeling, but Caleb holds them firmly open, his strength easily overpowering yours.
“That’s it,” he encourages between licks. “Let me make you feel good. Let me have my medicine.”
You don’t know where this sudden bravery came from—this willingness to spread yourself before him, to demand his touch.
Maybe you’re ovulating, hormones making you bolder, hungrier.
Or maybe it’s just Caleb, the way he looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had, the way he touches you like you’re something precious.
Caleb’s arms snake around your thighs like vines, pulling you closer to his mouth with unexpected strength.
His hands slide beneath your ass, lifting you slightly off the couch to give himself better access. His eyes close as he presses his open mouth against your center, no longer just tasting but devouring, making out with your covered pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have.
“Oh,” you gasp, the sound high and breathy as his tongue works against you through the thin cotton.
The wet heat of his mouth seeps through the fabric, creating a strange contrast of sensations—the softness of his tongue, the slight roughness of the cotton, the building pressure of his insistent mouth.
Caleb growls against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. His lips move against your covered folds, sucking and licking with increasing hunger.
The cotton of your panties, already damp with your arousal, grows saturated under his attention. You can hear the wet sounds of his mouth working against the fabric, obscene and thrilling in the quiet room.
His saliva mingles with your own moisture, creating a soaked patch that clings to your flesh, revealing the shape of your folds through the now-translucent material.
“Fuck,” Caleb mumbles against you, the curse muffled by your flesh and fabric. “So good, Pips. So fucking good.”
His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you even closer, grinding your center against his face.
The pressure makes you cry out, your back arching involuntarily as pleasure spirals outward from where his tongue presses against your clit through the soaked barrier.
Time seems to slow as Caleb loses himself in the act, his world narrowed to the taste and feel of you against his mouth.
He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue that cover your entire center and focused attention on your clit, sucking it through the fabric with pressure that makes your toes curl.
Something changes in his rhythm, his movements becoming more deliberate. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at your panties, now dark with moisture and clinging to every contour of your intimate flesh.
“You taste different,” he says, voice rough with desire. He leans in again, this time pressing his nose directly against your center and inhaling deeply. “Sweeter. Stronger.”
You blink down at him, confused by the observation. “What do you mean?”
Instead of answering, Caleb dives back in, his tongue tracing the outline of your labia through the wet fabric.
He moans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.
“It‘s like...” he pulls back again, licking his lips as if savoring a fine wine. “Like everything about you just got turned up. More intense. More you.”
His eyes open, fixing you with a stare so hungry it makes your breath catch. “And so fucking sweet. Like honey but... sharper. More potent.”
You don‘t understand what he’s talking about, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re some rare delicacy he’s discovered—makes heat bloom in your cheeks and between your legs.
Caleb inhales again, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. Something shifts in his expression, a dawning realization that transforms his features into something almost predatory.
“You’re ovulating,” he says, and it’s not a question but a revelation. His pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the purple of his irises. “That‘s why you taste different. Why you smell so good.”
Caleb’s breathing grows more ragged, his hands tightening on your flesh as if he’s fighting to maintain control.
“Your body’s getting ready,” he continues, voice dropping to a register you’ve never heard from him before—something primal and raw. “Ready to be bred. To be filled.”
The words sent a pulse of heat directly to your core, your inner walls clenching around nothing as your body responds to his voice, his words.
Caleb seems equally affected by the realization.
Something wild flashes in his eyes, a feral hunger that transforms his familiar features into something almost animalistic.
Without warning, he grips the sides of your panties, and instead of sliding them down your legs, he bares his teeth and tugs.
The fabric stretches, then gives, tearing slightly at the seam as he pulls it away from your body with his teeth.
He works the panties down your legs with a combination of hands and teeth, his movements urgent and clumsy with need.
When he finally gets them off, he doesn’t toss them aside. Instead, he holds them up, examining the soaked crotch with naked fascination.
You watch, transfixed, as he brings the wet fabric to his face, pressing it against his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes close in apparent bliss, a low groan rumbling from his chest.
“Fuck, Pips,” he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at you through the tangle of your ruined underwear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Before you can respond, he opens his mouth and sucks the saturated crotch of your panties between his lips.
His eyes roll back slightly, his expression one of such intense pleasure it’s almost painful to witness. He sucks at the fabric, drawing out your taste with obscene slurping sounds.
Without the barrier of your panties, the air feels cool against your wet flesh, raising goosebumps across your skin.
“I’m getting cold,” you complain softly, though the heat building inside you contradicts your words.
Caleb’s eyes snap open, focusing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.
For a moment, he looks torn, clearly reluctant to part with the soaked garment in his mouth. Then, with visible effort, he pulls the panties free, giving them one last, lingering look before folding them carefully and tucking them into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“Saving those for later,” he explains, his voice a low growl that sends another shiver through you—this one having nothing to do with the temperature.
Before you can process the implications of that statement, Caleb is moving again, returning to his position between your legs.
But this time, there’s no barrier between his mouth and your flesh, nothing to mute the sensation of his hot breath against your exposed center.
His large hands slide beneath your thighs, pushing them wider as he settles on his stomach, your pussy splayed out before him like a feast he intends to devour completely.
“Keep yourself open for me,” Caleb commands, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide from your thighs to your knees, pushing them wider. “Show me all of you.”
When you hesitate, unsure of what he means, his gaze darkens. “Your pussy, Pips. Spread your folds for me. I want to see everything.”
With trembling fingers, you reach down, placing your hands on either side of your center. The position feels obscenely vulnerable—holding yourself open for his inspection like some kind of offering.
You’ve never touched yourself like this before, never examined your own body with such deliberate attention. The unfamiliarity makes your movements clumsy, uncertain.
“Like this?” you ask, voice small as you part your outer lips slightly.
Caleb’s breath catches, his eyes fixed on your fingers. “More,” he instructs, the single word tight with restraint. “Show me everything, baby. Don’t be shy.”
Swallowing your embarrassment, you press your fingers deeper, spreading yourself fully beneath his hungry gaze.
The cool air hits your exposed flesh, making you shiver. You can feel how wet you are, your arousal gathering in slick droplets at your entrance, threatening to spill onto the couch beneath you.
In the harsh afternoon light filtering through the curtains, you can see everything—and so can Caleb.
Your pussy is swollen with arousal, the delicate pink flesh shiny with your wetness. Your opening pulses visibly under his stare, clenching around nothing as if seeking his touch.
Your clit peeks from beneath its hood, engorged and sensitive even to the slight breeze of Caleb’s exhales.
“Perfect,” he breathes, the word reverent. “So fucking perfect.”
Your fingers quiver with the strain of holding yourself open, with the overwhelming vulnerability of being displayed so completely.
No one has ever seen you like this—spread wide, exposed to the light, every secret part of you revealed for inspection.
Caleb seems transfixed by the sight, his eyes darting from your entrance to your clit, mapping every fold and crease with his gaze. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a unconscious gesture that makes your core clench again.
“Caleb,” you whisper, his name half plea, half question.
Something breaks in his expression—the last threads of his control snapping visibly as hunger overtakes him. Without another word, he dives forward, no longer able to resist the temptation you present.
The first touch of his mouth against your bare flesh draws a cry from your throat—sharp and surprised despite your anticipation.
Without the barrier of fabric, the sensation is overwhelming, his tongue hot and slick against your sensitive folds.
Caleb wastes no time with gentle exploration. He attacks your pussy with the desperation of a starving man, his nose nudging against your clit as his tongue circles your entrance.
His hands wrap around your thighs again, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he holds you open for his feast.
“So sweet,” he mumbles against you, the words vibrating through your core. “Fucking delicious.”
His tongue flattens, dragging up the length of your slit in a broad stroke that collects your arousal. You watch, transfixed, as he pulls back just far enough to visibly savor your taste, his eyes closing briefly in apparent ecstasy before diving back for more.
The sight of his dark head between your pale thighs, his mouth working eagerly against your most intimate flesh, is almost as arousing as the physical sensation.
His technique shifts, becomes more focused as he learns your body’s responses. When a particular flick of his tongue against your clit makes you gasp, he repeats the motion, cataloging your reactions.
Just as you’re growing accustomed to the rhythm of his mouth against your folds, you feel a new sensation—pressure at your entrance, firm and insistent.
Caleb’s tongue, you realize with a jolt of surprise, is pushing inside you. The intrusion is foreign but not unwelcome, your body yielding easily to his probing muscle.
You’ve never felt anything like it—the strange, slick pressure of his tongue wiggling deeper, tasting you from the inside.
“Oh god,” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from where his face is pressed so firmly against you that you wonder how he can breathe. “Caleb, that’s—“
He doesn’t respond verbally, just pushes his tongue deeper, curling it upward in a way that makes your thighs tremble.
The muscle is strong, more dexterous than you would have imagined, massaging your inner walls with determined strokes.
Each thrust of his tongue sends new waves of pleasure through you, building a pressure at the base of your spine that feels both familiar and more intense than what you experienced this morning.
His nose continues to bump against your clit with each movement, adding another layer of stimulation that makes coherent thought increasingly difficult.
The sensation is too much, too good. You release your grip on your cunt, your hands flying to Caleb’s hair instead. Your fingers tangle in the dark strands, tugging perhaps harder than you intend as pleasure overwhelms your coordination.
Caleb groans at the pull, the vibration traveling through his tongue and into your core. Far from discouraging him, your grip on his hair seems to spur him on. His tongue withdraws only to plunge deeper, fucking into you with increasing urgency.
Unable to close your thighs against the overwhelming sensation, you find yourself moving in a different way—lifting your hips to meet his thrusting tongue, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose. The movement is instinctive, your body seeking more of the pleasure he offers.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, the words barely recognizable through your gasping breaths. “Please, please don’t stop.”
Your hips move with increasing urgency, rubbing yourself against his face with abandoned need.
Some distant part of you wonders if you‘re being too rough, if you’re making it hard for him to breathe, but Caleb shows no signs of discomfort or desire to pull away.
If anything, his grip on your thighs tightens further, encouraging your movements as his tongue continues its relentless exploration of your depths.
You ride his face without shame now, chasing the building pressure that promises relief. His tongue feels impossibly deep inside you, touching places you didn’t know could be reached, while his nose provides steady pressure against your throbbing clit.
Caleb’s rhythm suddenly falters, his eager movements growing erratic. He pulls back with a gasp, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air.
His chin and lips glisten with your arousal, his eyes still dark with hunger despite his obvious need for oxygen. You whimper at the loss of contact, your body strung tight on the edge of release.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, trying to guide his head back between your thighs with your grip on his hair. “Please, I’m so close.”
“Just need a second,” Caleb rasps, voice rough from exertion. He rolls his shoulders, tilting his head from side to side. The motion produces an audible crack that makes you wince in sympathy. “This angle is killing my neck.”
You hadn’t considered the mechanics of what he was doing, how uncomfortable it must be to lay on his stomach, neck craned upward for so long. Guilt mingles with your frustration, cooling the edge of your desire.
“We can stop if you—“ you begin, but Caleb cuts you off with a sharp look.
“I didn’t say I wanted to stop.” His tongue darts out, licking his lips as if savoring the taste of you that lingers there. “I just need a better position.”
Before you can suggest alternatives, Caleb moves with sudden, decisive strength. His hands grip your hips, and in one fluid motion, he falls back onto the couch, dragging you with him.
You barely have time to register what’s happening—the room tilting, your body moving through space—before you find yourself straddling his chest, facing his feet.
“Caleb!” you gasp, disoriented by the sudden change. “What are you—“
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands slide to your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing at all.
For a surreal moment, you‘re suspended in air, knees no longer touching the couch, entirely supported by Caleb’s strong grip.
Then he’s pulling you backward, positioning you directly above his face.
“Wait,” you stammer, understanding dawning as he guides your knees to either side of his head. “Are you sure this is—“
Again, he doesn’t let you finish. With firm pressure, he pulls you down until your core makes contact with his eager mouth.
The new angle sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharper and more intense than before. From this position, your weight presses you more firmly against his tongue, deepening the contact in ways that make your breath catch.
“Oh,” you breathe, the single syllable inadequate to express the sensation. Your hands fly out to brace against his thighs, steadying yourself as he resumes his feast with renewed enthusiasm.
His hands slide from your thighs to your ass, palms cupping each cheek firmly. You feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing as his tongue works against your entrance.
Then, without warning, he spreads you wider, thumbs pulling your cheeks apart to expose you completely.
The cool air hits places that have never been exposed before, making you gasp with embarrassment and unexpected arousal.
“Caleb,” you whimper, torn between pulling away and pressing closer.
His response is a muffled groan against your flesh, the vibration traveling through your core. His tongue plunges deeper from this angle, aided by gravity and the leverage his position provides.
The sensation is overwhelming—his tongue somehow reaching parts of you that felt untouchable before, massaging your inner walls with firm, deliberate strokes.
Most shocking of all is the feeling of his nose, now pressed against the sensitive pucker of your asshole.
The unexpected contact makes you jolt forward, a startled sound escaping your throat. Caleb‘s hands immediately tighten, holding you firmly in place as his tongue continues its relentless exploration.
Far from being put off by this most intimate contact, Caleb seems to delight in it. His nose nuzzles against you deliberately now, adding pressure that sends confusing but not unpleasant sensations spiraling through your lower body.
Your fingers dig into his thighs, seeking stability in this maelstrom of new sensations. His sweatpants provide little cushioning—beneath the thin fabric, you can feel the hard muscle of his legs tensing with each movement of his mouth against you.
With your other hand, you grip the back of the couch, trying to anchor yourself as pleasure threatens to sweep you away.
Your thighs begin to shake with the effort of maintaining your position, muscles burning as pleasure coils tighter and tighter.
Instinctively, you shift your hips, seeking more direct contact where you need it most. The movement drags your clit against Caleb’s chin, the light stubble creating a friction that sends sparks shooting up your spine.
“Yes,” you gasp, repeating the motion with more purpose. “Right there.”
Caleb seems to understand immediately. His hands guide your movements, encouraging you to grind against his face at the angle that brings you the most pleasure.
His tongue withdraws slightly, focusing instead on flicking against your entrance in counterpoint to the rocking of your hips.
You find a rhythm that works—sliding forward to drag your clit against his chin, then back to feel his tongue press inside you. The combination is devastatingly effective, each circuit bringing you closer to the edge.
Sensing your building pleasure, Caleb adjusts his approach yet again. He flattens his tongue, extending it outward from his mouth like an offering.
The invitation is clear, and you take it without hesitation, positioning yourself so that your clit makes direct contact with the hot, wet muscle.
The sensation is electric—more intense than his chin, more precise than his nose had been. You rock against his outstretched tongue, using it as a platform to pleasure yourself.
His hands never leave your ass, continuing to spread you open, but he allows you to set the pace, to find exactly what you need.
You ride his tongue with growing confidence, the initial awkwardness of the position forgotten as pleasure builds to a crescendo.
Your movements grow more urgent, less coordinated as your focus narrows to the point where his tongue meets your clit.
“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking as tension coils at the base of your spine. “Caleb, I’m so close.”
Caleb’s moment of surrender is brief. Just as you teeter on the edge of climax, his arm wraps around your waist from below, the muscles in his forearm flexing with sudden strength.
The grip is iron-tight, controlling, a reminder of the physical power he usually keeps carefully leashed. With this leverage, he takes back control, forcefully guiding your movements against his face.
Your autonomy vanishes in an instant—you’re no longer riding his tongue by choice but because he’s holding you there, dictating the pressure and pace with unwavering authority.
“Caleb!” you gasp, startled by the sudden shift. Your hands scramble for purchase, one gripping his thigh while the other clutches the back of the couch.
He doesn’t respond except to tighten his hold, using his considerable strength to lift you slightly before pulling you back down onto his waiting mouth.
The firm pressure against this most responsive part of you draws a strangled cry from your throat, pleasure so intense it borders on pain shooting through your system.
“Oh god,” you whimper, thighs trembling as Caleb repeats the motion, lifting and pulling you down again. “That’s too much, I can’t—“
But Caleb isn’t listening. His arm locks around your waist, holding you firmly in place as his free hand spreads you wider, exposing every intimate part to his hungry mouth. You feel his lips shift, moving higher, and then—
The wet heat of his mouth closes around your clit entirely, sucking the sensitive bud between his lips with gentle but insistent pressure.
The sensation is so overwhelming, so unexpected, that your mind goes blank, your vocabulary reduced to a single, keening cry that doesn‘t even sound like your voice.
Caleb suckles at your clit like it’s a pacifier, applying rhythmic pressure that sends shock waves of pleasure radiating outward.
It’s a different sensation from the licking and rubbing before—more concentrated, more intense, building pressure that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out.
His lips form a seal, creating a gentle vacuum that makes your hips jerk involuntarily against his face. The arm around your waist tightens further, holding you steady for his ministrations, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming pleasure he’s inflicting.
Just when you think you can’t bear any more, his technique changes again. His lips release your clit only to latch onto your outer labia instead.
The feeling of him sucking your folds into his mouth, applying pressure to flesh that’s never received such attention, draws another startled gasp from you.
He alternates between sides, sucking first one fold then the other between his lips. The tugging sensation is foreign but undeniably arousing, blood rushing to the delicate tissues as he manipulates them with his mouth.
Then, to your shock, you feel the gentle scrape of teeth—not biting, just holding, pulling the sensitive flesh with the barest hint of pressure that walks the line between pleasure and pain.
“Caleb,” you moan, no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or pleading for more. Your thighs quiver uncontrollably, muscles burning with the strain of holding this position and the onslaught of sensation.
His response is to suck harder, his mouth working your flesh with increasing urgency. There’s a desperation to his movements now, a frenzy that wasn’t there before.
Through the haze of your pleasure, you remember his earlier observation—that you’re ovulating, that your taste is different. The thought that your body’s natural cycle is driving him to this state of abandon only heightens your arousal.
You can feel him inhaling deeply between sucks, drawing your scent into his lungs as if he could absorb you that way too.
His grip on your waist shifts, becomes somehow more possessive, more primal. The arm holding you grinds you down harder against his face, as if he’s trying to crawl inside you through sheer force of will.
The pressure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat at your center that winds tighter with each pull of his lips, each press of his nose against your clit.
Your breathing becomes shallow, your vision narrowing until all you’re aware of is the point where his mouth connects with your pussy and the tension threatening to snap inside you.
“I’m going to—“ The warning dissolves into a wordless cry as the tension finally breaks. Your orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around nothing as waves of pleasure radiate outward from your core.
Your body convulses, hips jerking against Caleb’s face without any conscious control on your part. His arm around your waist tightens further, holding you firmly against his mouth as he works you through the peak.
But unlike before, Caleb doesn’t slow or stop when your climax begins. If anything, his movements become more insistent, his suction increasing as if determined to draw every last drop of pleasure from your trembling body.
What started as ecstasy quickly tips toward overstimulation, your sensitive cunt protesting the continued attention.
“Too much,” you gasp, pushing weakly at his thigh. “Caleb, stop, it’s too much!”
He either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore your plea, continuing his relentless feast as if unaware that your climax has come and gone.
His lips and tongue work against your oversensitive flesh, drawing out aftershocks that border on painful in their intensity.
Desperation lends you strength. You plant your hands on his thighs and push yourself up and away from his devouring mouth, breaking his grip around your waist.
The sudden absence of contact leaves you shaking, every nerve ending still firing with residual pleasure.
For a moment, you stay there, hovering above him on trembling limbs, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Caleb’s eyes open, meeting yours with a gaze so dark and hungry it makes your heart stutter despite your recent release.
His face is a mess—chin and cheeks slick with your arousal, lips swollen from his enthusiastic attentions.
With careful movements, you shift away from him, settling back on the couch beside his form. Your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak from exertion and release.
Caleb sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he eyes you with a satisfaction that borders on smug.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and low.
You nod, not trusting your voice just yet. Your body feels simultaneously boneless and hypersensitive, every brush of air against your still-exposed lower half sending tiny shivers across your skin.
Caleb reaches into his pocket, pulling out the panties he stashed there earlier. With deliberate movements, he uses the fabric to wipe his face, cleaning away the evidence of your pleasure from his skin.
You watch as he examines the now-doubly-soaked garment, turning it in his hands with apparent fascination. Then, to your shock, he opens his mouth and stuffs the entire bundle of fabric inside, cheeks bulging slightly as he sucks on your panties like they’re a piece of candy.
His eyes meet yours as he does this, challenging, unapologetic. After a moment, he removes the panties, now darker and wetter than before, and carefully folds them before returning them to his pocket.
Before you can formulate a response to this bizarre but strangely erotic behavior, Caleb reaches for the remote, increasing the TV volume as if nothing unusual has happened.
The mukbang show resumes, the woman now enthusiastically devouring a platter of dumplings.
Caleb shifts on the couch, positioning himself beside you. His hand finds your bare thigh, traveling upward until his thumb rests against your still-sensitive pussy.
The touch isn’t demanding or insistent—just present, his thumb making small, idle circles against your flesh as his attention returns to the screen.
“This is a good episode,” he comments, as casual as if he hadn’t just devoured you with animal hunger minutes before. “She’s trying that new place on Fifth Street. We should go there sometime.”
You stare at him, bewildered by his ability to switch from feral to normal so quickly. Yet his hand remains between your legs, thumb still tracing lazy patterns against your core, maintaining that connection even as he acts as if you’re just watching TV together like any other day.
Exhaustion suddenly washes over you, the intensity of your orgasm combined with the emotional whiplash of the afternoon leaving you drained.
His arm comes around you, pulling you closer to him. His thumb continues its gentle exploration between your legs, more soothing than arousing now, like he’s playing with a fidget toy—something to keep his hands busy while his mind focuses elsewhere.
“Rest, Pips,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you.”
As you drift toward sleep, his thumb still idly circling your center, you can’t help but wonder what other things Caleb might want to teach you during his month home. And why, despite the strangeness of it all, you find yourself eager to learn.
Just Us Two: Damian loves intruding on your and Jason's alone time.
Third time's The Charm: The two times Jason almost told you he liked you, and the one time he finally did.
Baby Came Home: After you lose your powers while trying to take down a partnership between Lex Luthor and Penguin, Jason and you confront your deepest fear — being each other's second choice. When the rest of the batboys lock you in the Batcave, though, the confession becomes inevitable.
How Can We Go Back to Being Friends: You hook up with your best friend, and now you don’t know how to act around each other.
Damian, You Are So Psyched: Damian came home from school yesterday acting off, so now it's your goal to cheer up the distant little boy.
Don’t Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket: Jason has been telling himself he's visiting the little coffee shop at the end of the block for its cheap coffee, but it's his only way to see the cute barista every day and quote "Pride and Prejudice" at her until she falls for him.
Don't Judge a Book by Its Leather Jacket (sequel)
Not what you think: Jason went snooping and thinks you're cheating on him. Good luck explaining yourself!
A shear disaster: Your boyfriend is acting suspicious and won't take off his helmet.
Guilty pleasures: You cheat on your boyfriend, Jason, with the Red Hood.
Unexpected Guests: Damian finds out you're dating Jason.
Rough Night: Your secret relationship with Jason is accidentally revealed the morning after a rough night.
The Babysitter: After being hired to babysit Damian Wayne, you end up putting a masked intruder in a chokehold, only to realize you’ve just tackled his older brother, Jason Todd.
Making an Ass of U & Me: Jason didn’t mean to keep your existence secret from his family. At first, it was for his and your own protection more than anything; his double life wasn’t just for any average person after all. But, even after the whole marriage and settling down thing, he may have just forgotten to mention it.
Careless Accidents: You get hurt, and Jason’s pissed.
So This is Love: You show each other what love is supposed to be like (4 in 1)
The Gift of Truth: After figuring out that your boyfriend is Red Hood, you struggle to figure out a way to tell him you are aware of his “nightly activities.” When Jason finally introduces you to his family a week before Christmas, you are presented with the perfect opportunity to tell him
Pride & Prejudice: When you first meet Jason Todd, he seems to be nothing more than an entitled asshole, but as the seasons change, you begin to realise maybe you were wrong about him.
Good With Kids: You never really had an opinion on your colleague Red Hood, that is until you walk into him interacting with some kids.
The Investigator: The Batfamily discovers Jason's been hiding a long-distance relationship with someone who might be even more terrifying than Batman himself.
Are You Dating My Teacher: Bruce decides to cash in a favor that Jason owed him, and now the Red Hood- the most ruthless vigilante of Gotham- is chaperoning his youngest brother’s field trip to the zoo.
Who Do You Love: You're hopelessly in love with your classmate, Jason Todd. And you just so happen to be quite good friends with Red Hood. drunk one night, you admit you have feelings for Jason to your vigilante friend, not knowing the man behind the mask is the man you're in love with.
When She Sees Me: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play Cupid.
Blah Blah Blah: Jason is angry after watching Wuthering Heights. You are horny watching him get angry.
Cover Blown: You and Jason cannot stand one another. Unfortunately. you both go undercover as a married couple, and that should'nt change things between you two... right?
La Vie en Rose: The four times Jason wildly preferred you over everyone else.
Kiss or Miss: A quiet Saturday at the shooting range becomes anything but when Jason decides hands on help is the best kind.
Can I: It’s your last year of university and Jason Todd has been in your classes, plotting on you. You’d promised yourself you’d make the most of this year, go to more parties, finally lose your virginity, and step out of your comfort zone, while Jason steps into yours.
Glad It Was You
Prove It To You
Hit Me
The Magic Words: You’ve been urging to tell your boyfriend that you love him and you finally do.
Ice Skating With Jason: Ice skating, jealousy, and accidental confessions... what could go wrong?
Random blurbs
Old habits
Revealing Secrets
I'm still right though
Jason accidentally reveals he has a soon-to-be fiancée
Interrupted Dates
First Time
Shy (but experienced) Jason and his freaked-out (but inexperienced) girl
Jason Todd who makes everything in your home kiss
Random Headcanons
My pretty, pretty girl
Collar
Jason has a wet dream while you’re trying to wake him up
Dick Grayson
Sweater Weather: Dick just wanted to have lunch with his best friend, but he didn't expect you to show up in some other guy's sweatshirt.
The Light Behind Your Eyes: A week spent at Dick’s apartment leads Damian to discover what unconditional love looks like.
Hard to Impress: Dick Grayson can't seem to make you swoon, no matter how hard he tries, until he finally does
The "She's With Me" Is The New Gaelic Shrug (sequel)
Easy lovers: After a series of dates, dick finds himself desperate and decides that tonight will not end until he gets to walk home with a kiss from you.
Miraculous partners: Basically, a "Miraculous Ladybug" plot between you and Dick.
Territory, Marked: Damian makes an unexpected friend at the dog park, and when his older brother tags along one day, he takes a little too much interest.
Dinner Was Not Served: Dick had one goal: to seduce his girlfriend. He forgot the part where he should check for unwanted guests first and narrates his plans in very, vivid detail.
Stakeout at Table Nine: Dick Grayson just wanted a normal date. No suits. No masks. Definitely no Batkid stakeout at a fancy restaurant. Too bad his siblings brought disguises, drama, and a front-row seat to his love life.
Lightning Strikes Twice: Nightwing accidentally develops feelings for the anxious woman whose rescue has become part of his regular nightly routine by this point.
Whatever You Say Teach: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Random blurbs
Take him back, please!
Revealing Secrets
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne
Near: He hates contact, except apparently when it’s you he’s inching toward.
Nepo Vigilante: After your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. Bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with Damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with Tim instead, sparking Damian’s outrage.
When The Spite Dies: You were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite, you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man and vice versa.
When The Spite is Desire (sequel)
The Heart Remembers: Damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolve all defenses and unravel the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
The Only Exception: Getting a list of everything Damian hates, you feel self-conscious about ticking the boxes in that list—and try to fix that, not knowing that you’re Damian’s only exception.
Animal Interests: Damian’s father drags him along to an old acquaintance's house for intel, only to find that her teen also has an interest in animal rescues. In other words, she has a rescued panther as a pet
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Damian Wayne and Reader Get Domestic
Tim Drake
If I Was Your Boyfriend: Tim Drake had his eyes on you from the very first week of the semester. So now he’s praying for your (ex) boyfriend’s downfall, because God forbid a man openly plots to have you for himself instead.
Dairy Queen Closes in 10 Minutes: You broke up with Tim a year ago. Too bad he still thinks of you as his. Too bad everything he does reminds you that you are.
Random Blurbs
Interrupted Dates
Bruce Wayne
The Wrong Man’s Wife: The Justice League members think Batman is in love with Bruce Wayne's wife.
Like Real People Do: Bruce's wife goes missing, and the media and family are both in shambles. Bruce grows colder as the family tries their best to find her. To try and cheer him up, they find old video diaries from the couple’s early dating lives and witness a new side of Bruce.
The Watchtower's Worst Kept Secret: The Justice League suspects something is happening between Batman and Bruce Wayne's wife.
Seven Smacks: Bruce Wayne was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
The Bat's Wife: Some members of the league are still surprised by the way the Dark Knight's wife looks.
Oh, It's... Gold: Bruce made a small mistake on a gift he gave you, and everyone judged him for it.
in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) series
pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader
summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be nextand you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved—
until you wake up from your dream, gasping.why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?
warnings ⸺eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied
masterlist
01 ⸺ What a Weird Fucking Dream
the first day of your semester is precendeted by a very odd dream involving sorcerers and a hot ass husband. which you then see in lecture (3.7k)
02 ⸺ Note to Self: Don't Call Random Guys your Husband (soon!)
walking in on roommate!touya watching porn send tweet 18+ MDNI!!!
it’s been a long day. classes were excruciating, that jerk who came in over your shift was rude as fuck and you almost said fuck it, but you really do need the money and can’t risk getting fired; you did spit in the dude’s coffee, though.
when you come home and greet “hello” into the void, no one answers, so you assume touya - your roommate - is either still busy with class or at the gym with keigo (not with tomura because the most training the guy gets in is for a fortnite tournament). his door is closed, so you don’t even bother checking.
you just go through the motions of unwinding: unpack your bag, get a fresh pair of pjs out of the closet and head to the bathroom to take a long relaxing shower. with your playlist playing loud enough over the sound of the water stream, you can’t hear anything else.
touya’s had a long fucking day. he woke up to a myriad of texts from his shitty dad which he didn’t bother reading and two missed calls from “hookup blonde #3” at 3am (he immediately blocked the number). none of his classes were interesting enough for him, not when he knows he’s going to ace every exam without even trying, and in hindsight, he guesses enrolling in a faculty of his father’s choosing wasn’t that terrible. at the gym, keigo chewed his ear off about whatever he had already tuned out by then.
yeah, touya’s life was soooooo hard.
and you were the problem.
you see, from the moment you’ve moved in with touya, you’ve been a real big pain in the ass. but it’s not because you’re a bad roommate (he’s never seen you leave a dirty spot anywhere), or a bad person, or anything bad someone might think. no, you’re perfect. and that is not okay.
because touya just seems to get hard every fucking time you’re around. even when you’re doing the most mundane thing like cleaning the kitchen counter or hum along the opening music of your favorite show when you’re watching TV— he can’t take it. the only thing he can do is hole himself up in his room and jerk off enough times to be normal and bear existing in the same space as you.
you must think he’s an asshole - which frankly, he is - but it’s not like he can simply say “hey, you make me so horny i either cum 4 times in a row or i’ll have to check myself into a mental hospital”. yeah, not exactly gentlemanly of him. he’s also thought of releasing this restlessness with somebody in his roster, however, the last time touya had a girl in his bed while you were on a night out with your friends he ended up calling her your name…whoops?
the moment he steps into the apartment, he knows he’s fucked. he’d gone through the day almost on autopilot because of how pent up he was, and he can barely think straight when he hears the water running. just thinking about you taking a shower, droplets clinging to your skin where his tongue should be instead. he can’t take it.
and in the heat of the moment, he forgets to lock the door.
you didn’t mean to peek.
you were fresh out of the shower, and in the short journey from the bathroom to the kitchen - in nothing but a flimsy towel wrapped around you - you noticed touya’s bedroom’s door was ajar. then came the unmistakable sounds. flames erupted all over your body, a yelp escaping your lips when you catch a glimpse of touya’s—
“y/n?”
shit. shitshitshitshitshit.
with your back pressed against the wall and a hand clammed over your mouth, you hope he won’t notice. that he’ll think he’s just imagined it, and goes back to…whatever he was doing so you can skedaddle and leave him undisturbed. you'd just have to find a way to forget everything you’ve just witnessed.
“i know you’re there.”
his voice sounds different. you’ve never heard him like this. it’s deep, like when he’s fresh out of bed, but it carries an edge that says ”you’re in trouble”.
the only thing you can do is take a deep breath and take a tentative peep once more. “y-yes? i’m sorry, touya, i-i didn’t mean to…i didn’t even know you were home,” you squeak, hand shaking as you hold the towel flush to your chest. “i won’t interrupt you again, i’ll just go—”
“come watch with me,” he cuts you off. you can’t see his face, you don’t dare to open the door any further, but you can imagine it. “you were already watching anyway, so might as well get a closer look, no?”
“was not!” you protest, but it comes out weak. he has the nerve to chuckle. “c’mon, pretty, don’t make me get up to come get you. i mean of course, i won’t do anything you don’t want to, but the offer’s up.”
his words hang in the air for a beat too long. “are…are you dressed?” you ask meekly. “of course i’m dressed. i’m horny but i’m not a perverted creep,” he taunts. not that much of a perverted creep, he thinks. but you don’t need to know that.
he almost backtracked immediately when he saw you slip into his bedroom with only that flimsy towel around you, instead letting a grin stretch over his face. a predator locking eyes with its prey. “pretty,” he murmurs under his breath, icy blues watching you approach the bed.
“this is so stupid,” you grumble. “and you watch porn on your laptop? get on with the times, dude.” touya snorts, shrugging his shoulders. “i’m gonna have to need glasses if i squint my eyes too much to look at my phone. if anything, it’s for my health.”
you shake your head, but your gaze keeps flicking between his tented sweatpants and the paused frame on his laptop. it seems pretty basic and vanilla - boring ass man, you think - with the guy fucking the girl in doggy on the couch, her knees on the armrest while he’s standing.
“you look disappointed?” his voice brings you back to the ridiculous situation you’ve gotten yourself into. “no, it’s just an average watch for an average man, i guess.”
touya drags a loooong look over your figure, not only admiring your figure but also observing your body language, those micro-movements that give you away. he presses play. you wince when the video resumes suddenly, the actress’s pornographic moans (no pun intended) filling up the room.
the laptop rests in touya’s lap, slightly angled towards where you’re idly standing next to his bed, like the idiot that you are. why the fuck are you even here? this is—
“enough,” you tighten the towel around you once more, clearing your throat. “i don’t know why i agreed to this, i don’t know why—”
“you’re wet?”
you’ve already taken two steps towards the door when he asks that, and it takes every ounce of will in your body to not roll your eyes at him. he raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. “well?” he urges. “there’s nothing wrong with it, y’know? we’re humans, we get turned on by this, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. so, are you wet?”
you don’t even give yourself the time to think before you reply. “why don’t you come and find out?”
the laptop toppled down the bed from the sheer hunger he lunged himself at you with. you barely have any time to register your back hitting the wall, your towel falling to the ground as touya drops to his knees for you. one of your legs is thrown over his shoulder, and his face is buried in your cunt.
“o-oh fuck!”
“you’re not wet…you’re mmm- drenched,” his words are almost drowned by the lewd slurps he's drawing out with his mouth, tongue lavishing your soppy pussy like this is his last meal. in all honesty, it might as well be, because touya would die a happy, fulfilled man after getting a taste of you.
“touya…touya- fuck, s-slow down!” you keen, hips bucking into his ravenous maw. his lips close in around your clit, already puffy and flushed, wrenching the most pathetic mewl from your chest. “slow down? slow down?” he says like it’s a blasphemy. purposeful fingers dig into the plush of your ass, tugging you even closer.
it’s maddening. your brain has long short-circuited, pleasure overtaking any rational function. you’re grateful, because otherwise you would be wondering just how did you get into this whole predicament, with your obnoxiously hot roommate eating you out against the wall of his bedroom. never in your dirtiest late-night fantasies of him would you have fathomed this.
“shit, you’re so sweet,” he mumbles against your folds, flat tongue licking stripe over your slit, slow enough to make you chase after him with a long moan. “aht, aht,” touya tuts, giving your ass a warning squeeze. “giving me all that attitude…you’re gonna behave now.”
you want to object, but all you can manage is a bratty whine. you can feel him grinning against you. his free hand brushes over your inner thigh before a long digit circles your wet hole. touya could tease you a little longer, until you’re crying and begging for him, but he’s waited far too long to have you like this he might be even more impatient than you.
his middle finger slides right in, followed by his index only moments later when he doesn’t find much resistance. your walls suck him in so deliciously he groans at the thought of just how good you’ll feel around his cock.
“touya, please—” you gasp, back bowing away from the wall in a perfect arch when his wrist flicks just right, digits pumping against the bullseye of your g-spot with scary accuracy. he unlatches from your cunt only to look up at you with those sapphire eyes and that smirk, and if you were any more coherent, you’d be furious at how pretty he looks with his chin glistening in your juices.
“are you gonna cum? pretty girl’s gonna cum all over my face, hm?” he teases before diving back in, taking your clit in his mouth with a sloppy french kiss, driving you right over the edge. you cum with a shrill of his name, fingers lodged in his snowy hair, keeping him glued to you. he works you through every peak, until your legs are jelly and he has to keep you upright before you collapse.
touya stays kneeling on the floor a while longer, watching you with some dumb adoration you don’t quite register, still trying to recover from the powerful orgasm. in the midst of your afterglow, you glance down at him. “what now?”
“what now?” he echoes, gently niblling your thigh. “since what i was watching got you so worked up, it’s only fair we recreate it now, don’t you think?”
yeah, he wasn’t letting go of you anytime soon.
┊┊a/n. yeah i know i've already written something similar but IDCCC it's my ovulation and i decide the smut to write. also this was supposed to be much shorter? idk what happened i got lost in the cocky bastard touya banter sauce ++ it's so fricking late if there are any typos pls live with it IT'S ALMOST 2AM GOODNIGHT.
SUMMARY ★ he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirting—god, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING ★ streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ★ smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
NOTE ★ i don't know too much about street racing, so if i make mistakes pls lmk!!
PROFILES:
YOU THE BIRTHDAY CAKE | FUTURE COUGARS & MILFS
01: WHAT SHALL I RENDER?
02: LET'S ALL MOAN
03: 15 UNFORTUNATE SIGNS YOUR HUSBAND DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE
It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?
˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader
˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3
this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k
Art creds right here!
Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.
High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.
On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.
Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.
The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.
The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.
When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.
You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.
You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.
“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”
“Have you decided to stop being into men?”
“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”
“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.
“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”
“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”
“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.
“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”
“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”
“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.
“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”
And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.
It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.
You’d know, you stalked his IG.
How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.
Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.
“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”
“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”
“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”
“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”
“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.
Bergamot.
It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.
“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.
Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.
You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-
Why do you care what he wants?
Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?
“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.
“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”
“Should just smack you.”
“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”
“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”
“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”
“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”
“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.
“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”
“What!?”
“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”
“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.
Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?
“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”
“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.
He never even got to tell you.
His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.
Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.
It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.
There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.
Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.
Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.
Satoru was good at making you cum.
Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.
“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”
“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.
How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.
That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.
How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.
*****
Ten years ago
You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.
“I’m not fucking happy, what?”
“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”
“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.
– I don’t want to lose you. –
Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.
“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”
“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”
“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.
“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”
“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”
‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’
You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.
His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”
You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”
“You’re the one leaving!”
“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”
“I don’t want you to-”
“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”
“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”
“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”
“Sweetheart-”
“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”
You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…
Gone.
*****
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”
“You… you’re… saying sorry?”
“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”
“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”
No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.
You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.
He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.
He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”
He’s not really gonna apologize is he?
“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”
“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.
“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.
“He was an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”
“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.
You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.
Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?
To hate looking at your yearbook?
To look at how happy you were?
“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”
“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”
“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”
“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”
“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.
“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”
“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.
“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”
“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”
“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”
“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”
“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”
He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.
Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.
Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.
But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.
“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.
“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, really.
“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”
“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”
“Now.”
“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”
It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.
The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.
"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."
“You don’t…”
“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.
This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.
God you remember when he pierced it.
You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.
“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”
He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.
"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.
“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.
You don’t think he remembers?
You don’t think he regrets it all?
He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."
“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”
“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”
“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”
“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”
“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”
“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”
“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”
“The truth?”
“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”
“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”
“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”
“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”
“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No…”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”
“No!?” Yes.
“No?”
“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.
“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.
“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.
“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”
You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.
“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.
“Neither am I, sweetheart.”
“Yet you look even better-”
“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”
“You haven’t seen me all naked…”
“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”
God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.
You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”
“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”
“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”
“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.
“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.
“You love that, huh?”
“No!?”
Yes.
“How often?” He’s laughing now.
“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”
“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.
He could have had it.
He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.
“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.
“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”
“You d-don’t have to…”
“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.
Mine.
You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”
You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.
“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.
“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.
Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.
But you’re still just the two of you.
He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.
Satoru wants to drown in you.
"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”
“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.
“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"
You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.
“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”
He pulls back and sighs.
You’re so beautiful like this.
“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.
Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”
“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.
“Need you.”
“I’m here-”
“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”
“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”
“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”
It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.
“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”
“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”
“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”
You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?
“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”
“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”
You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”
“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”
“Babies!?”
“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”
“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”
“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.
You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”
He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.
“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”
“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”
“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”
You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.
“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”
“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.
“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”
“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”
“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”
“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”
“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”
“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”
“We were so young, Toru… so young.”
“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”
“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.
After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.
“Toru…”
“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
synopsis: how he reacts when you call them by their full name in front of other people
character/s: xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb x f!reader (separate)
warning/s: none!
note/s: my favorite one has to be zayne and sylus' im ngl i had so much fun writing this
xavier:
you should’ve known that dating the notorious quiet, handsome man in the association would be an open invitation for your coworkers to pry and get answers for the questions they always had but never dared to ask.
how could they? whenever they talk to xavier, he replies with one-word answers, worse, sometimes he just stares as if the question was the stupidest thing he has ever heard. and honestly, that idea wasn’t far-fetched.
having you as his partner and girlfriend only solidified the association’s curiosity about xavier.
“i don’t think he’d care.” simone mutters as she bites another mini sandwich from the snack display.
tara shakes her head as if trying to convince her to change her mind. “he can’t not care! right?” she turns to you as you tilt your head in confusion, not catching majority of the conversation, too caught up in a mini staring contest that you and xavier had from across the room.
“what?”
“how do you think xavier would react to being called by his name.” you furrow your brows at tara’s question, not exactly getting it.
“nothing? it’s his name…” “no, not his name but his name-name.”
in all honesty, tara lost you. but you urged her to explain that couples usually dislike it when they’re called by their given names rather than a pet name.
and now that you’ve thought about it, you didn’t think that you’ve ever called xavier by his real name.
with tara’s devilish grin, you almost felt bad for wanting to test it out, after all, no better time than the present, right?
“i bet twenty that he doesn’t care.” simone wagers, you almost scolded her, if not for tara’s enthusiastic counter with a fifty.
your gaze flits towards xavier who was already approaching the three of you with two drinks in hand.
he smiles softly as he hands you the flute of champagne. you gave him a grateful smile, the words slipping out of your lips almost in a foreign way.
“thank you, Xinghui.”
you could see the way xavier’s smile twitches. he does not respond; instead, he wraps an arm around your waist.
“are you having fun, star?” you nod before turning back to your friends whose expressions differed from triumph to devastation at the immediate turnout of their bet.
“mm!” you nod, a smile on your face as you lean over to his warmth. “i was just telling simone and tara how much my Shen Xinghui treats me well.”
xavier swoons at the my but not so much what came after.
“ah. i see.” he tightens his grip around your waist before he gestures towards the open balcony, in the guise of fresh air.
you bid your friends a wave goodbye, tara looking like she was trying her hardest not to laugh and simone already counting the bills in her wallet to slap on tara’s waiting hand.
once you and xavier were on the clear, he pulls you into his arms, his face buried on the crook of your neck.
“did i do something wrong? i’m sorry.” xavier says softly against your skin, tickling you slightly.
you giggle, pulling his face away to see a pout on his lips.
“what do you mean, Xinghui?” his pout deepens.
“i don’t like that name.” “what do you mean? it’s literally your name.”
“yeah, to others, but not to you.” xavier says as he holds you tighter against him.
you conclude that it was the end of your little prank, as you explained the bet that your friends made. xavier huffs as he mumbles at the crown of your head.
“i’d rather you call me lumiere.”
“really?!”
“no.”
zayne:
when zayne told you that his parents were going to visit, it was safe to say that you spent the entire day ensuring that your home was welcoming. you and zayne spent time cleaning and redecorating your shared space.
the doorbell rings, and for a moment, you thought it was his parents who arrived an hour early, but to your surprise, it was only the deliveryman for the patisserie you ordered from.
knowing that althea and jace rarely spent time in linkon, you wanted to ensure that they could try new delicacies, so you ordered linkon’s finest macarons, and as a bonus, you bought them their favorite tea as well.
you placed it on the kitchen countertop and forgot about it, thinking that you could easily plate them once they arrived. you failed to notice the curious doctor who approached the box after you left.
althea and jace arrived right on time, you greeted them with a smile as althea hugs you, complimenting how beautiful you had grown from the last time she saw you, while you led them to the couch. zayne sat on the opposite sofa, engaging in small talk, blushing slightly as his father coos about how chubbier his cheeks are and how healthier he looks.
“i’ll prepare some tea.” you excuse yourself as you walk to the kitchen to steep the tea.
once it was finished, you put the teacups on the tray as you walked back to the living room, where they were.
“oh! zayne, could you pour out the tea? i’ll go get the dessert,” you say to your husband, who freezes for a split second.
“no need, darling,” zayne says as he makes a move to stand up. “i can get it; you should sit down. you’ve done enough,” he says, coaxing you to sit down. you shake your head, stopping him from standing up.
“it’s okay, zaynie, i’m already standing up, just sit down and catch up, i’ll be right back.” you say, giving his cheek a swift peck, hearing his mother coo at how domestic the two of you were.
you went back in the kitchen, humming slightly under your breath before it stops as you opened the box ofdesserts.
there were only six macarons left. you ordered eight.
your jaw drops at the only answer as to why two were suddenly missing. without saying anything more, you plated the remaining macarons before carrying it back.
you can see zayne’s back as you walk, slightly tense as he tries to keep up with a conversation with his father.
“Li Shen.” zayne jolts as you say his name, you can’t see his exact expression, but judging by the way althea was biting her lip in amusement and jace was already grinning, you know that he knows that he’s in trouble.
“yes, dearest?” zayne answers, his hand on the teacup as he takes a small sip, trying to act unbothered.
“why are there only six macarons?” you walked slowly, placing the plate in the middle of the coffee table and facing him, crossing your arms.
zayne blinks slowly, you can see the small gulp he took.
“perhaps the patisserie made a mistake. we can contact them after,” he says in a calm tone.
you raise a brow.
“you have crumbs at the corner of your mouth, Li Shen.” his eyes widened before he put the teacup down, wiping at his mouth, trying to get rid of the evidence, but the four of you know it was too late.
althea laughs at the display, patting her husband affectionately on the arms.
“this reminds me of when we caught our little zaynie sneaking for the cookie jar when he was young, right jace?” jace nods, a stifled laugh leaving his lips.
zayne looks down in embarrassment. you clicked your tongue softly before sitting beside him.
“i told you the desserts were for your parents!” you whined softly as you took one of the macarons, slicing it and eating it, stabbing another bite for zayne.
he unashamedly takes it.
“i apologize, my love.” he was not sorry at all.
althea and jace only look at the two of you, amused. yet, happy that their zaynie truly found love.
you reached down absentmindedly towards zayne’s teacup, only for you to flinch.
his teacup was frozen solid.
you looked at him who avoided your gaze, before clearing his throat.
“i’d argue that the frozen teacup is your fault.” zayne says, immediately regretting it as you glared at him.
“what was that?”
“i said that you are sweeter than any macaron i have ever tried.”
sounds about right.
rafayel:
rafayel has been working on a painting for the last three hours. well, that’s how long it seemed to you because you’ve only been in his mansion for three hours. you knew he was painting for longer, given that it looked like it physically hurt him to adjust his posture.
“raf, take a break,” you say gently as you place a hand on his back.
he looks at you with a smile on his face. “in a bit, cutie! i promise. i’m about to invent a new color.” you rolled your eyes at his quip, yet let him do it, you wouldn’t have been able to pry him off anyway.
the sound of a doorbell ringing takes your attention off your boyfriend, who seems to have the idea of ignoring the sound.
“don’t worry, cutie. it’s probably thomas.” rafayel waves it off. you sighed and walked towards the door.
“you know, he wouldn’t be as overbearing if you stopped ignoring him,” you retort.
“no, cutie. he’d lock me up in his basement to keep painting if he could.”
you paid his response no mind as you opened his door, awaiting to see thomas’ brunette hair and stressed-out expression. only to be pleasantly surprised when you see the shade of rafayel’s hair greet you.
“talia! what a surprise.” you say, greeting her as your eyes flit downwards, seeing the luggage at her feet. “oh! let me carry those in, please come inside. i didn’t know you were visiting.” you hurriedly grasp her luggage, then usher her in.
talia thanks you with a smile on her face, giving you a gentle laugh as you fussed over her.
at this point, you were flustered. you did not know that rafayel’s aunt was visiting; had you known, you would’ve made a greater effort in getting rafayel to clean his own home. it was in no means ready to cater to a guest.
“ah, really?” talia asked, genuinely surprised. “i thought rafayel might’ve told you. but then again, rafayel easily forgets things.”
you smiled, nodding, still giving her your best host-like smile, while inside your head, you were already scolding your boyfriend in your mind.
“--just like how he forgot to pick me up from the airport.” “what?”
you couldn’t help but cut talia off as your eyes widened. you looked over to the painter who was still stuck in his own world, as if his only remaining family member wasn’t standing in his house.
“Qi Yu.”
rafayel freezes in his action, the paintbrush dropping from his hand for a split second before he sharply turns towards you, who looks back at him, unamused.
your arms were crossed, a glare on your face as you stared him down.
“...yes, my cutie?”
you give him an unimpressed look before raising a brow. rafayel seems to have noticed the additional presence in the room as his eyes widened. from under his breath, you could hear him mutter a curse.
he immediately straightens, ignoring the kinks in his back that screamed at him from the sudden movement, before he walks to where the two of you were, his arm rising to wrap against your waist, only for you to dodge it in an obvious way.
“cutie–”
“you didn’t tell me that talia was visiting!” you say, exasperated. “and how could you invite her here when this place is such a mess! she came all the way from varona and this is what you greet her with?”
rafayel rubs a hand behind his neck, sheepish. “i forgot.”
“really, Qi Yu. you forgot.”
rafayel flinches as you use his full name; that action spurs talia to let out a laugh at the banter.
“i have seen rafayel be summoned by his father using that name, and he does not even bat an eye, yet…” talia smirks as she interlocks her arm with yours.
“i see my nephew has a weakness.”
rafayel would’ve found a way to refute, really, he would, but his face was burning and his lips were formed into a pout as he saw you visibly soften at talia’s assurance.
“no need to worry about me, dear. i’ll make myself at home in the guest room.” talia pats your arm once before she wheels in her luggage towards the relatively tidy guest room.
when talia was gone, you looked at rafayel with a blank expression on your face.
“cutie…”
“so, let me get this straight.” you interrupt him. “you ignore me for three hours even though you invited me to your house. you forget to pick up your aunt from the airport and you forget to tell me so i can prepare to accommodate her, and now all you can say is cutie? really, Qi Yu?”
rafayel wraps his arms around you, pulling your front flush to his chest as he whines. “cutiee—” he buries his face onto your hair. “i’m sorry. please never call me that again.”
your lips twitch, secretly having fun with his reactions.
“Qi Y—” “cutiee. stooop.” rafayel whines as he nuzzles his face onto your neck. he sighs as he pulls away, a pout still on his face. “i promise i’d take better notice of my schedules.”
“and?”
“and?!” rafayel echoes back, offended that you didn’t take the bait before he collects himself. “and i’ll treat you and talia to an expensive dinner tonight.”
“good.”
rafayel pouts.
“you can be so mean sometimes, cutie.”
“really, Qi—” “stop!”
sylus:
sometimes, you curse yourself for being competent. at first, you thought that showing guts in the hunter’s association would bring you more respect and dignity.
in reality, it just thrusts you on more missions that make you question if the salary was justifiable.
you were so tired, you just got back from a week-long mission.
you just wanted to rest in sylus’ arms and whine about how the association was wringing you dry and look at him in appallment once he suggests quitting your job. you know, the usual.
as you ride your motorbike to the N109 zone, you can already imagine the conversation. you smiled softly to yourself as you approached the heavy doors that seemed to readily open to you.
you walk towards the main hall, brows furrowing as you hear luke and kieran throwing out profanities and the sounds of controllers clicking.
you push open the door to see luke, kieran and, surprisingly sylus, on the couch with their vr gear on. you see the tv playing a racing game that you vaguely remember playing. judging by the twins’ response, you assumed that sylus was in the lead.
as much as you would’ve loved to join in and have a little game night, you were tired and wanted nothing more but to be held by your lover.
seeing sylus be so unguarded and oblivious to your arrival, you couldn’t help but time your entrance, once you see sylus seconds away from the finish line, you cleared your throat as you loudly called out.
“Qin Che.”
luke and kieran freeze as if they were the ones being called as they ripped out the vr gear from their faces, looking like deer in headlights. sylus also takes his off, albeit slower, as he takes in your figure. a look of surprise and longing in his expression.
you had your arms crossed, a blank expression on your face as you stepped closer.
almost immediately, you see the twins skedaddle past you, dropping their gear and leaving sylus sitting on the couch.
“ooooooo, dad’s in trouble!” you hear luke tease, and a sharp smack! right after, as kieran urges him to move faster, the door slams shut.
an offended caw resounds in the room, you turn around to see mephisto banging itself on the door, wanting to get out as well. you bit back laughter as you see the door open for just a sliver before a gloved hand– you’re assuming luke, reaches out to pull mephisto by the wing, an indignified squawk leaving the metal crow’s beak.
the room was silent, save for the video game’s background music, to which sylus shuts down.
you walked over to him, who sat there waiting for your next move.
without another word, you sat on his lap, your face pressing against his chest, hearing the way his heart was beating significantly faster.
“welcome home.” sylus says as he wraps his arms around you, breathing in your scent.
“your heart’s beating really fast.” you point out, voice muffled by his chest. you pull away slightly to look up at sylus who immediately presses a kiss on your forehead.
“well. it seemed like a certain kitten hissed at me unprovoked,” sylus said as he affectionately ran his fingers through your hair.
“all because i called you by your name?”
sylus chuckles as he presses another kiss to the crown of your head.
“sweetie, you underestimate the power you have over me.”
caleb:
you really shouldn’t have agreed to be caleb’s date at their high school reunion. hell, he shouldn’t have even bothered going.
the day could’ve been spent with the two of you cuddling in comfortable clothes on your sofa, but no. caleb thought it would be a good idea to show you around the DAA.
which wasn’t what was happening as his former classmates whisked him away. you stood off to the side, a frown on your face, arms crossed over your chest.
caleb promised you that he’d be back in five minutes. it’s been thirteen minutes, and there was no sign of him ending the conversation. good thing that gideon was right beside you, keeping you company, as he only arrived a few minutes ago.
“your boyfriend sure is popular, huh?” gideon teases as he nudges you with his elbow.
“too popular if you ask me,” you mumble under your breath, eye twitching as yet another former classmate approaches him.
gideon snorts under his breath. “he’s always been popular, not even your scrunchie on his wrist managed to ward off the girls at the time.” you huff at that, eyes zoning in on the girl by the corner of your approaching caleb.
it was irrational, you’re well aware of that, but enough was enough.
‘caleb is mine.’ the jealous part of your mind screamed.
“Xia YiZhou!”
for a split second, you can feel the tension in the room drop, and everyone in the room freezes. caleb immediately turns to where you were standing, smiling sheepishly.
“coming, honey!” caleb walks briskly to where you were, but you gave him the cold shoulder.
he tries to pry your arms away from your chest as he attempts to coddle you.
“you said five minutes, Xia YiZhou.” you say, turning away from him. from the side, you can hear gideon stifle a laugh as caleb’s face drops at your words.
“pips, you know—” “five minutes. you said.” you glare at the way caleb’s lips twitched, you knew the bastard was fighting a smirk.
“is my pipsqueak feeling bored–” he reaches up to playfully pinch your cheek, but you dodged his hand before walking away.
“damn dude, good luck.” you hear gideon say as you exit the venue.
caleb follows you, letting you walk three steps ahead. you walk by the school’s open garden, feeling the breeze pass your face.
“go away, Xia YiZhou! i don’t wanna see you.” you hear caleb chuckle from behind you, and all of a sudden, he’s right beside you, flinging an arm around your shoulders.
“what’s got my baby apple upset, hm?” you huffed, reaching for your opposite shoulder to pull his hand, only to feel his palm sweating.
and caleb’s palm only ever does that when he’s nervous.
you fight the grin that threatens to escape your face. however, caleb already caught sight of it.
“ah, i see. someone just wanted my attention.” you rolled your eyes, dropping the facade.
“there were too many girls trying to talk to you.” you huffed. “it’s like they don’t know you have a girlfriend!” you squint your eyes, accusatory.
“unless you told them you didn’t have one.”
“hey now, pipsqueak.” caleb flicks your forehead softly. “even if they didn’t know, i’d let them know. no need to be jealous,” you huff, turning around.
caleb couldn’t help the chuckle that leaves his lips as his arms snake around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“i’m all yours, pipsqueak.”
“Xia YiZhou, you dummy!”
caleb only smiles against the back of your head, finding your little tantrum cute.
“yeah, yeah. your dummy. i know.”
mentally, he was already planning all the ways he could get you to call out to him affectionately once more.
note/s: omg two uploads in one day that's craaaaaaazy lmao i hope you enjoyed this one <3
