#i will die if i don’t share this with you guys i had to even though im supposed to be on break | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yukkiji · 2 days ago

Text

crush course 101

you’ve admired oikawa tooru from afar for months—but when a class project puts you side by side, you start to realize your feelings aren’t as hidden as you thought… and neither are his.

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance, crack.

wc. 10.6k

Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.

You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.

You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.

But he did.

He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.

“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.

Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”

“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”

“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”

Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”

Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”

“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”

Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”

“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.

“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.

“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”

“I was distracted!”

“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”

“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”

“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.

They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.

Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.

Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.

And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.

He did.

A lot.

And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.

It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.

But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.

Oikawa Tooru.

Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.

But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.

“Cool!”

You froze.

He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.

And then he tripped.

It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.

The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.

“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.

Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.

You. Knew. His. Name.

He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.

“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”

“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.

From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”

“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”

Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”

“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.

Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.

But he didn’t care.

Because you knew his name.

And you were worried about him.

God help him, he was doomed.

Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.

Again.

“Tooru.”

It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.

Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”

That did not help.

Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.

“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.

Then, without thinking, he took your hand.

You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.

Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.

“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.

None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.

“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.

You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.

Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.

“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.

You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.

And just like that, Oikawa was gone.

To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.

“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.

Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.

From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.

Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.

“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”

You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”

The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.

Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”

Oikawa stared.

If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.

“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”

You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.

You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.

When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.

You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.

Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.

And then his phone buzzed.

[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.

“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”

“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”

Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.

“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.

Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.

Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.

By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.

Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.

Kind of.

Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.

“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.

The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.

“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.

Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”

A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”

Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”

The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”

Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”

Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.

Then his phone buzzed.

[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.

“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”

He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.

Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.

[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way

[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)

Oikawa screamed.

Like, actually screamed.

He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.

“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”

Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”

Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”

Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.

And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”

You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.

Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.

From the other side of the room, your roommate—already awake and sipping on her mug of instant coffee—narrowed her eyes at you.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"

You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.

She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"

"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"

That caught her attention.

She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.

You groaned into the pillow.

"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."

Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."

“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”

"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."

You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.

“I’m never texting anyone again.”

Your phone buzzed.

You shrieked.

[tooru]: see you later also ♡

You stared at your phone.

Oh god.

Why did he send a heart.

Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.

You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.

“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.

You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.

“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”

Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.

“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”

“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”

“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body glitched.

Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.

“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.

She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”

You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”

“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”

You arrived at the café first.

The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.

You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)

Then the soft chime of the door rang.

Your head turned instinctively.

Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.

He lit up immediately.

He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.

Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.

Meanwhile, Oikawa?

He was dying.

His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—

He was done for.

He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.

A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.

A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.

You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”

You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.

“You really okay?”

“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”

You looked away again, biting back a smile.

And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:

I’m so, so screwed.

Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”

He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.

At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.

A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.

He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.

Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”

It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.

“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.

“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.

Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.

And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.

He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.

He was so screwed.

And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”

Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.

Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.

At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.

But you showed up.

In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.

“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.

“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.

“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”

You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”

Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”

He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.

Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.

"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.

"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.

"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.

“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”

You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”

Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.

Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.

And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”

He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.

Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.

There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.

It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.

Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.

Not in the way that mattered.

Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.

You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.

And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.

Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.

“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.

“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.

“Because it’s true,” Oikawa whined. “She’s literally ruining me.”

“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”

“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”

“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.

He melted.

You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.

“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”

“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.

“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.

“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.

No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.

Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.

And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.

But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.

Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.

He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.

One bow caught his eye.

It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.

Oikawa lingered, slowing down.

He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.

“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.

“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”

“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”

“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”

“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”

Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”

Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”

“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.

Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”

Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.

Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”

And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.

He bought the bow.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.

“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”

“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.

Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.

“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.

“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”

Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”

“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.

Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”

The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”

Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.

“Don’t screw it up,” he said.

And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.

You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.

[tooru]: are you free?

That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.

You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.

[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?

You blinked.

Then you sat up.

Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.

“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”

You didn’t move.

She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”

You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”

Silence.

Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”

She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”

You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”

“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”

You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”

Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you like.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”

“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”

She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”

Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”

You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”

She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”

“I forgot!”

“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

She arched a brow. “You sure?”

You didn’t answer.

She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”

You peeked at your phone again.

[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.

You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.

Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”

Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.

“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”

“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.

“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”

“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”

“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”

Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.

The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.

He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.

After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.

He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.

There you were.

Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.

The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.

Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.

“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.

And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.

Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.

“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.

Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”

You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.

Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.

“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”

Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”

Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”

You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.

Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.

Because this felt different.

There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.

Just you and him.

Just Tooru.

And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.

Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.

“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”

He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.

Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.

Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.

He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.

He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.

"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.

You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.

He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.

“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”

You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.

You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.

“Tooru…?”

He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.

“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”

Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.

“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”

You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.

The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.

And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”

Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.

“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”

His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.

“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”

You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”

Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.

“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”

And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.

You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.

You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.

Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.

When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.

“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”

Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.

You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.

But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.

His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.

“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”

After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.

Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.

You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.

Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.

“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”

“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”

Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”

But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:

Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.

265 notes · View notes

i-am-so-sad-i-cant-cry · 14 hours ago

Text

Okay… I have this fic I need to finish and edit that I made during vacation but I really wanna share… so if you’re all cool with that…

It’s a tfone canon divergence where D-16 decides to make a different decision than the movie. (Kind of a fix-it, but I don’t want to undermine the original ending I just wanna explore a hypothetical alternate route)

TFOne - Undoomed Ending

Megatron dove over the side, catching Orion’s hand before he tumbled into the pit below them. His plating was cold, and he- He was hurt, badly.

From his fusion cannon.

“No, no no no nonono! Why, why did you do that?! Why?!” He yelled, not sure if he was talking to himself or Orion.

He heaved, trying to hold up Orion, and his processor whirled with the series of events that led here… Orion saving him and the high guard from Sentinel, taking control of the guard before they were found, learning the truth from Alpha Trion… Orion’s plan to find the Matrix when they where dropped down to sub level fifty… Orion making them join the race.

It always came back to Orion and his stupid plans, hasn’t it?

He was always dreaming and believing too big for his means, wanting to touch the stars. He was always doing stupid, impulsive things, and it was always D-16’s job to get him out of trouble.

And now, he had done the biggest, most stupid, most impulsive thing yet - he dove in front of his fusion canon, aimed at their tyrant and ready to end all this, and made D-16 into the bad guy. And here D-16 was, saving him again.

How many times would this keep repeating? How long until Orion Pax stopped trying to do something so stupid and noble?

Never, he thought to himself as he narrowed his optics, rage boiling inside of him, the answer was never. Orion was never going to stop, and as long as he did, it was always going to be D-16 saving him.

Even after today, what would it be tomorrow? Or the day after that?

No, it had to end, he-

“Dee….” Orion gasped, his blue optic flickering and his plating already greying, “No…..” he rasped, the last gasp of a dying mech.

It- it had to end. D-16 was done - he couldn’t keep-

No. D-16 pushed that thought right back into its place. This was wrong.

Orion was stupid but - but he couldn’t die now, he couldn’t let him die now. What would D-16 have left?

He realized, resolve strengthening, that this was the thing Sentinel couldn’t take from him. His optics glowed red as he looked at Orion’s scared face, and he pushed up.

“Don’t worry,” he said with heaving breaths, “I’ll always save you.”

Using newfound strength, his legs taking hold on the edge as he flexed his midsection, and he heaved himself and Orion up. It was strength from both his cog and the panic and anger pumping through him, but he wouldn’t let go no matter how easy it was to drop him.

Orions whole midsection had been blown to bits, and D-16 had no idea what to do. He looked back, and Sentinel was trying to crawl away like a coward. Scowling, he looked back to his friend.

“Bee, Elita, catch!” He yelled, and tossed Orion’s body to them. He barely moved, his optic looking somehow between death and… love.

He saw them catch Orion, screaming for a medic, and D-16 turned to Sentinel and the few drone guards he had left.

With his rage, he tore them to shreds, before getting to Sentinel and grabbing him by the shoulder.

Before he could do, what he longed to do, he remembered Orion’s face, and his words. “Don’t be like Sentinel,” he had said, which enraged D-16, but… did his friend have a point? Was this truly the best way?

“What are you waiting for?!” Starscream yelled form below, “do it!! Show him who is stronger!”

“Please, please I’ll do anything…” Sentinel whimpered pathetically, but D-16 saw his charging canon. He spun the tyrant around onto the ground, breaking the cannon under his pede. “You are so lucky that I still have a shred of mercy left,” he growled, “but don’t be thankful for it.”

“The age of Primes is over!” He screamed, to thunderous applause. He remembered Orion’s words before they were separated, and how the masses were rioting around them as he fought Sentinel. They couldn’t go ignored.

“Witness Sentinel, a false prime, fall before me and his people! Never again shall we let someone like him control us, or tell us what we can be!”

“He banished our high guard, mutilated and deceived the cogless to be his slaves, and now he begs for mercy, when he is without any!”

“I am Megatron!” He yelled to them, his speech taking root in his own being along with the sparks of those listening to him.

“Never again shall we be deceived! Rise UP!!” He finished, and the applause shook the foundations of Iacon from the highest towers to the lowest mines.

Megatron feasted on the attention, triumphant, having everything he wanted -

But as he looked down, he saw Orion was grey and the looks of loss on Bee and Elita’s faces.

He jumped down, leaving Sentinel to be restrained by the high guard, sliding down the side, and the guard parted the crowd like an ocean as he ran to Orion’s side.

“Is… Is he?” He hesitated.

“His spark went out,” Elita said, “some of the high guard tried… but it was too much damage.”

He came crashing back down to reality from his high, gritting his teeth as he heaved “No…It can’t be…”

He had everything he wanted now - justice, freedom, truth… everything but Orion Pax, his best friend in the world.

Killed by his own cannon.

“No!” He screamed out in loss, and Iacon continued to celebrate their win, oblivious to the sacrifice made by Orion for them all.

In the days following, they had to bring Iacon into order, as many challenged Megatron’s leadership and he had to make sure the high guard didn’t use excessive force in trying to quell them. Elita one was great for whipping them into shape, but Megatron often needed to intervene so the high guard wouldn’t be as chaotic as the masses as their whole society was reordered.

They had enough energon for everyone for awhile, as Sentinel had stockpiled a lot for the Quintessons hidden away, but they would need to worry about ethical energon extraction eventually.

But, his first priority right now, was Orion’s funeral.

The miners gathered by the well of Allsparks, along with the High Guard keeping crowds away from the area. Elita One stood by his one side, and B-127 the other.

“Orion, may you find peace in the Allspark,” Megatron said lowly.

“And…” he said, voice dropping to a whisper into Orion’s audial, “that you’ll forgive me.”

He hesitated, looking down into the abyss that was the well, but steeled himself. Orion deserved the highest honour in death.

But, he loosened his grip, and watched Orion’s grey frame fall into the void.

He couldn’t hold back the tears then, breaking down on the edge as Elita pulled him back so he wouldn’t fall.

“Hey, it’ll be alright Megs…” she said.

And, as it felt like he might truly be gone forever, the well erupted into a fountain of blue light. A figure rocketed up, landing before them with a heavy thud.

Megatron had thought for a moment that one of the thirteen has returned to them, or that it was Primus, before the figure stepped forwards.

He was… he was red and blue and white, had a large window where the matrix of leadership sat, and… it was Orion. It was unmistakably him.

It didn’t take long for Megatron to connect the pieces, stepping forwards from the shocked bots.

“It can’t be…” he muttered, before saying louder “Primus gave you the Matrix?”

“Dee…” Orion said, smiling and shaking his head, “No, Megatron… yeah, he did,” he said sheepishly, so much and at the same time so unlike to Orion.

“I am now, Optimus Prime,” he said, trying to stand tall. “A gift, for my sacrifice for the greater good,” he smiled.

“So… what will happen now? Is Megatron not in charge anymore?” Bee asked.

The idea made something in Megatron coil in displeasure, wanting to lash out at the very idea his power would be all for nothing, but Orion - Optimus, stepped forwards.

“No, I’m… I might be a prime, but one bot can’t rule alone. I think we all saw that. If you’ll have me, I would want nothing more than Megatron to rule by my side,” he paused, almost like he was hearing something else, before smiling softly, “Be my lord high protector, to restore Cybertron.”

Gasps went through the crowd of miners, guard, and onlookers all alike.

“And…” he continued, “while it might displease Primus, I will step aside if you say I must,” he looked to Megatron.

It was silent, a heavy choice resting on Megatron’s shoulders.

He could refuse, have sole power and have Optimus help him…

Or he could be by his guiding light’s side, the one who always dreamed too big and always reached for the stars.

It really wasn’t a choice.

“Optimus Prime,” he said, walking up to him and taking Optimus’ servos in his own, “I’ll be your lord high protector, and you’ll be our prime. The last Prime of Cybertron.” He said softly, and kissed his servos, like he was proposing.

Optimus blushed, but nodded, both eager and shy and so so beautiful.

Megatron couldn’t help but want to kiss him, but he refrained. Despite this, they would need a long conversation later, about… everything. But for now, they faced the crowd before them, many still picking their jaws off the floor.

“All hail Optimus Prime, All hail Lord Megatron!” Cheers erupted from around them, Starscream leading the chant, loud as the day Sentinel fell, and so vigorous and eager that Megatron was sure even the surface might hear them.

(Unfinished)

#tfone #transformers one #tfo #d-16 #d 16 #Orion pax #tfo Orion #tfo d16 #megop #mostly implied right now but it’s there #canon divergence #fanfic #transformers fic #fanfiction #unfinished fanfic #maccadam #maccadams

22 notes · View notes

leosxrealm · 3 days ago

Text

ˢʰᵉ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ˢʰʸ!

pairing(s): GoM x fem! reader (separate)

request: Hello. I saw your post with requests and decided to write. Can you please make Guys from kuroko no basketball with a girl who is a little perverted (just hints that she might grope their ass or pecs a little or kiss in the neck or collarbone). Specifically, I want there to be Kuroko, Akashi, Midorima, Aomine, Kise, Murosakibara and (if possible) Kagami.

warning(s): a little cringe, suggestive? possible grammar and spelling mistakes

(a/n): thanks for requesting anon! it was fun to write. unfortunately, i ran out of ideas by the time i reached murasakibara, so ive only written for the GoM. i hope you liked it!!

!not proofread!

ᴛᴇᴛꜱᴜʏᴀ ᴋᴜʀᴏᴋᴏ

✧⋅ kuroko is not much of a romantic and you’re the first one he’s ever had any feelings for

✧⋅ so he still gets a little (hella) flustered whenever you so much as kiss him

✧⋅ imagine his surprise when you decide to give his ass a little slap… in the middle of thE PRACTICE LMAO

✧⋅ baby was so flustered

✧⋅ beet RED

your club had ended earlier than you expected. so of course you decide to go wait for your boyfriend to finish with his practice. so you can walk home together.

“you played good tetsu,” you say passing a water bottle to him. they were playing a little practice match and you could already see a lot of improvement since last week.

“thank you, (name)-san,” he gave u a small smile. he really considered himself lucky to have met such an amazing girl.

he had never said it to you but your encouraging words, whether you sent it through a text or said it in person, means so much to him.

“okay everyone. last practice set before you all can leave,” riko says blowing her whistle. you see some people groan.

“what!? why’re you giving me that look. are you guys trying to tell (name)-chan that you guys are bunch of wimps!?”

that got them straightened up. they would never want another person, especially their teammate’s girlfriend, to think of them like that.

kuroko looks at you, handing you the water bottle, ready to head back.

“good luck tetsu-kun,” you say in a teasing tone, gently slapping his ass just as he turns around to go join the game.

he pauses just for a second, his brain lagging for a second. he looks around the room to see if anyone had seen it. it looked like nobody saw it (thankfully for him)

you make eye contact with riko, who saw the entire thing (of course she did, she’s really attentive of her players at practice). you both share a silent giggle as the guys resume their last practice match of the day.

ꜱᴇɪᴊūʀō ᴀᴋᴀꜱʜɪ

✧⋅ the emperor was a little weak when it came to relationships

✧⋅ first of all, he would never date someone if he actually didnt like the person cause he would never waste his time and affection on just anybody

✧⋅ speaking of affection, he was very… let’s say innocent

✧⋅ don’t get me wrong, he IS a hormonal teenage boy. but when it comes to actually doing stuff

✧⋅ god help him

you had come over to the akashi manor for a study date with your boyfriend.

there was no study going on.

you didn’t know how it escalated. you were just sitting on his bed doing homework. akashi had suggested to do it on his study table but you wanted to be comfy.

it started small, with you sneaking in kisses every couple minutes. who could blame you, he was sitting soooo close to you and he had such a pretty face too :(

you don’t know how it ended up with you, on his lap, kissing him like you would die if you stopped. your fingers traveling up his arms and tangling in his hair.

as for akashi, boy was flustered (even though he would never admit it). his hands hovering around your waist, he didn’t want to overstep and make you uncomfortable.

you pull away, just enough to look into his eyes. you notice his hands and without thinking you bring them to your waist and place them there.

“you’re adorable, sei,” you give him a kiss on the side of his lips, trailing your kisses down to his jaw and his neck.

small gentle kisses trailing his neck and collarbone.

you feel his shudder as you kiss the area where his neck meet his shoulder. you take it as a sign to land more kisses along the same area.

his grip on your waist tightens just a little bit, but enough to tell you that you had hit the spot.

you decide to stop. as much as you wanted to continue with it, you didn’t want the poor boy to be overwhelmed.

“someone’s all hot and bothered,” you tease him, a sly smile on your face. he says nothing, just pulls you in for another kiss.

ꜱʜɪɴᴛᴀʀō ᴍɪᴅᴏʀɪᴍᴀ

✧⋅ if you thought the others were bad, this man is worseee (especially at the beginning of your relationship)

✧⋅ he’s pale asf too, so when he’s blushing, everyone around him would know he’s blushing

✧⋅ his denying doesn’t help at all

✧⋅ poor boy gets constantly teased by his friends and teammates especially takao

it had been a while since you got the chance to hangout with your boyfriend. both of you were quite busy with school and examinations.

and what better way to spend time with your tsundere than to have a movie marathon!!

you were sitting next to each other, your head leaning on his shoulder.

he had to admit it was nice having you as a girlfriend. he enjoyed just being in your presence. you didn’t mock him for his beliefs or anything for that matter.

and although he wasn’t a big fan of physical touch before, he doesn’t mind when you do decide to hug him or lean your head against him (like right now)

it was honestly kind of nice…

(oop, spoke too soon)

the hand that was playing with the hem of his shorts, was now drawing random doodles on his thighs.

you physically feel him stiffen up. turing your head up to him, you smiled innocently, “something wrong, shintaro?”

“n-no. nothings wrong,”

“hmm okay… if you say so,” you go back to doodling on his thigh with your fingers.

you decided to be a little annoying and started pinching his thighs softly (not enough to hurt him).

when he didn’t say anything, you took it as a chance to start scratching the skin of his thighs with your fingernails.

he shivered ever so slightly, making you grin.

“hey sto-“

“you saying something, shin?” you cut him off blinking at him.

oh god, you were gonna be the death of him

ᴅᴀɪᴋɪ ᴀᴏᴍɪɴᴇ

✧⋅ contrary to popular belief- he isn’t that much into pda

✧⋅ yes, he likes when you hold his hand or hook your arms together

✧⋅ and yes, he likes guiding you with his hand on your back

✧⋅ but, that’s pretty much it. maybe a peck here and there especially at the very beginning of your relationship

you and aomine were walking to a nearby convenience store with the whole team. they had decided to get some snacks, they deserved it after a whole day of practice.

you made a bee line to your favorite snack’s aisle. aomine following you like a puppy.

“i love these,” you tell daiki, your mouth already watering at the thought of eating them. “ugh, this is the best thing in the world.”

“damn, not me?” aomine jokes, a playful smile on his face.

“don’t worry daiki, you’re still the best snack,” you say smacking his ass.

did it make a sound? yes

did sakurai walk in just to see his teammates ass get slapped by his innocent looking girlfriend? also yes

did aomine chase sakurai around the store and threatened him to keep his mouth shut? also yes

was he blushing while threatening the poor dude? also yes

ʀʏōᴛᴀ ᴋɪꜱᴇ

✧⋅ where do i even begin

✧⋅ this man absolutely adoresssss his girlfriend (even her weirdness)

✧⋅ over time he has so gotten used to her presence and her antics

✧⋅ nothing she does surprises him anymore

✧⋅ unless it was something she’s never done before

“good morning, love,” he says as you slowly wake up.

you both had went to his place after school. and what better way to spend the rest of the afternoon than taking a nap in your loving boyfriend’s arm.

“mhm,” you mumbled closing your eyes again. feeling his chest rising beneath you was lowkey therapeutic.

“aw (name)cchi, are you still sleepy?” he smiled softly. you looked so fucking cute sleeping on him like that.

kise would agree, without hesitation, that having you in his arms like that was a way better feeling than winning any match or championship.

he accidentally dragged his fingernails against your waist, making you squirm slightly.

oops, maybe he found your ticklish spot.

he does it again, this time on purpose. you tell him to stop, while pretending his tickling(?) wasn’t working on you.

“ryota, stop,” you say, trying to appear annoyed. he took it as a motivation to actually tickle you now.

this man is an athlete. there’s no way you would be able to escape him. so you did what you could as a last resort of sorts.

you pinched his nipple.

did you actually do it? yes. and he screamed like a girl, covering his chest with his hand.

hey, at least it stopped the tickling.

you soon fell bad when you see his face. that looked like it hurt.

“aw ryo,” you say softly, “i’m sorry.” you put your hand on his chest.

kise knew something was up when he saw your face go from that slight apologetic look to something more… mischievous?

“hehe tiddie,” you say grabbing a handful of his chest (or as you called it, his tiddie)

just when this man thought you couldn’t get any weirder

smh

ᴀᴛꜱᴜꜱʜɪ ᴍᴜʀᴀꜱᴀᴋɪʙᴀʀᴀ

✧⋅ the most innocent baby in the world

✧⋅ and sometimes, you use that against him.

✧⋅ he never thought he would be with anyone much less a goddess like yourself

✧⋅ he can be very shy at times (don’t tell anybody please)

“(name)-chin are you tired?” he asks, throwing you a lazy glance. you were walking home from school, when murasakibara popped the question.

of course you were tired. it had been a hectic day at school and on top of that you had two (yes TWO) clubs back to back.

“no, i’m fine,” you lie. just like you had a tough day, you know atsushi did too. with 8 hours of school, then practice on top of that.

you were too lost in your own thoughts to notice the gentle giant crouch in front of you. his back facing you.

“come on, (name)-chin,” he said softly, “hop on.”

you paused for a second. then sighed softly and did as he told. you truly had the best boyfriend in the whole world.

“thanks, sushi,” you said, giving the side of his head a gentle peck.

"you can rest, (name)-chin. i'll get you to your house safely." with that you closed your eyes, drifting to a much needed sleep.

"(name)-chin, we're here. wake up," atsushi raised his shoulder to wake you up. you lift your head from his shoulder, blinking.

"already?" you whine, "my hands are so comfortable here" you say as you squeeze his tits.

atsushi realizes that your hands, that went around his shoulders for support just so happen to be resting conveniently against his chest.

"they're there on purpose?" he asks, a little surprised.

"yeah. what do you think, atsu?" you chuckle, kissing him on the cheek and jumping off of his back.

"i'll see you tomorrow," you wave, rushing into your house.

he just stood there for 10 seconds straight before turning around and walking to his house.

he hoped his hair covered the the tips of his, now, red ears.

41 notes · View notes

asharkapologist · 1 day ago

Text

Ranking all possible Ad Astra Ships (Excluding Rozetta)

I really like how we’ve been coming up with all these different ships (with various states of crack-ness), and so I’ve decided to tier list every single possible ship of the four older members of Ad Astra (excluding Rozetta since she was 14ish when she met the other members, who were 22-26ish, and even if they’re adults in the modern day, that would be a creepy/inappropriate ship imo). And of course, I’m excluding Junior Ad Astra as usual, because they suck and are complete tools.

I’m just typing out the list rather than making individual images and putting them on a tier list proper because one, I’m at work and don’t really have access to good image editing software, two, I’m lazy, and three, the images would start to blend together since all the ships involve the same four people.

But anyways! These are just my silly personal opinions. Feel free to disagree with me, and I’d love to see your own!

S Tier:

I don’t think any of the Ad Astra ships quite reaches the peaks needed for a solid S tier ship, but! I still have a favorite, and will be listing everything in order from my favorite to least favorite.

A Tier:

• Joe/Louis

o I honestly feel like this has the most canon support, just based on the fact that Louis learned the Neohumans were a hivemind controlled by their leader, but only told Joe, who says that Louis found out said information, “but he only shared it with me, in complete confidence. We knew if anyone found out that they could take Denise’s place and control the neohumans’ every move, it would be a disaster!” Louis only sharing such information with Joe seems to imply to me that he trusted Joe the most out of the rest of AA, or at least was closest to him (plus he addresses Rozetta and Joe by name when he’s recording himself breaking into the dome; makes sense, since Rozetta’s the leader of AA, and Joe quite possibly is the one he’s closest to). But then there’s that one part where Louis was looking at his cellmate “funny” in the shower, like what the actual hell, Louis, 0/10, Redfern should’ve punched you for that, not just broke your watch. Yeah, that moment is why this isn’t S tier, but I’ll confess that Joe/Louis is still my favorite AA ship. Please don’t attack me for that; you’re free to dislike it!

B Tier

• Joe/Julia

o Probably the healthiest ship on here, and I got nothing against it, I definitely think it could work really well and has potential for cuteness, I’m more inclined to see them as really good, close friends, but good on you if you ship it!

• Julia/Joe/Louis

o This works best, imo, if it’s Julia and Louis both being in a relationship with Joe, rather than each other, since I can’t really see Louis and Julia being anything more than friends. But hey, best of both worlds, Joe gets to be a therapist for two different people and gets to be jumpscared by hearing about his boyfriend’s violent death probably by one of his assistants or something, then gets to see his girlfriend die in an almost identical manner in front of him. Angst!

• Joe/Christian

o While I can see the appeal of this as a crack ship and kinda like the idea of Christian being so aggressively competitive with Joe because he has a crush on him and doesn’t know how to process his feelings, this would not be a very healthy relationship, and Christian seems like the kinda guy to NEVER shut up about his exes/people he had a thing for to his current partner, so…hope Joe’s ready for that.

Joe: breathes

Christian: Meera used to breathe. Do you know what I thought when she did? I thought blah blah incel comment blah blah blah something about her denying him his last chance to feel human love blah blah blah, Actually, Joe, it would be great if you wore this turquoise wig

C Tier:

• Julia/Joe/Louis/Christian

o This could work in the sense that everyone is in a relationship with Joe, while Julia, Louis, and Christian are not in a relationship with each other, BUT I have a feeling that Christian would be extremely possessive and not be happy with anyone else being in a relationship with his partner and it would turn even more toxic than a monogamous relationship with Bateman and just be very bad for Julia and Louis.

• Julia/Joe/Christian

o Same as above, minus Louis.

• Louis/Julia

o I just can’t really see Louis being in a fulfilling relationship with a woman ngl. Not only do I not get the vibe that Julia would be interested in him at all, even if they were in a relationship, Julia wouldn’t be happy, either, by his lack of romantic-ness. Better as friends.

D Tier:

• Louis/Christian

o I’ll admit not really liking this ship comes down to personal headcanons about how Christian showed a complete lack of empathy towards Louis when Louis was scared out of his mind during Airport, as well as barely caring about Louis’ violent death besides how the threat of Denise affected him personally. I could maybe be convinced to see merit in it, but for now, I don’t really love this ship.

• Julia/Christian

o We see how Christian treats women. Moving on. Sorry, Julia. “I was crazy about Christian” I’m crazy about Meera’s ghost throwing something at your head to give you some much-needed clarity

F Tier:

• Julia/Christian/Louis

o None of these people should be in a relationship with each other.

And that’s it! Here’s a list of the ships if anyone else wants to rank them:

• Joe/Julia

• Joe/Louis

• Joe/Christian

• Louis/Julia

• Louis/Christian

• Julia/Christian

• Julia/Christian/Louis

• Julia/Joe/Christian

• Julia/Joe/Louis

• Julia/Joe/Louis/Christian

#criminal case the conspiracy #criminal case game #christian bateman #louis leroux #joe warren #Julia brine #Joe/louis #Joe x Louis #supernovashipping #Joelia #joestian #I’m not bothering to come up with ship names for everything else lol #criminal case Facebook #tier list

15 notes · View notes

gojoest · 4 months ago

Text

the second you tell satoru you’re pregnant, he vanishes — like, literally teleport-level gone — and reappears hours later with bags. so many bags. you’re pretty sure he cleared out an entire mall. he crashes into the bedroom like a tornado, tossing baby clothes in the air like it’s confetti, yelling “LOOK HOW TINY THIS IS!” every five seconds.

he’s cutting tags with his teeth, trying to fold onesies that end up looking like abstract art, and humming this completely off-key, made-up song about being “papa gojo, coolest dad in the world!” he’s glowing. absolutely unhinged. but glowing.

but then — then — there’s this tiny shift in him. he’s folding a soft little sleeper set, lips still curled in a smile, but his hands move a little slower. more gentle. he runs a thumb across the tiny little sleeve like he’s imagining holding someone impossibly small. his voice drops to a soft hum, and the ridiculous song fades into something quieter. warmer.

“i can’t believe there’s going to be a whole person… half me, half you. that’s wild”, he says, like it’s finally sinking in. his lips quiver slightly, his eyes soft.

you sit next to him, nudging him on the arm. “our baby will have the most extra dad on the planet”

“well of course”, he grins, his eyes glassy now. “i’m going to be so annoying. they’re going to roll their eyes every time i show up to school wearing sunglasses and a #1 dad’s shirt”

you smirk. “you mean you’re not already planning matching outfits?”

“oh i already ordered them”, he says proudly. “we’re going to slay preschool drop-off”

you laugh, but you also reach out and lace your fingers with his, both of you surrounded by little shoes, tiny clothes, toys, pacifiers, and a whole lot of love wrapped in absolute chaos.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #he’s so ready to be a dad 🥹 as crazy and as extra he is my baby is the softest little soul out there he’s so emotional 🥹#i will die if i don’t share this with you guys i had to even though im supposed to be on break #man it’s hard staying away and shutting up when it’s this man in question lol #was scrolling through pinterest and saw a pic of a dad sitting on the floor surrounded by baby clothes he was folding #and this came to me I HAD TO SHARE i couldn’t wait #ok bye again #sorry i can’t stfu ☹️ maybe i should lock the blog LMAO then i’ll shut up fr ☹️#[ ♡ ] — satoru #tw pregnancy #tw children

1K notes · View notes

quietwingsinthesky · 11 months ago

Text

sometimes i think about my spn oc and how i rewrote everything about amara to interact with the story i was trying to tell about her. there were some really neat ideas in that i need to recycle for something one day. like, in the show proper, they just let amara take over a human baby and that’s fine, but amara’s not Meant To Be Here. this entire universe is one constructed in her absence. saying she can possess a human body should be like saying if you took a person and sent them to a universe where 1+1=3, they could just figure out how to function within that.

which in story took the form of Amara being something that could not be Understood, only Rationalized. a force locked outside the narrative who could only get inside and destroy things if given a role within it. by the Winchesters as A Monster To Face. by Chuck as Wayward, Unreachable Sister. and by miss oc as. simultaneously a projected creature to be saved, an amalgamation of injustices done to herself (and others) that would never be righted but could be made up for by being a part of this. and as something impossibly powerful that could be both protection and purpose.

and the Darkness wasn’t any of those things, really, but to have agency in her own story required new shackles, but ones she was always straining against. she wouldn’t fit inside the confines of a human mind, let alone a body, at least not well enough to leave it Intact. like lucifer burning through nick, but Worse. because the burns were an expected outcome of skin not strong enough to hold him. humans were built for angels, some were built better and some worse, but they’re meant to work. putting amara in human skin should disconnect the skin and mind and soul from the reality her brother built itself, i think. slowly. bit by bit.

and at the same time, i’d gone and written the kind of wild scenario you really can only write for your thirteen year old mary sue, given that spn oc the part of herald/high priestess/failed vessel. which she pursued with wild abandon like that would fix anything wrong with her <3

in the end, running alongside the borrowed family theming of the original show was my own theme of “how much self-annihilation will you accept to make your point. are you accepting it, really. or are you seeking it.” not just physically, in letting something unmake the base components of what you are as it tries to fit inside you or in it constricting and suffocating itself beyond self-recognition to get inside in the first place, but, obviously, it’s supernatural, how much selfhood do you cede to your family. is it worth it.

it was interesting, if nothing else. let thirteen year old me cook. she had ideas.

#spn oc #don’t mind this i’m rambling about nothing i felt nostalgic about her (<- my oc)#there was also an explanation in the mix for why amara was called amara in this au too despite. you know. not being a baby.#and it was like. a vessel’s desperate attempt to separate itself from the thing inside it by naming it something other than itself.#like a last moment of self-preservation. the opposite of lucifer using nick’s face and us all agreeing to think of it as his. you know?#and amara means beauty.#it’s a very human need. to name things. and the thing is that humanity itself is antithetical to what amara is. in this au.#not because of any inherent quality of it. but because it was not made with her in mind.#i keep bringing up lucifer but he’s such a good comparison case of what thirteen year old me was trying to construct here #and what i can better explain now that im. not thirteen. but its that. lucifer has beef with humans because they have common ground.#the only reason he can hate them is because they’re recognizable to him. terrible little cockroaches. but something he understands.#amara as i conceived of her could not hate or love or understand humanity. or the world. or anything as we know it. because it was not made #to be seen by her. it was made with the express purpose of her never encountering it.#when i was thirteen i wanted her to be so much more alien than she was. unfortunately this is supernatural and supernatural deals in #Just Some Guy forever and ever <3 #but it was my story so i made her fucked up and weird and beyond comprehension.#except. of course. when forced to bend into a shape that makes her Not her.#i don’t think proper envesseling would have been a process either her or the oc survived. not because they’d die but because they’d get.#stuck? i think? that was what the intent was. that they’d get melted together like plastic toys.#chuck had a nice smooth envesseling in this au because these toys are made for him.#and angels need consent and angels get bleedover from their vessels because the toys are shared with them but they’re closer to being toys #themselves too.#i’ve rambled enough honestly no one cares about this but me aksjfkjfks #what was i talking about. right! the naming!#the naming of amara is a nail in her coffin because she is named and it is so human to be named and to be perceived and to be shaped by that #perception. even without malicious intent. even to be looked at as destruction itself and be named beauty.#in the same way you kill what something could be by learning what it is. the way a unicorn dies when you discover how rhinos were drawn.#does that make sense? that’s what kills her. bit by bit.

6 notes · View notes

spinogreen0iq · 1 year ago

Text

GUYS GUYS GUYS I WENT TO MY CITIES PRIDE PARADE TODAY AND OMFG, It was like a giant family get together, like SO MANY PEOPLE I KNOW!!!! SO MANY PEOPLE I KNEW ONCE!!!!! GAY SHADOWS FROM MY PAST!!!!! so happy loved it loved it loved it

Get involved in ur local queer community if ur able to, it’s literally life changing and a lifelong source of belonging

I have never felt so at home in a giant mass of strangers (and ofc the people I know/knew and care for)

#csd2024 #christopher street day #pride parade #pride 2024 #lgbtqia #queer community #found family #<33 for the people I once knew #love u guys still even if we ain’t talking anymore #you got a special place in my heart #I hope you know that #and I’m always happy to see you again #especially when I wasn’t even sure if your still alive #like bro I FELT LIKE I SAW A GHOST #but yeah love it when trans kids don’t die of being #It’s kinda sappy #and rambling #but idc #I HAD TO SHARE IT

2 notes · View notes

fushitoru · 2 months ago

Text

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

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 next and 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 of aashi longfics), 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

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

12K notes · View notes

kthologue · 4 months ago

Text

steal my girl — gojo satoru

synopsis. the time gojo and megumi decided to crash your date.

contents. fluff, lovesick!gojo roping megumi into his loser activities, timeskips, tw sappy

notes. this drabble has been rotting in my brain for over a year. finally wrote it!

“I’m going on a date.”

It only took five simple words from you to make the world’s strongest jujutsu sorcerer drop to his knees. For the first time in his life, Gojo could swear he was experiencing shortness of breath. And was it just him, or were the walls closing in?

“What?” The word leaves his mouth like a demand rather than a question. He’s trying so hard not to overreact, but your overjoyed face makes it nearly impossible not to succumb to the ugly green monster clawing at his insides.

“Well,” you push his shoulder playfully. “Don’t act so surprised. You’re not the only one that pulls.”

“Don’t I know it,” Gojo mutters under his breath, eye twitching. Don’t you know how hard he works to deter any suitors vying for your attention when the two of you are out? He’s practically a rabid dog growling at anyone who so much as breathes in your direction.

Hell, even Shoko once mentioned to him something about being a “registered pervert” at most establishments you frequent together.

Not his finest moments.

You eye Satoru suspiciously before continuing. That was your first mistake.

“Yeah, he’s taking me to that new Michelin Star restaurant downtown,” you sigh dreamily. “I mean, seriously. Isn’t that so cool?”

Gojo scoffs, arms crossing over his chest. “If that’s what you wanted, you could’ve just said so. I know a place that has three Michelin Stars.”

You pout. “Well, it’s different with you.”

Gojo’s eyebrow quirks up. “How so?”

“You’re a friend. And with him…” You trail off, suddenly feeling shy under Gojo’s piercing gaze. Heat creeps up your neck, blooming across your cheeks as you toy with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s a lot more romantic.”

Gojo thinks he could just die.

The word romantic rings in his ears, and it was deafening. It digs into his ribs and squeezes at something raw inside him. He’s the strongest sorcerer alive, yet right now, he feels utterly powerless against the way your voice softens when you talk about someone else. Against the way your lips curve at the thought of another man.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Romantic, huh?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it.

You nod, eyes glimmering with something dreamy, something distant, and Gojo wants to reach out and wipe it away. He wants that look—wants to be the reason for it.

If you wanted romance, he could give you romance.

Better romance.

A grand plan manifests in his head, spinning to life at full speed.

Oh, this poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.

The moment Megumi sees Gojo enter his and Tsumiki’s shared apartment, he knows something is wrong. There’s a certain energy in the air, a distinct lack of peace that Gojo drags with him that makes the eight year old’s stomach churn.

“Fushiguro!” Gojo’s voice rings out, far too enthusiastic for Megumi’s liking. “We have a problem.”

Megumi barely glances up from his book. “We?”

Gojo makes himself at home and slings an arm around his shoulders. “Yes, we. Our dear [Name] here has a date.”

Megumi's grip on his book tightens, his interest sparking at the mention of you. Where Gojo lacked maturity, you balanced it effortlessly. He liked that about you. He liked you.

Megumi blinks once. “And?”

Gojo sighs dramatically. “And we can’t just let her go unprotected, can we?”

“Unprotected?” Megumi repeats, deadpan. “From what? Bad table manners?”

“From heartbreak, Megumi!” Gojo places a hand over his chest, looking scandalized. “What if this guy is a total loser? What if he chews with his mouth open? What if he’s a handsy creep?”

Megumi’s expression darkens. He had been indifferent before, but now there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He doesn’t like the idea of you being stuck with some no-good scrub who isn’t worthy. In a series of twisted events, you and that white haired idiot had managed to become the only constants in his life. The last thing he wanted was for some random guy to come along and take you away.

“We need to intervene,” Gojo presses, watching the flicker of hesitation in Megumi’s expression. His usual deadpan exterior is cracking, just a little. Gojo knows he has him.

Megumi exhales sharply, gripping his book a little too tightly. “I am not going to ruin their date.” His voice is firm, but there’s a sliver of doubt wedged between the words. Gojo seizes it like a cat pouncing on its prey.

“Ruin?” Gojo gasps, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Megumi, this is purely a background check.” His grin stretches.

Megumi glares at him. “It could be considered stalking.”

Gojo waves him off. “Pfft. Such an ugly word. I prefer ‘protective oversight’.”

“You don’t even know if he’s a bad person.”

Gojo tilts his head, feigning deep thought. “Oh, you’re right. Maybe he’s perfect. Maybe he’ll take such good care of her that we won’t be needed anymore.”

Megumi stiffens, and Gojo bites back a smirk.

“That’s not—” Megumi starts, but Gojo steamrolls over him.

“I mean, think about it. If this date goes well, they might actually start dating. And then what? She’ll start spending more time with him.” Gojo nudges him. “She’ll run off and start a new family.”

Megumi’s jaw tightens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right,” Gojo corrects cheerfully.

Megumi runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. He already knows Gojo won’t drop this, and, annoyingly, he’s already planted the seed of doubt in his mind.

Gojo leans in, voice lower, almost serious. “You care about her, don’t you?”

Megumi exhales sharply. “...Yeah.”

“And you’d rather make sure she’s safe than sit around wondering?”

Megumi stares at him for a long moment, then groans. “Fine. But if this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

Gojo grins, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s go before you start growing a conscience.”

The night was supposed to be perfect. A well earned break. It your first real date in a while. Probably your first since meeting Gojo. Though, strangely, you’d never stopped to question why that was.

The guy sitting across from you was a non-sorcerer, and while his looks had been enough to catch your attention when he first asked you out, the novelty was wearing off fast. His personality was as flat and each word he spoke draining more of your enthusiasm. You found yourself nodding along absently, barely listening, already regretting your decision.

Still, you just had to stick it out until the food arrived. Then you could eat, make an excuse, and be done with this painfully dull evening.

Though, just when you thought the night was starting to get interesting, a familiar voice cuts through the elegant ambiance of the restaurant.

“Mom, who is this strange man?”

Your choke on your wine at the familiar voice while your date stiffens.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach as you come face-to-face with Megumi, standing at your table with his arms crossed. His expression is perfectly deadpan, but you see the flicker of mischief in his eyes, a familiar gleam of mischief that could only be the work of a certain white-haired man lurking nearby.

“E-eh?!” You sputter, glancing between Megumi and your date.

Your date looks thoroughly confused. “Do you… know this child?”

“N-no—I mean, yes, but—”

Megumi doesn’t give you a chance to explain. Instead, he sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “And what will Gojo—Dad—say about this?”

The words slam into you like a truck.

Your date’s jaw drops. “You’re married?”

“N-no!”

“Then why is he calling you Mom?”

You glare at Megumi, but he just shrugs, completely unbothered.

“Come home,” Megumi continues with a sigh. “Tsumiki misses you too.”

“You have multiple children?!”

Your date looks absolutely horrified, like he’s just found himself in the middle of a scandalous affair. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Listen, if you’re going through a divorce or something, we don’t have to do this—”

Before you can defend yourself, another, far-too-cheerful voice joins in.

“There you are, sweetheart!”

Gojo waltzes up to the table, dressed in his finest suit and those damn glasses he only wore on special occasions. He places a hand on your shoulder and turns to your date with an exaggeratedly apologetic expression. “Sorry, buddy, but this one’s a real work. You know it took me two kids to finally tie her down?”

Your date glances between you, Megumi, and Gojo, his eyes wide with pure panic, as if he’s just stumbled into something far beyond his comprehension. His grip tightens around his napkin, knuckles white. “I—I think I should go.”

You lurch forward, reaching out as if that might stop him. “No, wait—!”

But it’s already too late. He’s scrambling for his coat, chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes back from the table, nearly knocking over his drink in his rush. Without sparing you another glance, he spins on his heel and all but bolts toward the exit, shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller.

You sit frozen for a second, blinking at the now-empty seat across from you. Then, slowly, you turn toward the culprits, fists clenched at your sides.

“You two,” you hiss, voice low and simmering with fury, “are in serious trouble.”

Megumi has the decency to look guilty, staring down at his lap, shifting awkwardly in his seat as if he’s just now realizing the full extent of what they’ve done.

Gojo, on the other hand, is utterly shameless. He stands there in all his smug glory, adjusting his sunglasses with a satisfied smirk.

You grab your purse and storm out of the restaurant, with the two trailing behind you like two guilty kids.

“You know,” Gojo muses, “I think that went pretty well.”

You round on him so fast that even he takes a step back. “Pretty well?! You humiliated me! That poor guy thinks I have an entire secret family!”

Gojo snickers. “Well, technically, you do.”

You jab a finger into his chest. “You are not my husband.”

“But wouldn’t it be great if I was?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

Megumi lets out a long sigh. “Please don’t entertain him. I’m sorry, [Name].” His blue eyes are trained onto the floor, “I just didn’t think he was good enough for you.”

You exhale sharply, some of your anger ebbing as you glance between the two of them.

“It’s okay, Megumi,” you sigh, your frustration softening at the sight of his guilty expression. You could never stay mad at him, not with that face.

Gojo, however, was a different story.

Slowly, you turn to him, eyes narrowing. “You—”

He grins, entirely unrepentant. “Me?”

Oh, he was so in for it.

Although he had been shamelessly unapologetic at the time, Gojo still found ways to complain about that night, even years later, after you were finally married.

“It was an unusually cruel punishment,” your husband whines dramatically, draping his entire body weight onto you as if his sheer presence could sway your sympathy.

“You mean the silent treatment?” you deadpan, eyes still trained on Megumi practicing his cursed technique across the yard. “It was only a week. Could’ve been longer if you hadn’t harassed everyone around me until they practically begged me to forgive you.”

Gojo lifts his head just enough to shoot you an exaggerated pout. “I don’t harass people. I simply exist, and they just happen to find me irresistible.”

“You tend to have the exact opposite effect, actually.”

“Ten years later, and you’re still so cruel to me.” He sighs heavily, as if burdened by the weight of your terrible treatment, before shoving his face into the crook of your neck. “You wound me, wife.”

You laugh, warmth bubbling in your chest as his breath tickles your skin. “You’re impossible.”

A loud thud interrupts the moment, and you both glance over just in time to see Megumi scowling, his stance off from a misstep in his training.

“You are still disgusting after all of these years,” he grumbles, adjusting his form before going at it again.

Gojo beams. “Aww, he likes us.”

You shake your head, smiling. “He tolerates us.”

“Eh, same thing.” Gojo squeezes you tighter, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek just to be insufferable.

Megumi groans. “Seriously, get a room.”

Gojo smirks, wiggling his brows. “Don’t tempt me, kid.”

#kt.writes.·:*¨༺#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #gojou x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you

6K notes · View notes

jezior0 · 1 month ago

Text

I was contacted by Moneer @lion-5 to post some important words he wanted to share here. Please, make sure to read them carefully and take action to support Moneer and his family:

"My brother risks his life… just so we can eat." 💔

"I'm a 20-year-old guy, and these aren't just words... this is a cry for help.

We are a broken family — not only by war, but by hunger, illness, and exhaustion.

My father, Raed (48), suffers from a severe skin condition that makes it dangerous for him to be in the sun or even sweat.

My mother, Amani (40), has chronic asthma, spends most of her time bedridden, and struggles to breathe without constant medication.

And me? I've had two surgeries recently, and my body can no longer handle pain, hunger, or even standing for long.

Now the responsibility for the whole family falls on my younger brother Mohammed (17) —

a child forced to become a man far too soon.

We now buy flour by the kilo…

Yes, $30 for just one kilo.

It’s barely enough to feed a single person — and Mohammed can only afford half a kilo, if that.

When he can’t?

He risks everything and goes to what they call "aid distributions" —

but they’re not aid. They’re death traps.

Thousands of people.

Shoving. Screaming.

And Israeli snipers waiting to shoot if you stay longer than 4 minutes.

If you don’t get anything in time, you go home with nothing…

Just tears, empty stomachs, and another day of despair.

But Mohammed still goes…

For us.

For my little sister Sham (5), who now suffers from severe malnutrition.

For my mother, who can barely breathe.

For my father, whose skin burns when he sweats.

Because there’s no one else left.

I’m not asking for much.

Just a smile on Sham’s face,

a breath for my mom,

and safety for Mohammed.

If you can donate even 5€, it might help us buy flour —

so Mohammed doesn’t have to risk his life to feed us.

Maybe… just maybe…

we can eat.

We can live.

We can hold on to what little hope we have left.

Please, don’t let that hope die. 💔

👉 Help us survive"

Despite living in such horrendous conditions, Moneer still dedicates his time and strenght to post and reach out to people on this platform. He deserves to be heard and seen - just like every person living in Gaza, forced to watch genocidal states unleash so much destruction and suffering on their beautiful people and homeland.

Above is the link to Moneer family's Gofundme. Every contribution matters, either €5, €20 or €200. Please follow Moneer's blog and put some of your time into learning his story and helping his campaign reach more people.

Keep in mind this fundraiser is vetted:

Gazavetters number #08

#gaza #gaza genocide #israel is a terrorist state #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza gofundme #palestine #palestine genocide #gofundme #palestine gofundme

2K notes · View notes

tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

Brooklyn Baby - G.S.

Synopsis. Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades. Said Suguru doesn’t want to fuck anyone else but you. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rock star! AU, fwb-to-lovers, unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), fingering (female receiving), Suguru is sinfully sexy and in l*ve with you, Satoru is a menace, pet names (darling, my girl), Suguru has tattoos and piercings, swearing.

Word count. 3.2k (DAMN I got carried away)

A/N. Happy Valentine’s day! *throws somewhat-fluffy smut at you and leaves*

Art by @_3aem on X.

Also, wild west! AU longfic with someone dropping on Sunday night (EST), keep your eyes peeled yeehaw.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades.

You did. Your fans did. Hell, you’ve even caught your overworked band manager sneaking a few too many glances.

And, you conclude, the groupies currently batting their lashes at him definitely did.

You watch as they swarm to him during open rehearsal, giggling at his pretty smiles.

Whatever, part of the job anyway.

It’s not like you two were dating. Yeah, a few fucks here and there throughout the years - but what’s one to do when on the road and in such close proximity with a guy that’s practically walking sex?

Trying not to scowl, you turn away from the commotion, continuing to tune the strings of your trusty Fender. You’ve had your fair share of die-hard fans, so lately why did it bother you so much when Suguru entertained their thinly-veiled advances?

“Ohoho~ Quite a look on your face there, why don’t you go and caress his biceps too?~” you hear idiot brigade member #1, Gojo Satoru, cackle from beside you.

If looks could kill, Satoru would’ve been 6 feet under and rotting already. “I thought you stopped writing band fanfiction, Satoru.” you raise a brow.

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.” he whines dramatically, clinging onto you and shaking you back and forth as if to knock the memory of his Wattpad tendencies out of you. “WHY ATTACK ME JUST CUZ YOU’RE JEALOUS? C’MOOON ADMIT IT.”

You were not jealous.

Suguru knew you were jealous.

Sneaking a glance, he had to fight the urge to coo at the adorable little furrow of your brows. How unprofessional would it be if he walked off mid-conversation to kiss that pout off your lips?

He knows it’s just sex for you. But - foolishly - every time he held you he could only hope that he ran through your mind as often as you did through his. It elated Suguru to know you were getting that worked up over him.

That is until, out of the corner of his eye, he spots Satoru draping himself all over you, whispering god-knows-what into your ears.

The rational part of Suguru knows Satoru is a very touchy person, but why was he so…close? And why weren’t you pushing him off?

Smile tightening into something a little more artificial, he turns to the girls fawning over him. “Well, ladies, I’m sorry to say I’ve gotta go practice before Shoko yells at me again. I’ll see you all in the front row, yeah?” he lies smoothly, disappointed whines following him as he makes a beeline for your figure.

“Well! What have we here, Satoru, are you done tuning?” Suguru pops a head between yours and Satoru’s overly close ones, interrupting whatever conversation you were heatedly whispering. What was so important that you two needed to be that close to talk anyway?

He narrows his eyes at Satoru’s surprised ones, an invisible conversation taking place between them before Satoru cracks a smug grin. “Alright alright. I’ll go tune my guitar.” he rolls his eyes, heading for his electric blue Gibson.

Your confused gaze meets the twinkling eyes now boring down at you. “Done with the meet-n-greet already?” you question, eyes darting to the group now watching you two like hawks.

The smile on Suguru’s face grows, “Yeah, remembered I didn’t do my pre-concert rituals right.”

“Oh?”

“Wanna help me with it?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. Quickly setting down your guitar, he drags you out into the corridor - hand tightly in yours and pointedly ignoring Satoru’s wolf-whistles.

Hallway sex is overrated, Suguru believes - which is why he heads for the dressing room.

“Pre-concert rituals” his ass, Suguru just thinks he might pass away if he doesn’t get his hands on you right now. Make you feel like his.

It’s not long before the door is locked and he has you bent over the vanity, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt.

“S-Sugu! Why now? The concert- Hah-” You gasp in pleasure as two long fingers probe inside of you, ruthlessly searching for the spot that Suguru knows would have your toes curling and eyes watering deliciously.

“Fuck the concert, darling. Barely even started and already so wet f’me.” he drawls out over your whimpers. “Wanted you to come over y’know? And save me from those groupies trying to get in my pants.”

In your lust-hazed mind, you find the words to respond to him, “You s-seemed to - hah - be enjoying that.”

“Of course not.” he leaves a trail of kisses down your back, “Wasn’t my favorite girl.” he whispers into your heated skin.

He’s being rougher than usual, he knows. In the back of his mind he wonders what it was that he was so pissed at. But all thoughts of that are thrown out the window once he presses into that plushy spot inside your wet core, drawing a sinful whine from your mouth. There.

Pulling back to tease your folds with your own slick, he plunges into your swollen pussy once more, easily hitting that spot over and over.

“Hngh- Suguru, more!” you grind your hips to meet his merciless rhythm, clenching around his fingers.

You feel as if you’re losing your sanity when he adds in another finger, walls burning as your cunt stretches around his thick rings.

Suguru was definitely losing his sanity.

Anyone could walk by. The concert was about to start any second now. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck, too focused on how his fingers were being sucked back in every time he pulls out, your pretty pussy dripping all over his numerous bracelets.

He has to hold back a moan at the way your ass jiggled every time your hips buck to meet his fingers.

Leaning down over you, he hums lowly into your ear “So desperate for me, hm?”. Pressing the erection straining against his trousers against you, he huffs out “I’m the same, darling. You drive me absolutely mad.”

He feels the way you squirm in impatience at the large outline of his dick, raising your ass in an attempt to get more friction. Eyes crinkling in satisfaction, he pushes down on his girl’s slutty hips, cold rings digging into the small of your waist.

“Now now…not yet.” he tuts mockingly.

“Please, Suguru. Please let me cum.”

Increasing his pace, abusing your g-spot relentlessly, Suguru knew by your breathy moans of his name that you were getting close.

His hand moves from your waist, leaving behind purple marks to remember him by. They wander the expanse of your body - groping your curves, and pinching your nipples through your thin top - delighting in your mewls.

God, you were perfect. He really needed to take his time with you later.

Suguru’s hands, nail polish chipped and fingers calloused from years of playing, finally rest on your face. He pushes your cheeks together, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth and forcing you to look at him through the vanity mirror in front of you. Your dazed eyes meet his darkened ones.

Suguru was so feral. The man that was usually the personification of grace and poise was falling apart at the seams. His eyes wild and grin spread devilishly as his fingers abuse your cunt never-endingly.

“Look at me when you cum.” he murmurs raspily into your neck, teeth ghosting over your rapid pulse.

You don’t know what it is that sends you over the edge - maybe it was his lustful words, or the way his fingers quirked just right inside of you. All you know is you’re cumming all over Suguru’s fingers, hands clutching the vanity table and eyes locked with Suguru’s in the mirror, mouth dropping into a gasp.

“Fuck! Suguru- Suguru!” you whimper.

Suguru watches in wonder as you ride out your orgasm, using him. He couldn’t give less of a fuck if anyone walked in right now. In fact, a small part of him wishes someone would.

Let them see how beautifully you fall apart because of him.

Finally pulling out, Suguru inspects his fingers. “Now now. That won’t do.” he purrs.

His tongue erotically licks up your juices covering his rings, still holding eye contact with you through the mirror. He catches the way your thighs press together at his lewd act. ‘Oh? Want some?“ he teases.

Before you can retort, he’s bullying his fingers into your mouth, making you taste yourself.

The way you moan around him sends blood rushing straight to his cock. Fuck, he has to steel himself from cumming in his pants right then and there - that wouldn’t be very “sex icon” of him.

You have no idea what you do to him.

Not willing to wait any longer, he leisurely takes a seat on the spacious vanity sofa. You whine at the loss of contact before catching the predatory look in his eyes. Suguru was going to eat you alive.

“Come on, darling. Show me how badly you want me.” he grins, legs spreading and prominent bulge on display.

You take a second to admire the view. Tousled black hair falling enticingly along Suguru’s muscled shoulders, tattooed dragon peeking through where his shirt was messed up. His eyes lustful, and locked on you.

He was devastatingly handsome. Your mouth waters at the chance to get what so many people would kill for.

Suguru chuckles as you struggle to unbuckle his belt - did rock stars have to always wear such complicated trousers?

Finally, you pull them down along with his boxers to expose his creamy thighs. Suguru’s throbbing erection lays on his abs, flushed a delicate pale pink.

Your pussy quivers with excitement as you press wet kisses to Suguru’s leaking head, precum dripping down his length to where you’d gently grasped him. A strangled hiss leaves his mouth as you swirl your tongue around the slit. You find yourself lost in his heady taste - he tastes so good.

“Having fun, darling? C’mon now, use me the way you want.” he murmurs, need laced into his voice.

You’ve never gotten used to how big Suguru is. Soft groans leave his mouth as you flatten your tongue and take him in inch by inch, eyes locked with his blown-out ones.

Suguru’s back arches as the heat of your mouth envelops him, hands bunching your hair into a messy ponytail. His pornographic groans echo across the dressing room as you suck on his cock, tongue swirling in just the way you knew he liked.

He can’t even catch his breath with the way you bob your head so heavenly, sucking the soul out of him. It drives him wild to think about how he’s got his lead guitarist on her knees, choking on his cock as your fans wait outside.

Suguru’s eyes roll to the back of his head as you pop off his cock to take his heavy balls into your mouth, moaning around them as you suck on both erotically.

Shit, he was really feeling it today.

Through the bangs now sticking to his forehead, he makes out the way your thighs grind against each other for relief.

You were, too.

If this keeps up he really will lose his sanity.

“As much as I’d love to paint your pretty face with my cum, I think we both prefer it inside, no?” he grits out, cock twitching at the strings of spit and precum connecting you to him as he pulls you off.

“Need you inside me so badly.” you nod, brain foggy and filled with only Suguru.

He’s quick to lift you into his lap, resting your ass against his pulsing cock, sly grin spreading at the way you’re already so fucked out.

Suguru feels like he could cum just from the sensation of your juices smearing all over his length, pussy dripping and aching for his throbbing cock.

“Oh yeah? How bad?” he purrs, eyes half-lidded and already knowing the answer.

“Please. I want you to fuck me so badly, Suguru.”

“Badly enough that you’d fuck me out there - where everyone is? Show ‘em who I belong to?”

“Yes.”

At your whimper, Suguru thrusts fully inside you, a moan of relief leaving you both as you finally get what you’ve been craving for.

“Shit, so tight. Always so good for me, darling.”

Once you start, it’s hard to stop, Suguru finds.

It happened when he first fucked you in high school - in his car after your first show, running on adrenaline and teenage hormones. And, years later, it’s happening now as he sheathes himself in your wet cunt.

He just can’t get enough.

He fucks you animalistically, cock ramming in and out of your hole in a way that makes it feel like you’re missing something without him. Nothing in the world other than your two connected bodies. He feels you clamping down on him deliciously, ego growing at you struggling to accommodate his size.

“F-fuck, darling. Hah- It’s s’tight. Take it like my good girl.”

“Hngh- Suguru, faster!” you groan, fingers delicately playing with the nipple piercings peeking out of his barely-buttoned shirt, euphoric at his drawn-out moans.

Unlike Satoru - who takes off his shirt every chance he gets onstage - Suguru was one to shy away from showing skin, slutty piercings and tattoos hidden to the world. It just makes it all the more satisfying as you lick a long stripe along the dragon on his shoulder.

Feels like your little secret. You wanted to be the only one to see this ethereal sight.

“Ah- So good, darling.” Suguru leans back, allowing you more room to play with him as you please. Cock twitching - so close - as you bore into his eyes, sucking his flashy piercings.

He ramps up his pace, bouncing you on his cock in a way that was carnal. It was so feral, the way his balls sting as they smack your ass, a ring of spit and precum forming around his base.

His cock aches for release, but he wants to see you cum first. His pretty girl, cumming all over his throbbing cock.

You pull yourself off his swollen nipples and attach your mouth with his, tongues swirling sensually as he kisses you like he needed you to breathe.

He’s almost as unforgiving with his mouth as he is with his cock. Almost.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“YOOO I don’t know if ‘pre-concert rituals’ was a code-word for something else but we’re on in twenty minutes.” the unmistakable voice of Suguru’s best friend - and occasional bane-of-his-existence - made you two jump apart.

“The ultimate cockblock.” Suguru sighs out - his pace, however, does not slow down. Each harsh thrust makes it difficult to muffle your yelps of pleasure from Satoru, who was still calling for you two from outside.

Noticing your predicament, Suguru grins dangerously. “Oh? My poor girl finds it hard to stop her moans? Aww, better try harder unless you want dear Satoru finding out.” he mocks in your ear.

Both humiliated and turned on by his words, your dripping pussy clenches around his cock. He lets out a choked-up groan, biting hard into the crook of your neck to stop it.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face, “Who should try harder now, Suguru?”

Ah, perfect. You were perfect, perfect for him.

As Satoru’s yells about “cutting a chunk out of Suguru’s pay” disappear across the hallway, both of you let out exhales of relief.

“Dangerous game you played there, mister.” you raise a brow, teasingly.

He chuckles out, before pulling you to him closer by the waist. Lips ghosting over your own, he whispers “Only with you, my darling.”

Slightly more clear-headed but still dripping with lust, you meet the bounce of Suguru’s hips with your own. Eyes still locked with yours, he stuffs you with every inch - tip kissing your cervix so painfully good.

The steady slapping of skin and synchronized moans fill the room, blocking out the cheering of the audience awaiting your band.

Yet, the air crackled with something different this time. For the first time, it didn’t just feel like just mindless fucking.

Bite mark on your neck stinging, you could feel Sugurus heartbeat thundering under your touch - synchronized with your own.

In this moment it felt like just you two in this world.

You wanted to be the only one in his world. Not his fangirls, not some manager, not anyone else.

Maybe that was the reason for your courage, feeling like everything has finally come to a boiling point.

“S-Suguru.” you breathe out as you feel yourself getting closer.

“Mhm?” brows furrowed, he looks up at you with a tenderness in his eyes that does not translate to the merciless cadence of his hips.

“Be mine.”

And that’s all Suguru ever wanted.

With a final hard thrust of his cock, he pulls you into a searing kiss that sends you both over the edge. He cums in hot spurts, thick ropes of seed filling your quivering cunt. It was feral - and it made you feel like his.

Suguru’s seed drips down the side of his length, forming a white ring at his base as he fucks it deeper into you, letting you ride out your highs together.

As your climaxes bate, he buries his face in your neck, kissing softly over the mark from before. “To be yours is everything I could ever want, darling.” he breathes out, hugging you closer as if to hide this vulnerable moment. But you feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin.

Embracing him, you gather his beautiful black locks in your hand, fingers deftly taking the hair tie around your wrist to tie his long hair into a messy ponytail.

Pulling back, you admire Suguru’s angelic features. Face flushed, lips swollen, and dark eyes half-lidded as he stares up at you in surprise.

“Wanted to see your pretty face.” you huff out a low laugh.

The expression on Suguru’s face is indescribable, such pure adoration in his eyes.

Voice low, he murmurs words meant only for you, “I…I’m in lov-”

“HEYYY I’m serious, stop doing the devil’s tango and GET THE FUCK OUT.” Satoru’s voice bellows once again through the door, shattering the little bubble you and Suguru had found refuge in.

“Ah- um-”

“You-”

Both of you stammer out at once, chuckling at how shy you were acting with one another even after all that had transpired in this room.

“We should probably go, before Satoru and Shoko pop a blood vessel.” Suguru jokes. You laugh out in agreement as he carries you tenderly to the washroom, his interrupted words weighing heavily on both your minds. It’s okay, you have time.

Rapidly cleaned up and dressed, Suguru stops, a hand on the dressing room doorknob. “”Hey..” he starts almost-hesitantly, “After the concert, would you maybe want to-”

“Yes.” you interrupt, excitement lacing your voice.

Chuckling in pure euphoria as you both exit, your smiles turn more sheepish as you’re faced with a bored-looking Shoko and an impatient Satoru tapping his foot. “You horny lil’ fuckers almost missed the show, think of my poor fans~” he exclaims, though the glee in his eyes at your intertwined hands was very evident.

“Hope the sex was good at least.” Shoko drones out, eyes flitting over your guilty flushed faces.

‘Oh yeah, and Suguru - next time you dump your fangirls on me, I chop your balls off.“ she chirps out, pointing her drumsticks threateningly at his neck as you all head back.

Blinding lights.

Deafening screams.

Hair pulled into a messy ponytail, he was fatally beautiful onstage.

Everybody wanted to fuck Suguru Geto, lead bassist of Tokyo Special Grades.

But he only wanted to fuck you.

A/N. MMMMM long-haired men.

Plagiarism not authorized.

#geto x reader #geto x you #geto smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fic #jjk #geto suguru #tonywrites

9K notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 2 months ago

Text

for better or for worse (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, possessiveness, jealous!bucky, deep conversations, a touch of angst

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 4.3k

author's note: hii my dears! i am so so excited to post this chapter because i had a great time writing it! i love it so, so much and i hope you will too! love ya guys and stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The moonlight spilled through the glass panes in long, soft streaks, painting the suite in muted silver. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs in slow, rhythmic intervals–their roar softened by thick walls and heavier curtains. The night had finally gone still.

The comms had gone silent. One final crackle from Ava confirmed the team was calling it, settling down, resting.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was peace.

You sat at the edge of the bed, your back to Bucky, one hand gripping the edge of a throw pillow as you carefully wedged it between you both—a makeshift border.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.

The room held its breath for a moment.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.

“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.

“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.

His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”

You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.

“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.

“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.

The words sank deeper than you expected.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.

“It’s not that I don’t care.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.

“I care too much. That’s the problem.”

Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”

He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“I’m asking you not to die over it.”

That landed harder than anything else.

A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.

“You always know what to say to piss me off.”

Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.

“Unfortunately.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.

Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.

You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.

Another long pause.

Then—his voice, tired but teasing.

“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”

You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.

“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”

That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.

Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.

Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”

He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.

But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.

“’Night, doll.”

Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.

Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee.

The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer. Familiar.

Something was different.

He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.

Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there.

The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.

Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.

His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin.

Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.

Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.

But he didn’t. He just stared.

His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.

“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.

You hadn’t.

You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.

Trouble.

That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.

You were still trouble. Just a different kind now.

His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.

Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”

He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.

Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.

“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”

Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.

And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.

Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.

Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.

Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.

None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.

You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.

The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.

The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.

It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.

Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.

Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.

He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”

You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.

“What do we do?” you asked quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.

“Take it.”

Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.

But your pulse stuttered all the same. Then you slid your hand into his.

His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.

Like you did this every day.

And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.

It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.

Technically.

But it lingered.

Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.

The words hit low, sharp. Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.

And of course he did.

You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.

He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”

You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”

You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall.

The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.

“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”

Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”

You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”

“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”

You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”

He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”

Everyone laughed.

You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.

Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.

“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.

“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”

You blinked. Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.

He said it like he meant it.

Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”

You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”

Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.

You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.

“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.

Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”

The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.

But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.

The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.

Unfortunately.

His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.

Because there you were.

Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.

The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.

You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You had to know what you were doing.

You had to.

“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.

Because now some guy was approaching you.

Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.

Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.

Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations.

But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.

“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”

Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.

You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.

Flirted.

Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.

And that was it.

His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.

He didn’t think, didn’t pause.

The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.

You noticed him immediately.

Of course you did.

Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.

“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.

The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.

“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.

The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”

“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.

You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.

“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.

Then, slowly, you stood.

It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.

“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.

“You were feeling yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.

Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.

Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.

“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.

Bucky stopped short.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”

You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”

“Because I care if you get killed”

The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.

You blinked. Once.

And then the space between you collapsed.

You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.

Your noses bumped.

His breath ghosted across your lips.

The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.

So close.

So fucking close.

You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.

“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.

You tilted your chin.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

And then—

A door slammed.

A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.

The spell shattered.

Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.

Then, finally, you stepped back.

One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.

Bucky didn’t follow.

Not yet.

He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Because he almost kissed you.

And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.

The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.

The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.

You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.

And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.

It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.

Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.

God.

You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.

But it didn’t go.

You could still feel it.

The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.

The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.

It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.

You hated it.

Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.

You were supposed to be in control.

You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.

But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.

You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.

You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.

It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.

But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.

From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.

Bucky.

You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.

The faucet turned off.

You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.

Not just at him. At yourself.

At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.

The bathroom door opened.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.

He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.

You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.

He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.

You didn’t make it easier.

Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.

A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.

The tension hung between you anyway.

It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.

You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.

But not calm.

You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.

You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.

But you didn’t do any of that.

You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.

Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.

And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.

You didn’t sleep well.

Neither did Bucky.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27

1K notes · View notes

mygnolia · 11 months ago

Text

to weave my love ⭒ n. riki

⭒ SYNOPSIS -› Riki is good at many things- dancing, making fun of his friends, playing it cool (debatable.), Hell- he’s even good at saving people from falling buildings without getting whiplash. But the things he’s bad at? Well, it’s asking you out to prom, and trying to balance the shared assignment he has with you…while being Spider-man.

⭒ PAIR -› spiderman!nishimura riki x fem-pres!reader

⭒ GENRE -› fluff, banter, action ⭒ TROPES -› classmates to lovers, idiots to lovers ⭒ WC -› 17k (i’m sorry idk why either.)

⭒ INCLUDES -› SPOILERS FOR GREAT GATSBY, cursing, non-graphic injuries (reader discretion advised), yes i made the patching up with first aid kit trope SUE ME!! takes place in a busy city similar to new york never specified, reader is rich, jake and heeseung are seniors and riki’s a junior, is riki stupid? yes… jake reveals stuff because he is also a little silly, reader wears a red dress!

⭒ GREAT GATSBY -› basically jay gatsby has this weird amt of money but no one rlly knows how he got it (nefarious reasons) and hes been in love with this girl daisy for five years but then she got married to tom buchanan but he gets rich so he can get the house across from her and wistfully watch her and he pines after her like CRAZY but he dies at the end

⭒ REN SAYS...special huge fat kiss to thena @sensitively-taken you will be in the will when im a millionaire THANK YOU for helping me with so much of this I WUV U AND I WLL BE WAITING FOR UR HUENING FIC!!! | LIBRARY

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM PRE-ADULTHOOD STRESS, IF THAT’S EVEN A THING.

What exactly does Riki have to worry about as a seventeen-year-old junior in high school? Right now, his most daunting responsibility is catching up on the chapters of The Great Gatsby because the only thing Riki’s actually read from the novel is that the main character shares a name with his best friend and senior, Park Jay. His second most daunting responsibility is handling the fact that with the new seating chart in his Literature class, it means he’s sitting next to the object of his very subtle affections, you.

See, the problem with having a crush on you is that Nishimura Riki’s committed to thinking that you’re way out of his league, and unfortunately, the boy believes that almost too well. Not only are you minted beyond his wildest dreams (having seen your posts on social media), but you’re hardworking, helpful, and dedicated to your role as student body treasurer. He’s already understood that you’d never go for a guy like him. Maybe someone more like Park Sunghoon, whose parents’ salary matches yours. If Riki lived in a rural estate with generational wealth, handling the whole ‘Spider-Man’ thing might be a bit easier for him, considering he wouldn’t have to try so hard in school. It might even change the fact that Riki dealt with some alleyway criminals last night and is currently catching up on lost sleep, as your English Literature teacher goes on and on about a project on the book you’re reading.

In class, and even sometimes outside of the classroom, your small tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings has landed you in some awkward situations—like now.

“I don’t really tell anyone this, but I hate Daisy.” And instead of getting a response, you glance over to see Nishimura Riki slumped on the desk. Without trying to make preconceptions about what could land him in a situation like this, you poke his arm, stifling a smile at how his eyes widen when you’ve caught him rubbing the very obvious sleep from his eye.

“Sorry,” he whispers, still fighting the post-nap grogginess, “Did I miss anything?”

(Nope.)

Shaking your head, you return your attention to your teacher as he continues to answer questions. The second Mr. Yoo assigned a report, you wanted to die even more considering the work you had to do on top of the impending due dates. But for it to be partnered? And for you to get seated and paired with the one boy who's known for not caring about school? Maybe things are a little stacked against you, but there has to be a reason why Riki’s somehow still passing all his classes…right?

Considering it’s the last assignment about the book, you’re glad that you already read it so many times to know what you want to put into words. And in retrospect, answering a few open-ended questions about it can’t be that hard—the hardest part would be getting your partner to stay awake in class.

A small tap at your side makes you turn to face Riki, who you see has frantically written a page full of notes about the project in the past three minutes and how he can succeed. “Can you go over the first part? Sorry…I was…y’know.”

“It’s a partner project. And we’re partners.” You wince at the awkward wording.

Great! Riki was caught sleeping and that was your first impression of him for your paired assignment? Riki feels so stupid in front of you right now—in front of your meticulous notes with annotations and proper highlighting. He wants to curl up into a ball when he sees you glance over at his haphazard attempt to look like he was paying attention when, in truth, he was trying to remember the dream he had just ten minutes prior. When you offer him a small smile and nod, leaning over with your notebook in hand, he sighs in relief, thanking whoever it was that let him get away with his naps without the consequence of irritating you afterwards.

The bell rings when Mr. Yoo stops talking, and you pause, startled by the sound. Instead of leaving, however, you pack your bag and shuffle to his side of his desk, continuing to parrot details about your report in hopes that it all makes sense. You need to make sure he knows what he’s doing.

“I think one of the questions he mentioned was like ‘Is Gatsby a good person?’ and do you remember how in Chapter Eight…” The rest gets zoned out and forgotten in the boy’s head, because he in fact does not know what happened in Chapter Eight. He doesn’t know what happened…in any part of the book. But he agrees anyway, pretending like he understands what scene you’re trying to explain. What he notices is how thorough and dedicated you are towards ensuring he comprehends what you’re explaining, and although it could be because you don’t want him to fail you both, he chooses to believe you’re doing it because you tolerate him.

You’re so engrossed in covering all the little details and telling him random tidbits regarding the book that you don’t realize your feet have made it all the way to the cafeteria. “But here, let me get your number. I’ll totally explain more over text.”

Riki is definitely not freaking out when he silently grabs his phone and hands it to you with the contact page, staring a little longer than necessary at the cute smiley face you added to your name. “Thanks,” he mumbles, forcibly tearing his eyes away from the ten digits of your number, “For helping me with this, too.”

“Of course! The Great Gatsby is a fun read for me. A little hard to read sometimes because of some of the characters, but still easy to understand.” And Nishimura RIki realizes that he has to do well. He’ll read the book five times over if it means gaining your approval.

Jake notices something a little different about the tuft of black and blonde hair when his friend walks in. The first thing is that he’s actually here, and that you’re next to him, smiling. The boy rubs his eye to make sure he’s not dreaming somehow, but when he looks up again, you’re waving goodbye and joining your friends across the room.

“Did you get hit with something while fighting a villain that makes you more bold? I feel like I just saw you and ____ talking,” Jake starts when Riki finally joins him with his lunch.

Riki laughs, shoving Jake’s head out of embarrassment and opening his chips. “It’s just school. Got some project in English and she says we’re partnered.” He looks over at his friend chuckling, rolling his eyes at how Jake pokes at his side and wiggles his eyebrows.

“I better hear you two are dating by next week.”

“Who’s dating by next week?” Heeseung places his bag of food in front of them and takes a seat, opening the fast food he got last period and stuffing a fry in his mouth.

“Riki and ____. Let me have one,” Jake answers, reaching inside the bag.

Heeseung looks over at his junior curiously. “You asked her out?” And the two older students hear a groan from the boy in question.

“Me and ____ aren’t anything, for your information.” He prods at the vegetables on his tray and takes a bite before a look of displeasure washes over his face. “You’re both way too excited for two guys who do not have girlfriends.”

“Hey! You know the girl I’m always fighting with is the reason why I’m single. I have to focus on studying to do well in school to do better than her.” Heeseung’s whining falls on deaf ears as Riki smiles victoriously, seeing how defensive the former got.

Jake offers him a shrug of defeat. “I got nothing.”

The three of them fall into normal conversation and Riki finally explains everything that happened during English. “So you’re telling me your plan to ask ____ out went down from 18 months to 6?” And with a nod from the younger, they both groan once more. Heeseung exclaims, “We’re both going to graduate, dumbass. Make the plan go down to like…two months? Please?”

Jake cuts in before Riki has a chance to respond. “Make it one and a half, so we can see you with a prom date before leaving forever.”

“You act as if you’re going to die after graduation. It’s like you’re begging to be a super senior.”

And they’re silenced immediately.

“Do you think the guy I was with earlier hates me?” you ask on the other side of the room. Minjeong stares at you blankly, waiting for your explanation. “I don’t know if you saw when I walked in but I was talking to this really tall guy with blonde hair and black tips. He seemed really out of it, like he kept staring at me and nodding. I think I scared him off by talking about the book too much.”

Sunghoon, who is also listening in, opens his neatly packed lunchbox and begins mixing his noodles. “I think you did scare him off, ____.”

“Not helping,” Minjeong interjects, “Just talk to him more and maybe he’ll warm up to you. You two sit together in class anyways, so hopefully he’ll talk more?”

“I know him,” Sunghoon comments, “Well, sort of. I’m friends with Jake who’s friends with Riki, and it seems like all that boy does is sleep.”

“Maybe he’s really good at subconscious in-class comprehension?” you try, taking a bite of your sandwich. “I just hope it doesn’t interfere too much with treasurer stuff.”

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE IF HE SWINGS INTO ANOTHER WALL AT 100MPH LIKE HOW HE ALMOST DID TONIGHT.

All he’s had on his mind since school ended till now is how he should probably text you, if he really discarded the slimy acid monster from last week properly, and when the prom theme is going to be released, but there’s something amiss that confuses his spidey-senses and makes Riki much more alert.

He snaps out of whatever train of thought he had before, focusing on the situation at hand and looking around to follow his instinct. Riki cautiously plants himself on the side of a random apartment building to get a sense of what's going on. A tingle of some sort of in the air permeates the material of his suit and leaves him shivering from the cold.

He doesn't like it one bit.

Moving to the side of the building to the top, the boy finally catches a glimpse of something when he gets a decent view of the city and highway systems. Riki knows something’s wrong with the bridge the closer he gets. He zips from one side of the tall, metal tower to the other, crawling down on all fours making sure he isn’t caught. He feels the electric feeling once more, only amplified. It runs up his spine and he wants to slap it, almost like a frantic, summertime bug. The air around him is charged with something he has never recognized before. With a puzzled expression under his mask, Riki continues to investigate the surrounding area.

Riki finds a lone figure with some sort of attachment to his left arm, like a long glove made out of metal. The bulkiness of it seems to have no impact on his body as the man fiddles with the contraption, and the boy watches with bated breath as the machine fizzes and spurts with electricity. It begins to glow as power concentrates on his plated palm and the superhero sees it for the first time. It’s like a fizz, like a match striking at fire only to produce a quick burst of friction, but it almost feels liquid when he watches the person play with the flickering blue ball of electricity. It dances in the dark in a hauntingly beautiful way, with bolts jutting out from the metal as it spurts and buzzes with a life-like manner.

A spark.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The sound of Riki’s voice from the end of the bridge causes the stranger to look up with wide eyes. Although Riki fully expects it to simply enhance strength or block damage, the immediate strike of blue that flies straight towards him is anything but defensive. With a yelp, he jumps away, this time refusing to show himself.

What the hell was that?

He knows he should go back down there to change things and get the person and the metal pieces away before it escalates, but when he goes back down to watch, it's ten times worse. The bright blue illuminates the scarred face of the villain as he’s picked up the metal arm–but this time, it’s no longer clunky and sparking, but fused into his arm.

Riki’s face pales at the sudden change before his body acts on its own and he shoots out a web to stop the man.

The villain is shocked by the intrusion, but quickly yanks free from the webbing and flicks another bolt of electricity, one that flies much faster now that the metal flows into the arm instead of simply resting on the skin. It’s unlike something Riki has ever seen, something that is so controlled in motion and yet so erratic in nature, and it instills a deathly fear when it grazes his arm he hisses in pain. The sharp feeling springs Riki into action as he jumps away. He’s lucky another bolt isn’t sent his way, seeing how the villain’s too busy marveling at the power of his new gadget.

“You know that fucking hurts, right?” He yells out, cupping his wound. “Maybe leave the gadgets to the kids!”

The man scoffs. “It better have hurt. I sacrificed half my body for this to work.”

“But why?” All Riki wants is answers. Some sort of explanation.

The man charges up yet another bolt, almost like a laser gun is built into the machine. “Less talking, more running, Spiderman.”

That scared the shit out of him.

The boy doesn’t have time to think as he jumps out from the dark tunnel to the bridge and up the metal towers—he hates having to fight with people right below. The villain follows in pursuit, almost crumbling the metal with his engineered arm as he hoists himself quickly. Riki continues to jump between the structure to avoid the flashes, trying to get out and apprehend the man as quickly as possible. When he reaches the top, however, he feels death is near as he glances down at the villain below who’s quickly gaining on him. He shoots out webs to slow him temporarily, letting himself fall and swing from the side of the tower to escape.

What he doesn’t see on the way across the bridge is the flash that misses his cheek and hits his thigh instead. It burns, and mid-air, Riki gives the wound a quick assessment before he lands on the metal, immediately forcing his body to climb. While dealing with his wound, he fails to notice the villain swinging from the bridge support lines to meet him.

He needs to end this fast before he becomes burnt toast.

Riki doesn’t often rely on instinct to carry him, but he can tell that the villain he’s facing isn’t just a criminal.

“Land another hit, would you?” he tries to say, his voice strained from the pain in his arm and leg. It doesn’t do much to deter the man in front of him as the arm continues to destroy and bend the metal on the way up. “What are you going to do now, Sparky?”

The man says nothing, charging energy into his metal glove again before aiming and focusing on the target: him.

Riki jumps off, not able to properly land his web in the right spot as he goes from one section of the bridge to the other. The man behind him looks enraged at the boy’s attempt to escape—so much so that he reaches out with his normal hand to try to grasp the suit when Spider-Man swings past him. Instead of the feeling of fabric, the villain feels sticky spider fluid on his fingers. Riki shoots out a web, one that curls around the villain’s wrist and drags him off the tower. Instead of being able to launch him into the surrounding waters, the man slips from the poorly shot-out webs and falls from mid air into the sea of frantic cars, including one semi truck that collides directly with his arm. In the air, the boy winces when he hears honks and shouts from the impact, hoping it’s the last time he’ll have to witness it.

With his gaze trained on the falling figure, the weakly attached web breaks, and Riki all of a sudden starts falling down as well. He curls up defensively before bracing for impact, curling into himself when he feels the metal dent and the truck driver scream from outside of the parked vehicle, the body of the villain right in front of it.

Riki staggers, holding onto his arm and thigh the best he can before getting up. With wobbly steps and a small jump, he lands near the unconscious man, whose metal arm is cracked and fizzling—something that Riki knows is bound to leave more scars.

“Call the police. I’ll get rid of the pieces.” Although Riki wants to figure out who the criminal is and make sure he’s properly apprehended, the gashes in the boy's limbs leave him winded and exhausted. With hot metal scraps bound together by webbing in his hands, Riki swings out and dumps it somewhere rural, trying his best to cover the pieces with the pounding headache that

Riki revisits the secluded spot under the bridge, looking for clues to the man’s identity, and his expression falls when he notices a lanyard dangling near a trash can.

His name, his position, and the company. FLiGHT Corp. The company name caught the boy’s eye, and he pockets the item before leaving.

It seemed like he was a normal research scientist, but Riki’s recollection of the scars and tattered skin leaves him retracting his last thought. He heard something about the failure of a time travel machine at FLiGHT, and if the mass of the incident was anything to go by, he was in the center of it.

No matter how many times Riki tries to get it out of his head, on the way home, all he can think about is the inexperience he displayed and the lack of response he gave Riki during the whole time. But Riki can’t bring himself to really take away someone’s life—and maybe for that, he’s a horrible superhero.

He knows he should stop the man before it's too late, and especially with how many self-proclaimed villains there have been, it's not easy to see so many innocent people ruin their lives chasing a power that inevitably consumes them. He knows it’ll only get worse if he lets them run free.

And while the superhero has never been fully honest with himself, there are many times where Riki hates his role as Spider-Man, and wishes that he was just some teenage boy who didn't have the lives of others in his palm. He wishes he didn't have to sacrifice so much to stay behind a mask—and he wonders deep down if there’s anyone else who felt the same.

His swings lead him across the city above hundreds of lives he has to protect, and he tries to find some semblance of peace. He thinks about how he has his homework due despite having just risked his life, he thinks about how your project is going—and about you.

In the night under the stars, Nishimura Riki wishes for something just a bit normal. He wishes a good night for himself, but also for you, wherever you could be.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE FROM TRYING TO READ THIS BOOK IN ONE NIGHT.

The Great Gatsby is exactly like how you described it; a little hard to get through but fun with the plot’s eccentric characters. He’s pretty sure he could’ve just used a detailed SparkNotes explanation for the book, but having a crush can make someone do weird things. And in Nishimura Riki’s case, his infatuation has got him reading a novel about morally-skewed characters and rich society to impress you.

When you come into class barely on time, Riki gives you a confused look when you sit down, but doesn’t comment on it any further. Instead, he takes out his book and tries to act like his eyes weren’t closing shut from exhaustion by the time Daisy was finally confessing how she loved Gatsby.

The moment Mr. Yoo stops talking, however, Riki isn’t asleep—much to your surprise. He has his book out, pages filled with sticky notes and a whole section of his notebook dedicated to characters (written in bright red to keep him awake) and their traits.

“I got it.” It’s the first thing he says when you two are left to do in-class work. It’s ominous, and maybe a little too enthusiastic in a high school literature class for a boy who doesn’t even care that much for school, but you’ll accept it with open arms if it means you get a helping hand on your project.

“Continue,” you tell him slowly, leaning back in your chair to listen to him. And you don’t know why, but a small part of you thinks that the boy who sleeps every period the book was discussed wouldn’t have much to say or contribute to such an open-ended prompt, but life is full of surprises.

What you fail to notice is how Riki is nervous and his stomach does at least twenty flips before he swallows dryly and starts rambling in hopes to impress you and redeem himself from his embarrassing slumber a few days ago.

“So you know how our prompt is based on one character and basically all their actions?” he asks, and you nod, absentmindedly thumbing a sheet in your journal. “I’m thinking we should talk about Jay Gatsby because so much is revealed to us about him that we might as well use it to our advantage. Y’know, talking about how the theme of exploitation and secrets is veiled under Gatsby’s desire for Daisy.”

“You don’t think Gatsby’s a good character?” Riki wants to tell you that Gatsby is more relatable than good or bad, but he shakes his head.

“I mean, not really.” He feels like with those four words, he’s completely changed the trajectory of his relationship with you from a positive slope to completely downhill—and a wave of panic washes over him. “Should I? I mean, I could see him as more redeemable if you gave me examp-“

You wave your hand to quell his worries. “To be honest, I don’t like him either. But he’s an interesting main character to write about, so I think we should go with your idea.”

To win your approval feels like he’s won at least three fights against a villain in a row without getting any bad injuries—it feels good. And for the rest of the period, you are able to finish a detailed outline of your work for the next few weeks, mapping out sections for each other, and he even gets to see a part of prom planning on a word document you had open. He considers your shared productivity a win when he packs up and bids you goodbye before leaving for lunch.

One wave doesn’t catch Riki’s attention from across the room. Not even two, or three calls of his name could get Nishimura Riki out of his thoughts, and Jake frowns before moving up in the lunch line.

“Something’s caught your eye again.” Jake feigns innocence and sighs dramatically as he places the food down next to Riki’s plate. “Could it possibly be our school treasurer?” Jake laughs, leaning over to catch a glimpse of what’s got his friend so entranced and non-responsive.

Riki scrunches his nose, annoyed, but never breaking his gaze from where you’re sitting. “We talked in class–like, a lot,” is all he says, paying his friend no mind. “She’s genuinely so understanding.”

“God, I don’t think you can be any more down bad for her than you are right now.” Jake picks at his food, and despite his concentration directed towards the olives on his pizza, he’s able to dodge the flying loaded nacho that goes his way, even if he wasn’t the one with superpowers.

“Can you shut up?” Riki grumbles, laying his head on his arms as he notices you smile and point to something. “I just got pummeled into a semi truck last week. Let me have this before I die tomorrow.”

“Very grim,” his friend notes, ruffling the younger’s hair, “I think this is exactly what all of those mental health assemblies that we get are for.” And Riki basically tunes him out, too tired to fight and too used to the teasing remarks to come up with anything useful in response.

Riki sits up a bit, letting his head rest on his propped elbow as he looks at the school food and touches another nacho gingerly. “Y’know, I read the book for English so she wouldn’t think I’m an idiot.”

His friend snickers, successfully pulling out yet another sliced olive from the cheese, much to the disgust of Riki. “She probably already thinks you’re an idiot.”

The superhero debates throwing another cheesy nacho in Jake's face, before deciding to eat it instead. “Don’t say that asshole! You make it seem like I have no chance with her.”

Jake shoots him an exasperated look that makes Riki break eye contact. “That’s because you don’t.”

“I’ll prove to her that I’m worth her time.” Riki says somewhat wistfully, still stealing glances from a few tables away. “Maybe I’ll ask her out to prom, show up in my suit. Do that cheesy upside down kiss shit people say Spiderman does.” When his friend raises an eyebrow at him, Riki shrugs. “I will! Well-maybe not the Spider-Man thing, but prom definitely.”

Jake continues to look at him unconvinced as he takes a bite out of a slice of pizza with mangled cheese. “You barely talk to her in class and you think you can ask her out to prom as Nishimura Riki?” And the younger grins, eyes still stuck on how your eyes crinkle and how your shoulders shake with laughter.

“Yup.” And his fate is sealed, just like that.

“What’s your project about, anyways? Didn’t you tell me last night that she gave you her number? Must be pretty serious if she wants to text you.” Riki furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head.

“It’s just tying the theme of the book to one character and writing about how they show it. So we did the theme of money and Gatsby, because it’s easy and mentioned so many times.”

Jake gawks. “You must really like her,”

“I was planning to read it regardless of who I was partnered with.”

“Okay- that’s debatable.” There goes another one of Riki’s nachos.

“Gross.”

He thinks things are going pretty well for you two. The report is being written and your quotes are basically finding themselves, so Riki should give himself a pat on the back for pitching the initial idea for how to go about your assignment. Maybe reading the whole book offered him a few useful pointers, and he goes to sleep that night satisfied with your progress. Maybe Heeseung and Jake were right—maybe he could finally ask you out by prom.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO SAVE THE CITY FROM YET ANOTHER MONSTER TERRORIZING THE STREETS.

He wakes up the next morning, not expecting his alarm to alert his senses to danger. It rings in his head and makes him feel delirious, trying to shake sleep off as he looks out the window for any visible sign of what's wrong. If he could hear the danger in his head then that meant someone could be hurt, and he could go to school without a few hours of sleep if he worked fast enough, right?

Riki slips into his suit without much thought and goes to crack his window open, only to look back at his clock and read the horrific time of 6:23AM.

Who the hell picks a fight with a teenager at this ungodly time?

Then, he shoots from his wrists, once, twice, and suddenly, he's off, covering more ground through the air in just three seconds than he ever could while walking or running for minutes on end.

The source of his tingling spidey-sense is some large metal centipede creature that was setting off car alarms in a neighborhood near the market. Thankfully, no one was really awake to be caught in the crossfire, but he has to figure out how the hell he's going to catch that thing in...he checks his watch…twenty minutes?

Hopefully, his instinct will help him win this time—again.

The web he shoots out does nothing to stop the monster, and considering how it connected them both, the threads only drag the superhero to the edge of the building he was initially watching from. With some yelling and pulling, he finally detaches, and realizes that the odd sizzling feeling in his bonds must be from the same source as a few days ago; Spark.

He had this gut feeling that a villain as strong as him wouldn’t have been destroyed so easily, but his wounds were so deep and the blood loss so bad from a few nights ago that he couldn’t have truly dumped him in the ocean without fainting or suffering something permanent, and although Riki hoped things in the universe would work itself out, the presence of the giant fifty foot insect alone is proof that things were not in his favor.

He jumps off the building onto another, working quickly as he strings up a few webs between the houses as a wall for the monster, watching it slide and knock over cars in its wild pursuit. The monster spends a few seconds breaking down the wall of webbing and climbing over it, the many legs easily breaking through. As the superhero jumps across buildings and keeps track of the centipede’s movement, he has no idea why it isn’t going for him, and that makes his job much harder without the attention of the monster. One glance at the direction the centipede is headed in sets off another ding in Riki’s head—but this time, it finally clicks why the centipede is headed away from the boy.

It’s attracted to the power plant.

Riki immediately jumps and swings off of a lamp post, using the momentum of gravity and the force of his swing to propel him faster than the slithering creature. Squinting, he holds out his fist and points his pointer and pinky out, following the movement of the centipede as he aims.

Bam.

He sends clusters of silky white threads down precisely at the first pair of legs to pin it down. The webs stop the creature momentarily, and Riki doesn’t have time to watch how the body shrinks up and fizzes out with blue shocks as it tries to wiggle loose and malfunctions. This fight would be over soon, and the boy smiles when he jumps down to shoot more webs to apprehend the centipede. It wiggles and sends electricity out through parts of its body, trying to pry itself out. He expects it to simply be a robot of sorts following a mission considering its avoidant behavior, but as he approaches the tail, the monster suddenly swings at Riki, and its mass and speed is incomparable to the boy’s reaction speed.

Riki lands into a tree and someone’s garage, feeling the crumbling wall falling all over him and the sudden pain blooming in his lower back.

This fight will, in fact, not be over soon.

With his superhuman abilities, Riki grabs onto the metal of the car beside him to hoist himself up, coughing from the dust, and jumping over the rubble to see how quickly the centipede creature can get out, without regard for his current state. The sound and rumble of the giant monster is all he needs to know that the traps are effective, but not at the previous capacity.

The plan is simple: apprehend the legs and crush the head, where Riki assumes the decision-making and programming is taking place. But the monster’s angry and erratic actions throw a wrench in his plan. Its legs move faster, digging into the cement and leaving ruin in its wake as it continues down the road. While both the villain and superhero are fast, the distance between the power plant is finite—and only grows smaller and smaller.

Although Riki can feel the bruises coming, he runs and swings, hearing the wind in his ears as he catches up to the centipede in no time. He tries the same tactics again–aim, shoot, stick, all the while keeping his distance. Although the monster’s body spans incredibly long, and should carry an immense amount of weight, the way it snaps at Riki’s flying body and sends shockwaves through his core leaves him shivering as his body slams into the ground, coughing. It hurts all over, and it feels like there’s weight on his eyes when he tries to open them and get up. His head is spinning as he staggers onto his knees, clutching his chest as he watches the centipede shrivel and crackle.

It seems like the voltage produced is a double-ended sword, one that burns up the centipede body as much as it deals damage, and with the way the mutant creeps towards the electricity of the plant, Riki gets the feeling there’s a magnetic pull that forces the mutant to continue to crawl even against its instinct to stop.

Despite his waning strength, however, Riki knows better than to half finish the job like last time. He creates a net from experience, weaving together the thickest and most durable threads to trap the entirety of the slowly approaching creature. It seems to crawl slowly up the makeshift barrier, knocking its head against the white and spreading the bright blue waves of its energy throughout. The boy watches as the thin white mass absorbs all of it and clings to the creature. It works, finally, after his attempts to nullify its movements, and he knows that despite the ache in his every step, the almost mummified centipede that hangs between several roofs for all the neighbors to gawk at is his sure sign of victory.

All he remembers is hearing a familiar call of his hero name before his legs give out and his head hits Jake’s chest.

Holy fucking shit is the first thing Riki thinks when he wakes up.

He’s not out of his tattered suit and he feels grimy all over, but his body has done wonders in reducing the otherwise fatal injuries he got. No human body should be able to withstand two energy-filled blasts, but his suit and superhuman healing are of greater help than ever in alleviating the damage from his wounds.

He knows why he’s in his bed with bandages thrown over his open wounds. He knows that every time something like this happens, it’s Jake who shoos away the concerned civilians, telling them he’s a medic. Jake is not a medic—rather, he’s a seventeen year-old boy who knows about his friend’s double life and with all the times he’s saved Riki, someone might as well dub him the greatest medic of all time.

The clock on his bedside table has only served as a bearer of bad news. He looks over to see how it’s practically midday, and he’s missed yet another day of school from fighting crime. He’s in no condition to get up or get his bag, seeing how his hair is frizzy and his cheek has a cut that would warrant questioning. It seems only fair that he stays absent, and before he falls back asleep, he only prays you aren’t too mad at him for leaving the seat next to you empty.

But you aren’t mad, just worried. The soreness in his muscles doesn’t go away though, and he groans when he sits up in his bed, with bandages around his arms and an ice pack discarded next to him.

He’s most definitely not coming to school like this.

While you bore holes into the clock hanging off the wall, that doesn’t speed up the time. Two minutes pass, then another minute. As your classmates find their partners and begin discussing, you notice how the room gets louder with the due date looming near. It’s the first time you’re alone without the familiar boy beside you, and something hangs low in your chest when you put in a pair of earphones and open your laptop.

Riki’s absence should have no effect on you. After all, you’re both just high school students who’ve talked once or twice, and yet you still look over at the empty chair. Staring doesn’t make Riki appear, though, and you return to your edits. It feels empty without his insight, or without him asking you to help him with a passage. Riki was your solution to all things boring. If he wasn’t doing his work, then you two were laughing at something on his phone. And if you agreed to both do something other than the report, then you could ask for an extra opinion when deciding prom details. There was something freeing about working with him that attracted you. Riki knew how to lighten the mood on days that weren’t so good for you, but he also worked hard and let loose at the same time. There was a perfect balance in Riki’s life that you aspired to have; it was a good mix of playful, dedicated, and fun all in the same vein.

The words blend together on your screen. Jay Gatsby this, Tom Buchanan that, it all looks monotonous the more you keep trying to read and comprehend what exactly you’re talking about.

Before class is dismissed, Mr. Yoo steps to the front of the classroom to gather everyone’s attention. He introduces your new novel for the next month, explaining yet another large assignment associated with the text.

Truth be told, you don’t pay attention to any of it.

The only thing you remember to do is to grab extra copies of the printed graphic organizers, as you get out of your seat and rush out when class ends in pursuit of one specific boy.

“Sim Jaeyun!” The call of his name diverts Jake’s attention from his phone to your waving arm as you weave through the students and finally reach him.

“You can just call me Jake,” he explains, “what’s up?”

You begin to reach into your backpack, trying to feel for your folder, and pull out a few sheets. “These are for Riki.”

Jake cheers internally for his friend who’s busy recovering at home. “What, you got a crush on him or something?”

He tries to play it cool by teasing you, but the smile you bite back leaves the boy questioning if there really is anything going on. Jake knows better than to tell you anything about Riki’s feelings, and opts to instead grab the papers and to thank you for looking out for his friend.

“Is Riki okay?” You have to know, just to make sure he’ll be here tomorrow to cure your boredom.

What Jake says is much different than the nonchalant wave and half grin he gives you. “He’s just bedridden.”

“That’s pretty serious! Did he come down with anything?” He seemed fine yesterday, so what’s the catch?

He blurts, “He just got badly hurt.”

Immediately, Jake knows he’s fucked up.

Your confusion and silence answers him far more than words ever could–he basically hears the gears turning slowly in your head.

Jake weakly defends, “His parents had a fight with him because he hit his head or something. He’ll be fine by tomorrow. Just bedridden from sadness, y’know?”

The look you give him is unconvinced, but when Heeseung pats him on the shoulder and waves to you, the boy realizes that maybe staying quiet would’ve been the better decision.

“I’ll see you later, ____.” And he’s off, waving half-heartedly and dragging a very confused Heeseung out of the cafeteria.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE TRYING TO WAKE YOU UP AS GENTLY AS HE CAN.

Ever since March started and flowers began to bloom, your energy seemed to do the opposite, dwindling until Riki catches you mirroring his frequent in-class action: sleeping. And it worries him beyond belief, because you’re not the type to fall asleep like… ever. However, Riki does not have the heart to wake you up, even if it’s with a little nudge that you probably barely feel with how light he taps. It breaks his heart to have to ask you to review what he has done, because the bell is about to ring and the teacher might just send you to detention if he catches you off-task.

The allergies always make Mr. Yoo irritable, and Riki knows not to get on his nerves.

Your eyes flutter open to the pokes and prodding from none other than Nishimura Riki, who gazes at you softly when you adjust to the bright classroom setting once more.

Panic settles in. “Wait- how long was I sleeping for?”

He shrugs and scrunches his nose, not giving you an answer as he finishes scribbling something in his notebook.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Your hand squeezes into a fist at the frustration that you’ve let your partner down.

And yet, Riki seems to be unfazed, frowning when he sees you stressing out. “Don’t ever sweat the little things, yeah? If there’s anything you ever need to talk about–trust me, I know what it’s like to have a lot of pressure on your shoulders.”

Smiling at him, you respond with, “Thank you, really.”

Being treasurer is daunting in the spring. It’s full of requests, forms, and small tasks that leave you spent by the end of the day. “But,” you glance at the clock to see just how much time is left, “how’d you know?”

He motions to your open computer with a now dark screen. “I saw your document pulled up. ____’s tasks or else she will be kicked out of student government,” he taunts, snickering when your eyes grow wide with embarrassment and you lightly nudge his shin with your foot in warning.

“It’s not polite to snoop,” and although you say that, you catch something in your peripheral vision. It’s a few drawings of a figure and gadget drawn, shaded from rigid shapes with small descriptions pointing to different places. You weren’t sure what was more surprising; how good the drawings were, or the subject of his imagination.

Weird. Inherently, there was nothing wrong with Riki drawing a villain, and you chalked it up to him being creative. Nothing more, nothing less.

He puts his hands up in surrender at your last comment, his grin showing anything but. Just one look at the boy makes you realize that everything you’ve just thought about is foolish.

There’s no way he’d have time to be a villain and a student. With one final thought, you let your raging thoughts rest and focus on the present; him. You’ve seen his hair messy, especially after his naps, but when Riki tries to style it like how he did today, you pay more attention to the streaks of blonde and how he often hides behind his bangs and scrunches his nose. It’s cute. He’s cute.

The truth is, you enjoy being around him like this, joking around and never worrying too much about your responsibilities and expectations. It’s refreshing. Being around Riki gives you the feeling that things will be okay in the end.

You snap out of your thoughts to see that his desk is empty, while your’s hasn’t changed one bit.

“You’re going to sell prom tickets now, right?” He makes small talk before leaving for lunch, closing the notebook you were suspiciously eying before slipping it into his bag.

“Yup,” you answer, popping the ‘p,’ “I’ll see you later,” and you two part ways.

All the long lines and constant distribution of change doesn’t allow much wiggle room for you to daydream. As time goes on, the ticket-selling line grows smaller and smaller, but the only thing you truly care about is eating the lunch your parents packed you. Your sandwich is probably sad and soggy now that there are only a few minutes of lunch left. When you finally sign off one last time after triple checking the forms are all correct, you let out a sigh, leaning back and finally getting a break.

Then, it hits you that you’re not even sure if the boy you’re fawning over is attending the biggest event of the year, and you feel stupid for forgetting to ask.

Yesterday was a rookie’s mistake–today, you’d make sure you get an answer from him.

“Are you going to prom, Riki?” is the first thing you ask when he sits down, grabbing his book and laptop with a little too much enthusiasm.

“I’m thinking about it.” Yeah, whatever confidence he had when convincing himself he’d ask you out isn’t serving him well at this moment. Quite frankly, Riki feels lame as ever trying to be nonchalant around you. “You?”

“I’d have to set up, so I would be there, yes. But whether or not I have a date is another story.” You smile to lighten the mood, but Riki watches you and nods, focusing back on signing into his laptop and getting his notes for the new book you’re reading.

“Well, you’re not the only single one here.” And he wants to reprimand himself for saying something without thinking. “If someone asked, would you say yes?”

You think about it carefully, really because you don’t have anyone in mind when it comes to prom if Riki’s not planning on going. “It’d have to be someone I know—someone I talk to somewhat regularly. I’d be nice to be with someone who doesn’t make it awkward.”

Nishimura Riki might die from over-thinking if he keeps on wondering whether or not he fits that description to a tee.

RIKI'S TO-DO LIST BEFORE PROM

☐ talk to ____ regularly

☐ don't make it awkward

☐ be..cute?

The boy decides that his superhuman responsibilities might be easier to complete than any of those three things.

He switches the subject to stop his head from hurting too much. “Did you finish the report?”

You still, and Riki’s question reminds you of the report looming over your head. In your defense, you two hadn’t brought it up much in the past week, and he didn’t seem to worry over how much of your time was spent emailing teachers or making spreadsheets. Although caught off guard, you’re quick to respond with, “What did we have to finish? I thought we were done since last week, but if there’s anything else-”

“Sorry,” he rushes out, biting his lip, “I meant, if you finished reading it.” And the answer is no, you haven’t read it since your last edit on it three days ago.

Within a few clicks, you find the document and scroll to the bottom, seeing the small note that Riki left that said ‘let me know how it looks.’ It’s sweet to know he thought about your input as much as you did his.

“While some can agree that Gatsby’s rise into high society was sketchy, Gatsby still retains the same reserved character from years ago, and doesn’t manipulate others into success or use his money for nefarious purposes. It’s not like he changed after his wealth, and it could be argued Gatsby loved Daisy until his last breath and was willing to die as long as she was happy, emphasizing the theme of sacrifice.

So, is Jay Gatsby a good person? The question targets the morality of a character who many can empathize with. Those who are charmed by his overwhelming love for Daisy would say that he’s committed textbook crimes, but focus more on the intent behind it. To pine after someone from a distance isn’t easy, but to pursue her after years of separation is even harder. It’s universally agreed, however, that love as a driving force doesn’t nullify what he’s done to others and the dirty schemes he’s enacted to gain the power he has. Therefore, Gatsby makes for an interesting main character, and highlights just how twisted a system around money can be.”

The last page is–for the most part–his writing, and your admiration for him grows when you finish reading and scroll to hit your Works Cited page.

“It’s good,” you tell him wholeheartedly, “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Riki cracks a smile at your light teasing, soaking up your praise.

“Now you know.” He shrugs. And he can only hope that you like him as much as you like his literary skills.

NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE COMES TO THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS EXACTLY LIKE JAY GATSBY,JUST WITHOUT THE MONEY—DESPERATE FOR THE GIRL OF HIS DREAMS, DYING YOUNG, AND A FRAUD HIDING BEHIND SECRETS.

Nevermind the last one, he has to hide when he has an identity to protect as the city’s only superhero, but Riki feels his heart sink to his heels when he read a few weeks ago how much Gatsby simply adores Daisy. When Gatsby died, he scoffed, closing the book with a sudden disinterest. If he were the male lead, he wouldn’t have been laying in a pool for target practice. Maybe being a superhero teaches you how to avoid being easy bait for all your enemies, or maybe Gatsby was too carried away with love to think straight.

Fighting crime gives you insurmountable experience with sneaking around, but it wasn’t something he could just teach to anyone. When he gets this horrible gut feeling that something’s happened to you, he just knew something was wrong. He might not be easy to catch, but for anyone else? Definitely.

For everyone else, prom was a month away, but for you, it was three weeks of talking to your advisor and president, arguing with your other board members, and sitting behind that damn money box for another five days to sell tickets. For you, it was realizing that you were supposed to buy streamers and balloons yesterday on your way home from school. It was the thinly veiled disappointment in your board member’s texts when they told you they were at a loss for words. ‘I’m sorry, and I know you’re busy, but how could you forget? Prom is so important for all of us. What if they don’t have what you need anymore?’ It all repeated in your head as you bit your lip in frustration and slipped on the first pair of shoes you could find. Although it was dark and dangerous, you could care less if it meant avoiding the passive aggressive comments you’d get tomorrow during your meeting.

There it is again: that little tendency to not pay attention to your surroundings.

You yelp when you feel someone grabbing your wrist and pulling you in, muffling your screams as he pulls you along. To see him on the news was worrying, but to see Spark in person with your life on the line is even worse.

Tears spring to your eyes as you struggle against the metal to no avail, and you curse every previous moment you spent worrying about balloons rather than your safety.

Spark suddenly stops, shoving you against the wall before his hand grabs a brick with his metal arm, beginning to climb. “Don’t let go.” And you don’t think twice before holding on.

The city view would be beautiful if you weren’t hearing your heartbeat in your ears or if you weren’t dangling from the railing of some company building, trying to wiggle yourself free of the rope around your wrists.

Spark speaks up, drumming his fingers on the railing next to you. “You wouldn’t happen to know where your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is, would you?” And you furrow your eyebrows, genuinely questioning for a moment if he really knew how the superhero operated.

A voice from across the street puts a temporary hold on your thoughts, and you glance up to see a flash of blue and red soaring through the air, followed by a groan and a beam of light next to you. Seeing Spark’s powers right in front of you spurs you into action, yanking at the rope and trying to take tiny steps away from where they were fighting.

“From what I’m seeing, you wanted to hold someone hostage because you’re not feeling too good, huh?” Spider-Man shouts as he shoots out webs and blocks hits. You shake your head in partial disbelief of how unserious he is, but also how unbelievable all of this seems. “You tried to take a potion or something? I’m going to tell you this now, but these usually don’t work.”

Riki’s assumption is right, and considering how Spark now has a leg and arm from metal instead of just the arm, the procedure for the additional limb couldn’t have been easy. The superhero still proceeds with caution, making sure to pay attention to anything new as he dodges and fights back.

The villain immediately gets back up, stumbling for a moment before he regains his stance and runs towards the boy. You hear the clanging of fist hitting metal from their fight, and considering the difference in height and build, you’d expect Spider-Man to be easily flung to the side, but he holds his weight in battle.

Riki aims for around the left shoulder, where an abundance of stitches cover the skin and fuse the metal into muscle. He lands a hit, and almost another one, before a punch to the side knocks him from his momentum. The boy wheezes when his back makes instant contact with the ground, rolling and getting up before Spark has time to shoot.

He notices how quickly the gadget generates electricity now. Before, the beams took longer, and were easily predictable, but now, it glows bright for a moment before it fires directly in Riki’s path. The boy dodges the first, but the second one almost hits the top of his head before he ducks and creates distance.

From the roof-top, Riki scans his surroundings before making the split-second decision to jump.

He swings to the other side of the building, keeping you in his peripheral vision as he works on apprehending the villain in front of him. They spring into yet another fist fight, with Riki’s agility easily letting him avoid punches and land precise hits to make the previous injuries even worse.

You think Spider-Man has the upper hand in this, seeing as how none of Spark’s punches seem to slow down the superhero, but you hear something loud before you can register it.

You figure out what happened after Riki stumbles and suffers a blow to the stomach, sending him tumbling to the edge of the building. Spark knew that Spider-Man was avoiding his left arm—he knew that one wrong move paired with the tungsten material would have a lasting effect on the superhero’s fist.

Riki coughs from the impact before his spidey-sense rings, pulling him back into battle as he runs as fast as his body can take him.

You. He still needs to save you.

With renewed vigor, he continues to avoid the flying sparks as he ducks between structures and uses the terrain to his advantage. He can tell, though, that the villain is slowing down. The shots are less accurate–a telltale sign that the enhancer Spark tried is working against him.

Between all of the chaos, Riki finally lands a proper web, yanking as hard as he can to pull Spark to the ground. He stumbles, grasping at thin silk before Riki lets go on his side. The villain’s balance is off, giving the boy an advantage as he closes the distance, hopping over a thrown slab of metal and landing a solid kick into Spark’s ribcage. As he stays down, Riki continues to aim for muscle and flesh, his head spinning as he packs punch after punch to keep the villain apprehended.

Spark’s body–curled into itself to absorb the hits the best that he can– hides the growing blue flash that he’s slowly charging up with his remaining power. The moment it escapes from under his abdomen, Riki directs his efforts towards avoiding the electric glimmer. The villain rolls over, his body tattered from the consistent injuries, and he fires what seems like an intense bullet of energy. It zips by the boy’s cheek, cutting the mask and leaving blood to run down in its wake. Time slows down as the superhero tries to process the unlocked speed of the burst, and Spark loses focus marveling at his new abilities. Never before had either of them seen power so concentrated, and it inflicts both fear and excitement.

He lifts his arm, the other holding it up for support, and Spider-Man notices the fizzle of bright blue. Riki’s about to jump out of the way, preparing for yet another high-speed bullet, but before Spark fires, something clicks. The arm doesn’t directly point to Riki–but it skews off to the right.

Except, he’s no longer aiming for Riki in the split second that the boy blinks. He’s suddenly aiming at you, where your hands are tied to the railing and your feet are dangling from the bent metal that holds you precariously over the edge, leaving a fifty foot drop in its wake. When you see the blue energy in the villain’s palm growing slowly bigger, you pull at the rope desperately with zero regard to the tender rawness of your wrists.

In your attempt to somehow break the rope, your cry of fear snaps Spider-Man into action.

Riki pushes his sore body to jump as quick as he can, leaping across the rooftop to the building over. He easily avoids the metal railing, grabbing onto your arm as he yanks hard on the rope, the force of it separating a piece of metal from the railing. He immediately jumps, sending out a web to swing him back up. It all happens in a flash–first, you were bound to the edge about to fall to your death, and all of a sudden, you’re tightly pressed against Spider-Man’s chest with your bound wrists still attached to the metal. Shutting your eyes, you trust Spider-Man entirely, closing your eyes to avoid seeing just how far up you were. Wind rushes in your ears and leaves your stomach fluttering with butterflies until the superhero sets you down on a secluded rooftop.

“Please,” he begs, “don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

You’d be a fool to do anything but wait.

Riki checks on you one last time before diving down, springing himself back up with another web. The damage from the blasts is recognizable even from far away, and yet, he notices the reflective shine of a metal arm on the edge of the building before Spark lets go.

To Riki, Spark is dead after dropping from a fall having taken that much damage, but he hears no impact. Making haste, the boy fails to find any figure no matter how hard he looks, but Spark’s laboratory has to be here somewhere. The badge from a week ago was stuck on Riki’s mind, and he could only imagine the reasons why he pursued this life. Was he recreating something? If he needs to power some sort of machine, then the heart of the city is a perfect place to harness the electricity for any large scale project. As much as he wants to dedicate the rest of the night to searching the city for some sort of clue, the fact that you’re still stranded on that rooftop after having just experienced a life-changing event blares like an alarm in his mind.

He quickly leaves, returning to where you’re seated.

Without the fear of falling to your death from earlier, you were able to focus on undoing the knots from the rope. Red scratch marks and irritation bloom on your wrist, and the reality of it all happening still hasn’t settled in. Despite not being harmed once, the fear and incessant pounding of your heart overwhelms your senses, and it leaves you heaving with confusion.

A pair of footsteps only become apparent as Riki walks closer, taking a seat beside you and letting out a large sigh. He stares at the stars silently as if he doesn’t have a cut on his cheek and bruises waiting to paint his skin purple–as if he isn’t hiding his true self under a facade.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” You shake your head, grateful that Spider-Man was the reason you got away without a real injury.

“Thank you, really, for saving me. I don’t know how you manage to do it.”

Riki chuckles under the mask. “Eh, you get used to it,” you hear Spider-Man say. “You fight a couple bad guys, get over a fear of heights and eventually you get the hang of things.”

Scoffing, you gently rub at your wrists to ease the redness. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t been taught a crash course on how to avoid being supervillain bait just yet.”

“Maybe you should learn it sometime,” Riki responds absentmindedly, “someone like you shouldn’t have been out so late doing whatever it could’ve been.”

Sighing, your mind drifts off to think about the balloons and streamers that are not in your hand. “I had stuff for my upcoming events.”

He knew about all of it when you’d explain your cryptic reminders and notes on your computer, but he still feigns curiosity. “What upcoming events?”

“Just prom,” and he hears just how strained it makes you.

Riki tilts his head in faux confusion. “What do you have to do for prom?”

He notices how you immediately slump, as if the mere mention of prom deflates your happiness. “It’s only a few weeks away, and I was supposed to get decorations for our venue yesterday. I just wanted to slip out before my parents noticed.”

Despite the fabric over his eyes, Riki’s expression shifts from surprise to pity when he understands your stakes. “You still need to be careful. Is your student council strict?”

“Not strict necessarily, but judgemental–I ran for the position because I thought I could help my school raise funds and find more opportunities, but it just feels like no one truly wants to try anything new.” You wave it off as if it’s not that important, as if it isn’t the reason why you find yourself stressed so often. “I just don’t want to disappoint or give people something to talk about.”

Despite not being involved with school the same way you are, the boy next to you resonates with the fear you currently face. The fear of letting people down was a large part of why Riki continued to put on that mask and step into the most dangerous situation of his life; he never wanted to sit down to hear the news that Spider-Man quit.

So he keeps doing his job, even if some days are harder and some fights aren’t worth winning–just like what you do.

“Yeah, I get that,” he tries to console, “You must be doing a lot for everyone around you, and I’m sure a lot of people appreciate what you’ve done. Don’t beat yourself up too much, yeah? You’ll always have me.” He smiles, but he knows you don’t see it. You’re looking at the stars, trying to calm your mind and return to your life before everything happened.

You glance over at Spider-Man, wondering if he’ll truly be around for you when you need it. “If I need to talk to you, should I step out of my house past 8PM again?”

Riki chuckles, watching clouds slowly dim the moon’s glow in their path. “If I’m not fighting crime, I’ll show up at a moment’s notice.”

There’s no way he means it, but you grin, feeling a lot of the pressure and stress of earlier slowly wash away. After all, nothing happened to you–Spider-Man made sure of it. Maybe things really were going to be okay.

“Let’s get you home, yeah? Don’t you have stuff to do anyways?”

You shrug, nothing really coming to mind. As you get up, you remember having to run a plagiarism check on your work, and how Riki told you to text him when you got home after your student government meeting.

Riki. Spark. Spider-Man.

“Wait,” you tell Spider-Man, sitting back down on the cement, “I need to talk to you about something else, too.”

“It’s not like my dinner’s getting cold,” the superhero mumbles quiet enough that you can’t hear.

“There’s this guy,” you start, paying no mind to how dirty your clothes are getting when you cross your legs.

Spider-Man scoffs, looking off into the distance, and it makes you believe he has to be your age or older. “You have a crush on him, or something?” And a whole tidal wave of deja vu hits you in the chest.

‘He must be badly hurt’ isn’t just something people say. People don’t just draw insanely detailed drawings of Spark’s arm and machines without notes to follow unless they knew. People wouldn't just randomly miss school without any impending signs. You’re sure of it–the tired naps in class, the random drawings of superheroes and superhumans alike, or how awkward he could act–it all makes sense.

Your classmate, aka Nishimura Riki, aka the guy who you’ve questioned if you had a crush on for the past few days, might be a villain.

The swirling feeling of trepidation in your stomach leaves three words running around your head.

What. The. Fuck.

Although you tried so hard to stop thinking about it, Jake’s comment from before rubbed you the wrong way. It was sometime last week where you couldn't get your mind off of the implications of his words, but that feeling was brushed underneath your responsibilities.

Until now.

“Yeah, there’s this guy,” you breathe, feeling your chest constrict, “Nishimura Riki. I think he’s Spark.”

His blood runs cold.

“You think this…why?”

You take a deep breath, trying to organize all your thoughts. “Well, first, it was his friend, Jake. He said that Riki was badly hurt, and I was really confused at first, but tried to let it go.”

Riki was going to strangle his best friend.

“And then, I was looking at him in class, right? And keep in mind, he’s pretty cute, and we sit next to each other, so I just noticed how good his hair looked that day, but his notebook was out, and I saw all these drawings of Spark. Like, the arms, the metal things, even the projectiles! Who would know the ins and outs of that thing if it wasn’t Spark himself?”

He didn’t know what to think about first; the fact that you gushed about him for the first time, or if he should even tell you that Spider-Man would know those things, too.

“And sometimes, I notice he’s a little awkward around me. I can’t explain it. It’s like he’s paying attention to me. That must’ve been why he captured me.” He wants to laugh at how damn close you are to figuring it out, but in reality, nothing is funny about the situation.

Nishimura Riki is actually listening to this, right now, as Spider-Man–not Spark. The awkwardness, though? It was his crush on you, and was not superhuman related in the slightest.

“I don’t know,” he attempts to divert, pretending to focus, “I saw a badge for FLiGHT. You know the company that’s been making time traveling machines? I saw a glimpse of his name and face. It’s not that guy you mentioned.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you haven’t gotten him caught?”

“Villains aren’t easy to find, y’know. It’s not like playground hide and seek,” Riki defends, crossing his arms.

You shrink in your spot, feeling sheepish for questioning a superhero so bluntly.

��Plus,” he continues, “Spark has never had a hostage. Wouldn’t it be pretty mean of that friend of yours to kidnap a girl from his class?”

“Yeah—that makes sense. Thank god,” you breathe, closing your eyes momentarily. “Then what do you suspect all that evidence leads to? Maybe he’s a secret agent?”

“I think,” Riki continues to keep up his clueless facade, “Your friend might just be clumsy. Or creative. I mean, maybe he went through a break-up?” Nice one, Riki.

You shake your head. “No, there’s no way he has a girlfriend. You’d think I like guys who are taken?” Scoffing lightly, you then remembered that Spider-Man really would have no idea who any of you are.

He shrugs and stands up stretching before motioning for you to follow him. “I have no idea what you high school kids do. Come on, let’s get you home.”

As you hug him tight, the cold air whips around your body and leaves goosebumps in their wake. You barely open your eyes from the fear of seeing yourself inches from hitting a building or up in the air. Spider-Man only yells his confirmation after asking how to get you home, finally placing you on the ground outside of your large gate.

“Thank you for saving me tonight.”

“Anytime. Figure things out with that friend of yours, and don’t go out late, okay?” You nod and take his words to heart.

“Goodnight, Spiderman.”

—-

Nishimura might die. One, because he has this horrible guilty feeling in his stomach, and two, because of a villain.

Yesterday, he ignored the salmon and rice bowl that waited for him back at home, choosing to follow the coordinates he saved on his phone after he took you home. It led him to a seemingly harmless auto-shop, with an arrow on his GPS pointing to a garage that was shut down completely with nails and blocked with boxes. The exterior pointed to it being abandoned, but Riki suddenly saw some light coming from a makeshift above.

The boy scaled the wall as quietly as possible, glancing into the source of the whirring. He caught small glimpses of something–metal, glowing, blue.

Or at least, for a few seconds it was on until the power went out.

The voice that complained from inside the room sounded identical to the man Riki fought. Spark grumbled, turning on a flashlight and quickly waving it around. Riki ducked from the window and held his breath, waiting for the man to suspect something.

Nothing.

One lightbulb slowly flickered back on, and then the other dingy light followed. The space was cramped with the metal equipment in the middle, resembling what Riki had seen in the news.

He was right–it was the same time travel portal that was ruined from a few months ago.

Spider-Man continued to observe the man as he worked and drilled, plugging certain wires or pausing momentarily to read from a journal. To anyone, it’d seem peaceful, like some sort of renovation project. But in reality, it was so much more than that.

Riki searched for any sort of information about the machine, trying to see what exactly was left to do until his gaze landed on something.

There was some sort of date on a bright pink sticky-note, and Riki’s eyes widened when he finally comprehends it.

The machine was scheduled to be completed tomorrow.

A street lamp next to Riki dies out—which was a clear sign that something was powering up. From the dark, he hears the metal from the same place as last night moving again, and he knows that Spark has left. His presence sends anyone down the street and immediately running, leaving the area for only them two.

Riki finally sees the completed metal build. Half of his body is wrapped in or replaced with metal parts as he sets down the metal portal, beginning to push it in the direction of the power plant.

A truck or car would make things much easier, but whatever.

Riki wants to cry from fear and run away. He wants to leave and pretend he never saw anything from last night.

He’s going to die fighting Spark and he will quite literally a) never finish highschool and get that stupid diploma, b) finish explaining how Gatsby is not a good person and is naturally selfish, and c) he’s never going to tell you how he’s had a small crush on you ever since he saw your cute campaign video as to why you should vote y/n l/n for student body treasurer last spring.

“You sure that thing works?” Riki asks, jumping into action as he sends webs to immobilize the machine.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” Spark sends a projectile in the superhero’s direction, hitting the wall behind him instead as Riki jumps out of the way.

With another duck mid-air and the roof of a flying car dangerously close to his nose, Riki thanks the dance practice he does for his flexibility as he shoots another web and swings away.

Spark is uncontrollable by now, sucking the light from street lamps and fizzing wires in his wake. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get in contact with the villain like before. The body of his suit fizzes with bright electricity that sizzles and pops. It illuminates Spark’s figure, making him easy to spot, but not so easy to defeat. It’s an overload of power, causing the voltage to escape between the joints and gaps of the metal pieces in his suit. And Riki can feel it; the air is heightened and so are the stakes of this fight—and with how the man that stands in front of him looks upgraded and menacing, he knows only one person can make it out of this fight alive.

“You injected the city’s ‘Gas and Electric’ into your system or what?” Riki calls out, making light of the situation. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s scared out of his wits seeing the six foot figure with blue and white shooting from every crack, looking like a nightmare to touch.

Riki avoids a few more angrily thrown objects, using the momentum of his jump from the side of the building to zip from the top of a yellow fire hydrant to go from one side of the street to the other. “You’re slow!” He taunts, tucking in his legs to avoid a shot of electricity directed at him.

The screech of metal from the nearby hydrant can be heard as the top flings off, making Riki lose his anchor/ Before he can process it, instead of smoothly landing on the building, he crashes into it faster than expected, groaning when his back makes contact with the glass and he tumbles into the living room of someone’s apartment.

“Fuck,” he curses, fighting his aching limbs to get up once more.

And the solution hits him. Literally.

When he steps out and quickly attaches a web to the top of the building, he’s met on the way up with a splash of water from the hydrant to his face, and Riki splutters as he wipes his mask, regaining focus as he lands on the concrete and hides behind the ledge.

Water. If he can get it in contact with Spark and pour enough water on the right spot, the excess of electricity blazing from his mechanical body should work against him.

“Too scared? You should know better than to run away.” The superhero rolls his eyes, crawling away silently to avoid being seen by Spark. Riki does his best to look around for something, and finds a black flower pot in the corner, using a web to grab it before he scales the side of the building and runs away while Spark is distracted as the villain also climbs the wall to face him there. But when Spark climbs the ledge and scans the premise, Riki is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Riki swings across the street and fills the pot with water, heaving the extra weight as he shouts out from the sudden pain in his side. He stumbles on the pavement, crying out from the injury as the pot falls with his whole plan.

Maybe this is where Spider-Man dies.

He sucks in a deep breath before rolling from his back onto his knees, ignoring the wound to pick up the flower pot. The hydrant still shoots out water, and the superhero rushes towards it, causing Spark to follow. He narrowly avoids another shot from behind him, reaching the yellow hydrant before dropping the pot on the ground. Spark is th

While Spark has always been intelligent, Riki could tell that the man didn’t fear the water, believing he’d be invincible to the elements now that his suit was perfected. There was something off, Riki could tell, and he would make sure to use it to his advantage. Spark was uncontrolled, and his powers drastically decreased the more he used them. There’s no way his body isn’t in overdrive with how recklessly he’s been letting himself get hurt.

Riki uses a web to get himself on higher ground instead of fighting, waiting for the supervillain to follow. If he could get Spark off the edge and fall into the growing puddle of water, it should slow him down.

Spark scoffs. “Run away, then. Like you always have.” Riki hears the wall crumbling under the villain as he climbs within seconds, immediately preparing to fight when he makes it onto the rooftop. But Spider-Man was also prepared, jumping from his crouched hiding position and attempting to catch Spark off guard.

All he can focus on now is pushing him off. There’s no way it’d be easy, considering he had to focus on his touching any of the electricity off of his suit. Riki delivers a kick to Spark in the ribcage near his heart, where he’s fused metal into flesh. The villain coughs before taking a step back, his metal arm reaching for Riki’s outstretched leg. He grabs it, twisting with anger before the boy meets the ground in a violent throw. Not only is the slam greater because of the enhanced strength, but the power seeps into Riki’s skin, leaving it hot from the energy radiating off of his palm.

The boy groans, flipping to his side to avoid a fatal hit to the chest. He reaches for Spark’s normal arm, swinging the villain’s body away with as force as he could to create distance between them.

Riki has been in enough fights to simply know when to run, even if he doesn’t know what’s coming. He could feel the tingle of the charge as it powered up, and with its energy so unrestrained and its user so unstable, the large attempt to hit Riki sends the villain stumbling back from the force. The more Spark uses his powers, the more likely he’s going to end up dead.

“Your skin can handle that anymore!” he shouts, getting ready to swing himself closer as a plan manifests itself in his head. “You’ll die like this!”

Spark seems to know that too as he wipes his mouth and recovers from Riki’s attacks.

“You think I care?” He shouts, desperately pressing his wounds to stop the bleeding. “You think I have anything else for myself?” The vulnerability of his character shines through as he clutches his bleeding wound without regenerative powers to help. “You think I didn’t know that when I did it to myself--what they did to me?”

Riki doesn’t respond, grimacing as he continues hand-to-hand combat. Although he takes a solid punch to his jaw that’s forming a deep purple bruise, he manages to trip Spark onto the ground.

The man stumbles back from the head injury, the pounding from earlier not letting him to think straight. Riki doesn’t try to injure him anymore, but he instead blocks an incoming punch and tries to force Spark towards the edge.

The villain barely notices how much space there is left, and the boy lunges with full force. They tackle each other into the ground, and Riki gets off after apprehending him once more.

The city's a mess, and Spider-Man’s eyes want to shut down so badly, but he takes a few steps in Spark’s direction, pushing him off the side of the building as quickly as he can. Riki hears the thud before he peeks over the edge, seeing the water erode all of the engineering from the machinery. He slowly descends from the rooftop.

“You were in the accident, huh?” Riki shouts on top of the plethora of sounds. Pain, buzzing electricity, splashes of water as he lands next to Spark; it all echoes in his ears as he pours the water from the pot on Spark’s body. “Why did you try it? Why did you want to go back so bad?”

“If I could go back,” Spark coughs, trying to get away from the large pool of water, “I could’ve prevented the accident from taking the lives of the people around me. I could’ve saved them.”

Spider-Man understands loss, and he understands the regret that comes with failure. He understands how the man in front of him feels after having everything taken away from him, but his emotions could never justify his actions.

“You know you can’t change things,” Riki responds, “You tried your best, Spark.” It’s the last thing Riki tells the villain before his body slumps and police sirens grow louder and louder. It’s the last thing that he continues to think about, even if the medic quickly assesses the severity of his wounds.

“I’m fine- really,” he pushes away the hands of a concerned woman as she holds a roll of bandages. “There’s something else I need to do.”

Riki knew he had to tell you about this–he couldn’t just let you confide in him about..well, him, without your knowledge. And Riki wasn’t morally perfect, but he knew an explanation would be the only way to fix things.

Your house looks different when jumping over the fence instead of standing in front of it. When he realizes he has no idea what room belongs to you, he racks his brain, suddenly remembering how yours was the only one with a gray balcony over the pool. And so he climbs, slipping from the exhaustion creeping into his body.

You’ll understand after he explains everything, right?

“____, a little help?” And what the fuck is Nishmura Riki doing outside of your door? You go to investigate the muffled sound, inching towards the curtains and pulling them back to expect him there. When you hear a half yelp and a hissing sound that follows right after, without a person anywhere in sight, your heart drops to its stomach.

Do not say it’s true.

“Riki, where the fuck are you?” you ask, traversing out when you don’t see him anywhere across the glass.

“Down here.” You run in the direction of the voice, and your eyes grow comically large and you gasp, staring down at the sight before you.

“Holy shit.”

There Nishimura Riki is, with his mask half burned off his face and his blonde and black hair messy and matted to his forehead with sweat. The suit is ripped in multiple locations with gashes and purple replacing the healthy skin underneath. His face is in more of a grimace, as he holds onto the web with both hands and one foot planted on the stone of your balcony—read; the bottom of your balcony.

“A little help?” And you see his sheepish emotion through the tattered fabric, embarrassed after you had to find him in such a compromising situation. “I’m a little worn out and I think my webs are getting weaker.”

You’re a little frustrated with him for being out so publicly, but more scared and worried for his condition. Your gaze narrows on the mask, tattered and covered with scratches, but clearly visible. It was Spider-Man’s mask. The material gives way to a familiar face, and your mind almost blocks you from putting the pieces together. It’s impossible, almost horrifying to think of the implications of what it means to wear the blue and red suit.

Instead of being the villain, Riki is, in fact, the savior.

The harsh truth is that your classmate, who you spent the last month working on a project with and suspected was a villain, is the same superhero that went out and risked his life every night fighting crime. It’s jarring to see him like this, breathing heavy and straining against the stone of the balcony, and his cough snaps you out of it. “What the fuck do I do?”

Riki tries to put his hand up in surrender and shuts his eyes at your harsh tone. “Okay, okay, I get-“ and he cuts himself off with a yelp as his footing slips.

He holds out his hand, and you immediately bend over the smooth railing to grab it, leaning back on the heels of your feet to help him up the most that you can. You’re filled with confusion when the boy hobbles over the cool surface of the balcony and lets his head rest on the stone, not saying much as he catches his breath. You watch the rise and fall of his chest and how his right arm goes to nurse the left side of his ribcage, wincing and sucking in a pained breath as he assesses the smear of red on his fingers.

Sitting there with your mouth agape, you’re not really sure what to think about first; to check if RIki’s alright, to think about how your city’s greatest superhero is your English project partner, to yell at him for going to your house instead of his house to fix himself up, or to think about how good his side profile looks in the moonlight. Maybe you should’ve just been relieved that the boy you started to like wasn’t a fear-inducing villain.

“Okay, first of all, we need to have a huge talk. But I’m not a medic Riki- I’m going into accounting for fuck’s sake.” He hears the amount of curses flying from your lips as you ramble, and sees how stressed you look watching him sit against your railing.

“I don’t know how to help you. And also,” you lower your voice and scoot closer, looking around at the large property to really make sure no one’s listening. “you’re Spider-Man?”

The information all hitting you at once is worse than when your history teacher told you your essay was horrible. At least then, in her office, you could process everything. But here? You’re about to faint.

“I’m pretty cool, huh?” And of course Nishimura Riki says such a thing, taking deep breaths as he shallowly presses on the blossoming bruises on his skin and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Pretty fucking stupid is what it is, Riki.” You cross your arms and try to take a look at where he’s been hurt, hoping that at least he has some sort of regeneration ability that helps him heal much quicker—because there’s no way he could deal with all of this on top of school.

“I have my reasons,” he says, his voice quiet.

You pause. “For being Spider-Man?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “For coming here.”

“What could possibly make you want to come over to my house instead of the nearest hospital? What’s that important to you?”

“I really want to ask you to prom.”

You simply stare at him, surprised.

“You came to my house, even though you’re like, a punch away from passing out, to ask me out? And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, asked me anytime during the classes we have together?”

Riki somehow finds it in himself to frown and shrink from your angry piercing gaze. “I can’t because talking to you makes me nervous–so yeah, I’m sorry I’m half conscious on your balcony in my suit instead of at your door with a poster.”

You’re conflicted, your mind still reeling from the recent discovery and your flood of emotions. Ever since you questioned his identity on top of your feelings for him, you had a hard time really knowing if you could like Riki if he turned out to be a villain, so to know that he proved both of your theories wrong leaves you quiet as you think. If possible, the color in the boy’s face drains even more when you go back inside, but the door stays open, and he thinks he hasn’t ruined things after all. You emerge with a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a bowl of warm water, and a pristine white towel.

“I’m not mad about that, you idiot,” you reprimand him, setting everything down as you examine the cuts on his face. You squeeze the towel and start to dab at his skin, avoiding the cuts as you clean it. “Who does this for you if not me?”

“Jake.”

“Seems like a pretty good friend.” Riki nods in response.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, sitting up to properly address you, even if you weren’t able to meet his gaze.

“For what?”

“For putting this on you–all of it. Not just the whole Spider-Man thing.” He knew he’d have to tell you at some point, or else it’d eat him up inside to know he kept all of it from you.

“Look at you, saving me mid-air and talking to me as if you didn’t know who I was.”

You notice a flash of regret through his wince as you clean up a cut with antiseptic. “I meant it when I told you I knew what it was like to have a lot of pressure.”

“Guess I wasn’t so far off, then. If we never talked, would you have told me?” Riki shakes his head, and the simple motion leaves you somehow disappointed.

“How do you ever tell anyone you’re…y’know, Spider-Man?” Even if it’s a hypothetical, you shrug, not being able to answer.

“How’d Jake find out?”

Riki chuckles and hisses at the same time before trying to remember. “I think I just kicked his window in after a nasty poison got hold of me. He was a little too excited to have Spider-Man on his bedroom floor, and less excited to know it was me. I’m not really supposed to tell anyone, though.”

“Then why’d you tell me? You could’ve just gone back to your friends.”

“I felt guilty–I know, I know, it sounds stupid. I’d definitely get my identity revealed at this rate.” You shake your head.

“Not stupid. Keep going.”

“I didn’t care that you suspected me, or if anyone else did, because I knew it was never true. But I felt so bad knowing you were sharing to me how you felt without even knowing it was me who was listening–like I was holding something from you.”

You admire his honesty, and when you look at his furrowed brows and his lip that he’s been gnawing from worry, you can’t even imagine what he’s had to hide and do for this. In a way, you look up to him more, for trying his best even if he’s gotten all odds stacked against him. Riki’s commendable in your eyes–he always had been, ever since you woke him up in class.

“I like those things about you, Riki. That you’re honest with yourself and the people around you as much as you can be, and you try to help others when you can. I’m glad we got to know each other more this past month.” Talking to him feels different than talking to Spider-Man from a few days ago; it feels raw, like you’re not just confessing something to a brick wall anymore. If none of this ever happened, you doubt you’d get the chance to tell Riki any of this properly.

The boy stays silent, taking deep breaths while processing what you’ve told him. “I’m glad I could help you out.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I hope you know I don’t like you because you help me out. I like you because you’re attractive, and because you’re genuine,” you blurt.

Riki laughs despite his ribcage hurting everytime he does so. Riki nods and mumbles a ‘thank you,’ also glad to truly get to know you. While his crush was more of an infatuation with your hard work and amiability, the past few weeks really opened his eyes to who you were. You never wanted to disappoint, and even if your recklessness left you in some dire situations, Riki could see how much effort you really put into things.

There wasn’t anything else he needed to tell you–you were smart enough to see how much he cared about you.

You’re so close, your lips glossy with lip balm as you watch him carefully. You hear and see it all; the heavy, labored breathing from his body healing itself rapidly, and the way his hand is full of rough cuts and calluses as his fingers intertwine with yours. But your eyes catch a glimpse of his mask tossed to the side, the blue shining in the corner of your eyes as you’re reminded of who he is right now, and what role you play. You are still ____ ____, but he’s a superhero.

It makes you momentarily forget whose suit you're peeling away, whose skin you're cleaning. It reminds you that he’s just the boy in your English class that you fell for. “What does that make us?”

“Prom-goers,” he answers with a slight nod.

You smile, wiping a cut before placing the towel back into the bowl for the last time and getting up. “We can be prom-goers, yeah.”

You’re not sure if you’re ready for anything, and you’re thankful that he understands that, too. As much as it warmed your heart to see him again and hear his confessions, the blaring truth still hangs over your head. You grab his mask, finally looking at him before handing it back and grabbing your things. His secret identity wasn’t something you could just ignore.

“Go home, Spider-Man,” you turn your back on him, and time slows when you falter before sparing him one more look. “I want you as Riki, not like this.”

MAYBE NISHIMURA RIKI DOESN'T NEED TO DIE–OR ALMOST DIE–ANYMORE.

He went home that night with his scars somewhat cleaned and his bruises miraculous healing on their own, and even if slipping through the window left him clutching his side in pain, Riki silently jumped up to celebrate his multiple victories before slipping out of his suit and finally getting some rest.

Riki’s scared of how he’s affected your relationship. He’s worried you’ll avoid him in the halls, and he’s worried you’d never want to see him again after putting you through all of it. As much as he'd understand how upset you'd be towards him, he hopes he did the right thing by telling you.

But you see him on your way to English, and you call his name. His eyes search for yours in the crowds, and you two see each other before you crush him in a hug.

Riki isn’t sure how to feel at first, but eventually wraps his arms around you as relief settles in his stomach.

“Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man,” you whisper, loud enough for only him to hear.

He smiles at you, ruffling your hair as you go to English together. “Anytime, ____.”

NEVERMIND, NISHIMURA RIKI MIGHT DIE WHEN HE SEES YOU IN YOUR RED PROM DRESS.

But first, he has to try something out.

He curses to himself when silently zipping from a tree outside your family property to the top of your house, staring past the ledge two and luxurious stories to your well decorated porch light and door. He just prays that Google Maps is right about how secluded the area is, so no one can see him pacing around your rooftop, with flowers elegantly wrapped in his hand (courtesy of your mother’s sleek envelope from a few days ago).

“Fuck it,” he says to himself, shooting a web and dangling himself down. Riki’s upside down figure watches swirled window frames and meticulously designed accents as he descends, and he wonders what kind of shady business your parents could’ve done to afford something so grand.

He faces your door—hanging down instead of rightside up, but he’s still here on time like he promised.

The door opens at 6:00PM like he instructed you to, but what he didn’t tell you what to do was shriek and slam the door. On his nose. With a loud yelp, Riki clutches his nose, rubbing the spot you hit and trying to apply pressure to alleviate the pain.

When the door slowly creaks open again, you face with the image of Nishimura Riki, aka your boyfriend, aka your English partner, aka Spider-Man, curled upside down in the fetal position as he cradles the sore spot on his face and swings slightly from the breeze.

“You scared me, dumbass! How was I supposed to know it was you? It was so hard to see!”

Although muffled, Riki’s able to mumble, “You have a porch light for this reason, _____,” and a jab at his stomach from you follows his sarcastic remark. Finally, his nose feels better, and he straightens out to finally look at you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty, and the boy wonders how you look even more stunning with a glittering red dress and perfectly done make-up. “I like the red,” he says, trying not to freak out over your beauty. “Reminds me of a certain neighborhood superhero.”

“I have some blue spider earrings to match.” With a beautiful smile, you turn to show him the little accent, and it melts his heart. “Are you okay, though?”

“I’m fine. I should’ve probably put more thought into that.”

You snicker, sliding into your heels and closing the door behind you.

“One of us is better at romantic gestures, it seems.” It warrants a scoff, and Riki brings a gloved hand to poke at your forehead teasingly.

“Let me have a do-over, then?” And the way your lips curl up into a bright smile leaves him quiet and in awe.

“What, were you going to kiss me? Very original, Spider-Man.” With the way the fabric shifts over his features, you can tell he’s pouting.

“I thought girls liked this.”

You shrug, pretending you aren’t swept off his feet by the effort he’s put in. Taking a step in his direction, your hands reach up to gently pull the mask over his chin, ears, and then his nose.

Whispering quietly, you ask, “You’ve kissed other girls upside down?”

Riki’s quick to shake his head. “You’re the only girl I’d withstand a head rush for.” And god, you just can’t stop yourself from grinning at his sweet, genuine words.

You lean in, placing a small kiss on his nose as a silent apology. Then, you close your eyes and lean into him once more, feeling his hands carefully holding the side of your head and his lips on yours. Your kiss with Riki is saccharine and slow, making you pull away when the urge to beam at him is too much. Your cheeks definitely hurt by how romantic he’s being, and you can’t resist kissing him once more.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he starts, finally letting himself down, “It feels weird.”

“You ruined the moment.” And he really didn’t, but you enjoy his subtle reactions to your light digs at him.

“Whatever.” Riki laughs. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You nod, sitting down on the porch and dragging a manicured nail over your lips with the ghost of his affections, thinking about how you literally just kissed Spider-Man.

Riki comes back, dusting off his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles, with a large bouquet of red roses and one blue one snuck in there. Your lips stretch into a grin and you accept the bouquet, keeping a mental note to read the card in there.

“You never cease to amaze me, Riki.” It’s the last thing you mutter to the air before you loop your arms around his neck, urging him to lean down as you kiss him once more—this time rightside up, but still as sickly saccharine as the one before it. Your heart is fuzzy with fondness and your eyes glitter with adoration.

“So, which kiss was better?” he asks when you pull away, a little breathless and dizzy.

You swat his arm and walk past the gates, seeing the sleek limo waiting by the curb. “I don’t know, Spider-Man. Maybe show up in your suit and we’ll try it again.”

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE ALWAYS APPRECIATED AND ALWAYS READ!

RIKI FIC DONE!!!! ngl y/n u were right there how did u not know riki was spiderman but whatever idc she's a hard worker not smart LMFOAOAO. my first ever action fic so i hope you enjoy! also i hate the ‘oh he pined after her for 4 years she liked him for 2 months’ bs because I WAS IN IT. and it sucks so i tried to deviate from it :)

꣑ৎ permanent fic taglist (TAGGED IN TEASERS, FICS, HEADCANNONS, DRABBLES, ETC.): @dimplewonie @minleeeknow @heeheesang @mintpjzroll @llvrhee @firstclassjaylee @in-somnias-world @rairaiblog @suneng @mavlogist @sensitively-taken @sumzysworld @simpjay @moons-v @riksaes @txtari @jungwonscatcus @tya0 @sasfransisco @woorcve @shypen @pinkriki @rikisluv @saranghaohoshi @lilifiedeans @wonmyheart @k1ttyluvr @nikisgfff @ramenoil @laurradoesloveu @lvcky-g1rl-syndr0me @ikeulims @missychiefs1404 @qwonyoung23 @yangjungwonnie @onementally-unstabel-kid @microwvdstrawb3rri3s @blooqz @anormieee hi permies hope u enjoy! kith

4K notes · View notes

coichii · 3 months ago

Text

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ── skz + protective tendencies

—(🎧)—> straykids and their protective tendencies.

pairing - OT8 SKZ (seperate) ♥︎ fem!reader

genre - fluff

word count - 0.8k

warnings - talks about being hit on, allergies, food issues, and online bullying.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [방찬] bang chan

wants your location shared. okay, chan isn't someone who forces you to share your location with them; he didn't even ask for you to do so. but deep down, he wanted you to so he could know you were safe. when you did share it to him one random tuesday night, butterflies erupted in his stomach like they never have before. he doesn't check it too often, but whenever you're running a little late for a date or out when it's too dark for his liking, he does give it a little peek to make sure the love of his life is safe.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [민호] minho

makes you walk on the right side of the road. this started off the moment you two even became friends. whenever you were to walk with him whether that be to your apartment or to the studio or whenever you would walk on a busy road, he would grab your wrist gently and swoop you to the side. before you dated, he always claimed it was because “you’re clumsy and I don’t want you to die, I guess.” but after you started dating and you began to see his cute and loving side, you saw right through this adorable habit.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [창빈] changbin

makes sure you eat 3 meals a day. changbin always promoted health and wellness to everyone, but especially you. part of that promotion was sending you texts every single day reminding you to eat well if he couldn’t be there to tell you to your face. it didn’t matter if you had just gotten in an argument and weren’t speaking, he never forgot to remind you to take care of yourself. he knows what can happen if someone doesn’t take care of their health by eating good and nutritious food, so there’s no way he wouldn’t make sure the person he loves the most is eating well.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [현진] hyunjin

holds your hand tighter in public settings. hyunjin always got very protective of you whenever you were in a public or crowded space. listen, he doesn’t want anything to happen to his baby, and the public is the perfect place for that to happen. to prevent that, he always seems to grip your hand tighter whenever you were out and about with him. sometimes, it didn’t even matter if it was a public area, but your body always seemed to be closer to him during these times. (and there is no way you would ever complain about that).

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [지성] jisung

stands up for you against anyone, anywhere. nope, it does not matter to this man that he’s 5’7 and the guy being pushy fliting with you is 6’1, you’re his baby and there’s no way in hell he will ever let you be uncomfortable and not do anything about it. han is always known as the funny, goofy guy but that person is gone the moment anyone fucks with you. standing in that person's place is someone who’s willing to get psychical if things escalate, placing a motherly like arm infront of your body as he stares down the man making you uneasy.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [펠릭스] felix

wanted you to learn self-defense with him. we all know that felix is a god a taekwondo, so when he wanted you to take classes with him, you weren’t surprised in the slightest. however, when you learned the reason behind this was the fact that he was really worried about you and wanted to know that you could protect yourself if you were in danger, you were pretty taken back. you giggled as he sheepishly explained the reason behind it, giving his pink cheeks a tender kiss and taking his offer up. he supported you through and through, practicing with you in private when you had time. now whenever you go out, he never has to worry about his pretty baby getting hurt.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [승민] seungmin

really doesn’t want you on twitter. there’s nothing seungmin can do to make you not go on twitter, you are your own person after all. however, he definitely advised you don’t after you two announced your relationship to the public. there were countless amounts of people who supported your relationship, but of course there were the sour few who spewed nasty things about you behind a username and a profile picture. seungmin scrolled through those, stomach uneasy as he read all the mean things that people said about the person he loves the most. he advised you to never see this, telling you that he just wants to protect you. sighed a sigh of relief once you agreed, and deelted the app for good.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ── [정인] jeongin

monitors your allergies more than you monitor your own. unlocked this one time when he accidentally cooked something with your allergy and caused you to have a negative reaction. felt so guilty that he cried while holding you later that night, apologizing profusely after you had already gotten over it and said it was your fault for not telling him your allergy. ever since then, he monitors them strictly and checks every ingredient he cooks with plenty. checks the menus of restaurants before booking reservations, telling the waiter about your allergies in case you forget. never wants a repeat of that night again.

#stray kids #skz x reader #skz #straykids x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #kpop #stray kids imagines #straykids x you #stray kids ot8 #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader #han jisung x reader #felix x reader #kim seungmin x reader #yang jeongin x reader

2K notes · View notes

thecherrypittttttt · 3 months ago

Text

II HANDS II HEAVEN; dr jack abbot x dr!reader

words: 5,800+

content warnings: lowkey SO filthy, but also SO cute, banter, caretaker jack, yearning jack, tad bit angsty, patient does die at some point, may be my favorite one i have written

notes: because dr jack abbot has two hands and boy does he know how to use them

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Have you two kissed and made up yet?” Bridget asks, eyeing them.

“In his dreams.”

“In his dreams.” Jack imitates mockingly, high pitched.

“You know, for an old man, you have a lot of growing up to do.”

She can tell by the amused look dancing on Jack’s face that he is about to imitate her words again.

She raises a finger just as his mouth opens, “Don’t-“ she presses her finger to his chest, “you dare.”

His head tilts down. His gaze follows her finger, falling right into her trap. She quickly trails her nail back up over his chin then his lips and finally, flicking him in the nose.

She is cracking up laughing. Bridget is too. And Jack is pretending to be annoyed. “Oh and I’m the one who needs to grow up?!”

“You guys need to get a room. Preferably Trauma 1 because we have a patient incoming.” Bridget shoos them away from her nurses station, a grin still playing on her lips as she shoves two gowns into Jack’s outstretched hands.

Once inside Trauma 1, Jack grabs her arm. He signals for her to lift them as he reaches around her - her back to his front, he ties the gauze gown around her waist and then goes for the tie around her neck. The one they normally never have time to tie anyways.

“You know I love it when you dress up for me.”

His minty breath tickles the back of her neck as he speaks. He can’t see her roll her eyes but he knows that she is. He knows her like the back of his hand.

“And you know I’m still mad at you.”

“Well if you would listen to me for once in your life-“

“You are not my boss anymore. I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Oh, because you listened so well when I was your boss, hm?”

“I can finish tying my gown. Your hands are full.”

“I’ve got two hands.”

And just like that it's decided and he's finishing up tying her gown. They have no reason to be this close to each other anymore but neither of them moves a muscle. He reaches around her to grab a pair of gloves and he takes his sweet time while doing so.

She sneaks a glance at the prominent veins in his forearms and wishes she didn’t. Why does he always have to look so damn good?

The doors are slammed open by a gurney. “Showtime.” is all that tumbles out from her mouth before her and Jack are back in their usual rhythm.

Or their somewhat usual rhythm. In the trauma bay, residents typically stood at the head of the bed. Their main responsibility was keeping the patient’s vitals steady. Protecting the precious breath that told everyone else in the room that the patient still had a fighting chance.

Ever since she became the night shift's second attending six months ago, Jack and her were still getting used to sharing opposite sides of the bed. Jack was used to looking up from the patient and her eyes already being on him, silently asking him for direction. Now, it’s like she forgot he was even in the room.

Unless, of course, they were debating their differing opinions on the standard of care for the patient.

So yeah, maybe Jack had been picking a few unnecessary fights here and there just to get something from her. He never said it was healthy but he didn’t know what else to do.

He missed her. He missed guiding her hand through a procedure and the way she would look back at him with an expectant smile, waiting for his praise. Practically needing it.

He always gave it to her. Usually sticking with “Well done” or “Solid work” because the one time he went to say “Good job”, a “Good girl” slipped halfway out instead. Thank god no one had noticed.

It makes him sound like an ego maniac, and he promises he isn’t, but he relishes in that feeling of her needing him. Or at least thinking she did. Of the fact that the smartest most competent doctor the halls of this ED had potentially ever seen, looked to him for guidance.

He wanted to take care of her - beyond work. He'd come to terms with his crush years ago but also came to terms with the fact he could never have her. At the time he was her attending and even now that he isn't - he is still at least 12 years her senior and carries more than enough baggage for the both of them.

So he settled for taking care of her at work. Sometimes he pushed the boundaries with the praise and the extra teas but he took care of her within the appropriate context of their working relationship. Until now, apparently. Now that she wouldn’t let him.

Jack had been spoiled all these years. Pouring his knowledge into residents, and a lot of them were great, but none of them had ever quite surpassed what he could do in the ED. But now here she was, mopping the floor with him. He’s proud of her. And he would love it even more than he already does if she would just pay an ounce of attention to him. God, he was starting to sound pathetic.

After her first six months of residency, Robby transferred her to the night shift. He told Jack he was getting a good one. One who saw every single patient as a person rather than a box to be checked, even on the bad days. One who probably single handedly kept the patient satisfaction scores of the ED afloat. But that came at a price - it slowed her down. Impeded on her education. She needed to move quicker and Jack was the kind of teacher to teach her how to do just that while still maintaining her inquisitively kind nature.

She was a damn good doctor but Robby knew that under Jack’s watchful eye and baptism by fire teaching style - she could be great. And she was great.

She is great. So far beyond great, Jack catches himself watching her in awe most nights. But right now he was watching her with concern.

The young girl on the table beneath them was not going to make it.

She was normally better than him at this, less emotional, about knowing when to call it.

But he knew why she wasn't going to be right now. The patient on their table looked eerily like her little sister that she had lost to the same kind of drunk driving accident when she was a kid.

The older sister was even out in the family waiting room - holding her sister’s favorite stuffed animal. She had said she was holding on to it while her sister got better. To keep it warm for her.

It was a bright pink stuffed rabbit. The same kind she had clutched the night her sister died. That she never was able to return to her sister. Jack knew he was the only one in the ED that knew that. She’d told him so one night on the roof after a particularly bad shift. What Jack didn’t know was that he was the only person she’d ever told.

They had a way of bringing that out in each other. Neither of them pushed and that’s probably why they could so effortlessly pull stuff out. Neither of them were an open book to anyone but each other. He makes her feel understood. She makes him feel safe. They make eachother feel the most themselves they’ve ever felt.

But right now all he was making her feel was anger.

“Call it.”

“There was just a pulse a second ago.” They both knew there hadn’t been. Jack doesn't say it though.

She had taken compressions over from Whitaker. Wanting to do this one herself. Making it worse on herself.

“Call it.”

“She can still make it. Let me try one more time.”

Jack silently signaled for everyone else to leave the room and move onto their next call. The girl was gone. At least they could all try and replace this horrible memory by hopefully being able to save the next one.

“I said - call it.” Jack’s voice was low but still steady. Still calm. He wasn’t trying to pick a fight this time. He just wanted her to free herself of this burden that was not hers to carry.

“And I said, let me try one-“ compression “more” another compression, “time” compression.

So he let her. Not because he thought it would work. Precisely, the opposite actually. He knew she would never forgive herself if she didn’t feel that she gave every last ounce she had. Selfishly, he also knew she’d never forgive him for calling it earlier than she thought they should have.

One more compression and then a flat line on the monitor.

Beyond the occasional puff of air coming from her mouth as she caught her breath, you could hear a pin drop in the trauma bay.

Jack’s behind her again, gently untying her now bloody gauze gown. She turns to him. As much as they’ve been going at it lately, he is who she wants in these moments. In all the moments, really.

He slides off his gloves and then her own, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

His hands move to her shoulders and then slowly drag down to her triceps - steadying her and studying her. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. Just delicately searches her eyes with his own. Asks her if she’s okay and then assures her it’s going to be okay - all without even opening his mouth.

She tries to keep the tears in with deep breaths. Her palm pressing against her forehead.

“Time of death-“ She inhales shakily, “04:44.” She slaps her palm over her mouth like she just summoned death itself with her words. Then the dam breaks.

“Jack, I can’t-“ She barely gets out between hiccups.

“Shhhhh - I know. I will.” Tell the family is what she means. He’ll do that for her. He’d do anything for her.

And then he’s reaching his hands to cup her face and pulling her against him. Letting her cry it out against his chest.

Her arms wrap around his middle, squeezing so hard it was almost like she thought he’d disappear if she loosened her grip. He rubs up and down her back with one hand, cradling her head in his other and pressing the occasional kiss to her temple.

He whispers into her hair, “You are the best emergency physician I have ever seen. If you couldn't save her, no one could. If the person I cared about most in the world had to be in a trauma bay - you are who I would want to be in charge of it.”

That catches her off guard. They spend a lot of time together. More time together than with any of their family or friends or any potential partner. They talked a lot. About basically everything but that private part of their lives. She always assumed it was because neither of them really had much to report back on but his words are the first time she lets her mind think otherwise. That he may have someone that isn’t her. The thought terrifies her beyond belief.

Technically, they were single. They weren’t each other's. But - yes they were.

“Who is that?”

“What?”

“That you care about most in the entire world?”

Jack wasn’t even sure when it happened. Probably in between the dates on the rooftop that were probably only dates to him and the early morning carpools when he purposely took the long way home just to spend more time with her.

He takes a sharp inhale and blinks. Hard - like he’s just realizing now what his answer is. Like it always felt so natural that he never had to think too hard about it, “You.”

They’re both frozen and then she’s huffing a nervous laugh and pulling out of his grip. Avoiding his eye contact. Back to ignoring him. Back to pushing him away.

“Very funny.” She quips as she walks to the door, pretending to be engrossed in attempting to fix the hand sanitizer dispenser that’s been jammed for the last four months.

Jack stays in place like the soldier he is, “I’m serious.”

That brings her gaze back to his. Her jaw drops slightly, her pupils dilated. He thinks he sees hope in her eyes. The observation gives him some too.

He thinks he’s caught her off guard but what she says next practically knocks the wind out of him, “Me too.”

“What?”

“The person I care most about in the entire world. It’s you, Jack.” She doesn’t give him a chance to respond before she’s pushing out of the room.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They don’t talk again for the rest of their shift. Not really, anyways. The ED is absolutely slammed. They’re basically running from trauma bay to trauma bay, room to room - even once to the ambulance bay. That’s how you know it’s busy.

But wow do they make a fucking phenomenal team. When they are on, they are on. They were close, but they didn't lose anyone else that night.

They catch their breath at the lockers, after the hand off with the day shift.

Jack wraps an arm around her head, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Go home. I’ll order Thai food to your place. Watch that trash TV you like. Shower. Cry. Cry in the shower. Sleep. Just know you gave everything you had tonight. Do not beat yourself up over this.”

“I don’t think the other people at the gym would appreciate me crying in the showers.”

“Why are you showering at the gym?”

“My apartment building has the water turned off for the day. I don’t know - they are fixing something. And there is no shot in hell I am showering here.”

“Come on. You’re coming home with me. Shower at my place. I’ll cook us breakfast while you do so you can cry in peace.”

The silence hangs between them. An expectant silence but one that says that if they are alone in a place that isn't the hospital - it is going to be damn near impossible to remain professional.

“Jack-“

“Let me take care of you, please. You deserve it, especially after tonight.”

And for once, she listens.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack busies himself with the omelettes and tea he’s making because if he thinks too hard, or at all, about her naked in his shower - he is going to combust.

The thought of her fully clothed in his space is enough to do his head in. He cannot even begin to let his brain broach the thought of her naked one floor away.

He is setting her favorite hot sauce, the one he hates but always kept in his fridge in case this moment ever happened, on the counter when he hears the water being turned off upstairs.

A couple light footsteps, the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and then his name. "Jack, where is your lotion?!"

"It's in the cabinet up top - furthest to your right." He yells back. Normally he would go up there and just grab it for her but he only has so much self control. It will all probably go down the gutter if he goes up there and sees her in only a towel.

"I can't reach it."

He curses under his breath and heads up the stairs - two at a time. He is not religious but he is praying to whoever will listen that she is wearing some semblance of the clothes he laid out for her. Now that he thinks about it, that might be worse.

Either way, he is in trouble. He stops outside his bathroom door and knocks lightly, " Can I come in?"

"No, I'd like you to get the lotion down from outside the bathroom." She sasses.

He smirks as he turns the knob, muttering something about her being a smart ass and a pain in his ass. He swallows hard at the sight of her.

She looks stunning because when does she not. He traces her collarbones with his eyes, down her arms, and over her legs - finally up to her face. Her eyebrow is lifted and a coy smirk on her face. Oh, she knows exactly what she is doing.

Jack shakes his head, as if that would get the thoughts of what is hiding under her towel out of his head.

He just clears his throat and reaches up to the cabinet, settling the lotion onto the counter, "Here."

She doesn't even pretend to grab it. Just lets it sit in between the sinks. In between them.

“Thank you - for today. I’m sorry, I’ve been a little bratty lately. I just had to prove to myself I could do things without having you in the room to encourage me to.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for. I should be apologizing. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much I would have to get used to you not needing me anymore.”

“I may not need you anymore but I still want you, Jack. I always will. But I probably haven’t shown that too well the past couple months so I’ll cool it with the attitude. I know you’re always just trying to help.”

“You don’t have to do anything on my account.” A beat and then, “It’s hot when you talk back.”

If Jack could shove those words back into his mouth - he would. He doesn't know what came over him, why those words came out - maybe something to do with the way she is staring at him. Eyes half lidded as she looks up at him through her lashes, a subtle grin as she bites her plump bottom limp.

"I am so sorry. That was so inappropriate."

“Jack-“

"We can just pretend I nev-"

She places a hand on his chest to interrupt his rambling and he pauses almost instantaneously, “Jack - I talk back because I think it’s hot when you put me in my place.”

Oh.

He looks down at her and lets out a low whistle, “You have no idea how bad I want you. How bad I’ve wanted this since the day you walked through the doors at the Pitt but I will not take advantage of you.”

His hands stay firmly planted to his sides but gosh she's making it really hard to keep still.

“Not even if I beg?”

He takes a sharp inhale, rubbing the back of his neck and then over his face with his palm, “You had a bad night. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret just because you’re upset”

“Jack, do you remember my first night shift? As an intern?”

“Yeah, of course. Knew I was in trouble from the jump.” He talks faster than she has ever heard him. She can tell he is a bit confused. What does her first intern shift have anything to do with why she is half naked in his bathroom almost four years later?

“That morning, when I went home, I had this dream and- fuck- you couldn’t keep your hands off me. I’ve been upset a lot over the years. I’ve been ecstatic, I’ve been angry beyond belief and every other emotion in between. But the one thing that’s always stayed the same is that at the end of every day, I wished I was coming home to you. I'm not going to regret this because I love you, Jack. No matter what kind of day I have. Good, bad, or ugly - you are always the best part of it."

“God, I think I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that.” His hands fly to cup her jaw, he looks right in her eyes before he kisses her with everything in him. He pulls away barely, his forehead resting on hers, to whisper, “I love you. So much.”

"Can you show me - because I didn't call you up here in just my towel to chit chat."

Jack chuckles, his hands find her hips. He gives them a squeeze before he turns her around to face his bathroom mirror. They lock eyes through the glass and for the second time today, her back was to his front.

“What would everyone say if they heard you were such a slut for me.”

“Probably, ‘In his dreams’”

“Behave.” She can feel Jack smirking into the skin on her neck as he kisses her there. Long and slow - she whimpers at the feeling.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice comes out shaky - clearly reflecting the effect he is having on her.

All in one swift motion, Jack unties and drops her towel, lightly smacking her ass.

“I said behave.”

She goes to roll her eyes. Not because she doesn't like what he is doing - because she loves it. Absolutely loves riling him up. But he knows her and he knows she's going to do that so before she even can, he smacks her ass again, murmuring a “So fucking perfect” as he rubs the red mark he left.

“Show me you can listen and I’ll be a lot nicer, angel.

All she can do is let out a whimper of his name. It is music to his ears.

Jack trails kisses up her neck then pecks one to her mouth before he’s grabbing her chin. They make eye contact through the mirror, one of his hands on her chin and the other splayed dangerously low pressing against her stomach.

He swipes his thumb against her lips as he whispers in her ear, his stubble tickling her cheek and she can’t help but imagine how it will feel between her thighs. “Let’s put that mouth to better use, huh?”

He swipes two fingers through her glistening folds. He can hear how wet she is. Feel it threatening to drip down her thighs. She moans at the emptiness - his fingers leave her and press their way into her mouth. His fingers weigh heavy against her tongue as her lips close around them, sucking, but never losing his eye contact. Jack groans at the sight.

“Taste yourself for me, baby. Look at how pretty your mouth is when you aren’t giving me attitude.”

Her knees are already threatening to give out and he’s barely even touched her yet. Anyone else wouldn’t notice the slight wobble. But he did. He notices every little detail about her - how could he not?

“You like it that much, hm sweetheart?”

She can’t manage words. Only a low moan and a nod as she presses her back against his front, feeling his bulge through the sweatpants he’d changed into when they’d gotten home. “Jack please, I want to see you. I want to feel you.”

“Greedy, yeah?”

“Jack, please. Too many clothes.”

“Shhh - I told you I was gonna take care of you tonight, yeah? Let me baby. Then you can have me. Be patient.”

Another moan pulled from her.

“You’re the most stunning woman I have ever laid my eyes on, you know that right? And so damn smart. My smart baby, yeah?"

She turns to face him, running her hands over his chest and then down his biceps as he talks. She takes her time. She’s trailed the veins of his large arm muscles with her eyes more times than she can count. Now that she gets to do it with her hands, she may never stop.

She gets to his hands, god those hands. His capable, strong, sturdy hands. She remembers what he said earlier today, about having two hands, and she feels her cheeks tinge pink. She’s seen his hands perform extraordinary miracles but she has a feeling the one he performs on her now will be her favorite.

His hands knead her hips as she goes, both of them relishing in each other's touch, until she breaks the silence. Her wide eyes look up at him. They look so innocent. Her words are anything but, “I want you to fill me up.”

“Fuck me. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Are you gonna be a good girl and come when I tell you to?”

“Dr Abbot, I’m always a good girl for you. Especially that night you almost called me one right in the middle of the ED.”

Jack is shocked, “You caught that?”

“Touched myself thinking about it that night.”

He practically moans, “My god.” before he turns her back around to face the mirror. One hand on the back of her neck, the other on the small of her back, slightly bending her over.

Finally, finally he presses two fingers into her. Her head falls back onto his shoulder as he pumps in and out of her, both of their breathing heavy.

“I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already soaking wet.”

“For you? Always.”

He kisses her forehead then tilts her head back up by her chin with his free hand.

“Keep your eyes open, look at me baby.”

His fingers are still working on her. She’s almost there. Gasping for air. Her eyes shut and she's right there until...she's not. He's stopped.

Her eyes flutter open and she doesn't even bother to turn around - just stares at him through the mirror, "What the hell?"

“I said keep your eyes open. I want you to see how good you look taking my fingers, angel. Gonna look even better on my cock”

At the reminder, she buck backs against him.

“Not so fast, baby. Gonna make you come on my fingers. Then on my tongue. Then fill you up. How does that sound?”

“Yes, Jack, please. I need it please.”

“You sure you can handle it, baby?”

“I can-fuck, I can handle it.”

Then he’s working her again with his fingers. She keeps her eyes open, drinking in the filthy sight of them. One of his hands cradling her chin as she rides the other one - she is completely naked and Jack is entirely clothed. It makes her so worked up, her orgasm comes quickly.

“That’s it. Good girl—that's my good fucking girl."

Then he’s stepping around her and sinking to his knees in front of her so she can still see herself in the bathroom mirror. He knocks her ankles a little wider. They’d closed a bit after the last orgasm and she gasps at his tongue cleaning up her first mess and going for a second.

His hands wrap around her thighs, holding her in place. She tugs hard at his salt and pepper curls as she unravels. She looks down at him, craving his eye contact.

He slaps her ass again as a reprimand, “Eyes up. I want you to see how pretty you look when you're spreading your legs for me."

The words make her second orgasm tumble out just as fast as the first and she’s pulling him up by the collar of his shirt, placing a blistering kiss on his lips. His hands cradle her jaw and then they are in her hair, tugging slightly.

Their hands desperately clutch at one another as they kiss, gasping into each other’s mouths as if they’ve been starved of one another.

“Jack - clothes off. Now please.”

This time he listens. Then he is back behind her just as quickly as he’s coaxing his length into her. They both sigh at the relief.

“Doing so good for me, baby. Give me one more, yeah?”

He presses his forehead to hers. She nods and he leans up to kiss her temple again before rutting into her. Both of them loudly moaning at the sensation.

“Holy shit. And I thought nothing was gonna beat how fucking delicious you tasted. You feel like fucking heaven, angel.”

His broad hand crowds her neck, forcing her gaze to meet him in the mirror again as his fingers find her clit as he pounds into her from behind. Not too slow, not too fast but intentional - hitting all the right places because although they’ve never done this before he just knows. He knows her.

“Look at how pretty you look taking me.”

“Jack-“ she can’t get the sentence out. She trails off into a string of whimpers and moans as she verges on her third orgasm of the morning. She squeezes her walls around Jack and he grunts, he’s close too.

“So this is all I’ve got to do to get you to listen to me, huh? Why didn’t you just say so baby?”

“Jack-“

“Yeah, sweetheart.” He barely manages to get out.

“Can I come for you?”

At that alone she feels him spilling into her, “Yes baby. Oh my god, yes.” he falters, caging his arms around her, steadying them against the counter as they both ride out their highs.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Me too- told you to start listening to me.”

“You’re filthy.”

“And you fucking love it.” Jack smirks as he uses one hand to wipe her clean with a warm washcloth, the other hand holds her head against his lips. He presses a kiss to her temple then her lips and then up and down her shoulder and neck until she is a giggling, blushing mess.

Jack picks up his shirt he had laid out for her but leaves the pants. She lets him tug it over her head and hugs him tight when he's done. Arms around his middle, just as she had done earlier. He dips his lips to the crown of her head, arms around her shoulders as he inhales his shampoo in her hair. It makes him want to melt.

He plants a kiss into her hair, "Come on - lets get some food in you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Jack didn't think his life could get any better after what just occurred in his bathroom but here she was - barefoot in his favorite shirt - prancing around his kitchen. She fiddles with the police scanner, he told her she could find one of the music radio channels instead. He used the police scanner as a distraction but he doesn’t want any distractions from her.

He restarts the omelettes because he got a little distracted before. He doesn't recognize the song that is on but she must - the way a grin bubbles from her lips. He kisses it off and pulls her into his side as he cooks.

Your love run through me like lava

Pull my fit over these hips

You grip, I grind

Then taste this wine, I'ma taste what's mine

Jack couldn't wait to taste her again. And she couldn't wait to taste him for the first time. If they hadn't just worked a twelve hour shift with little to no food - omelettes would be the last thing on their mind.

'I'll never stop you, you'll never stop me

From bein' whatever we need to be

And in these dark times, I'm so glad that this love is blinding

'Cause all I see is the best of you and all you see is the best of me

And you bring out the best of me

And all I see is everything

Your goals, your glow, your inner being

And our bigger meaning

Jack decided he liked this song. It reminded him of them. They brought life into this world one hour and were saying goodbye to it in the next. But in both hours they helped people. And they helped each other by loving each other through it. Their purposes were intertwined - both inside and outside of that hospital.

So, let's lose us in these sheets, yeah

And when I get up to walk, I wanna feel weak, yeah

Well, I ain't goin' far

So, stay where you are

Feel like you partied in Venus and we woke up in Mars

"You're not going to be able to walk tomorrow. Could barely get downstairs." Jack smiled to himself thinking of how he'd carried her down the stairs just moments ago.

"Oh shut up and dance with me." He turned the stove top off and turned to her. These omelettes were never getting made.

With the way she was looking at him - he was perfectly fine with that.

I been waitin' my whole life

And I'm gonna give you the best years of your life

You and I

He twirled her around as they danced - her singing the last words of the song to him. He didn't care that she had the world's worst singing voice - he was still blushing. Because she'd already given him the best years of his life - he couldn't possibly imagine the happiness that lied ahead of them now that they were finally letting themselves have it.

He felt himself getting emotional. He tugged her to his chest, cradling her head, mindlessly pressing kisses to it - ensuring she was real. That this dream was real.

"Jack"

"Hm, baby?"

The cutest yawn he’d ever heard and then, "Take me to bed, please."

Yep, definitely real.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

They'd been in bed cuddling for a mere five minutes when Jack's phone dings on his bedside table.

“You are not seriously on call right now?” Her head pops up off his chest and he has never been more annoyed at Robby for texting him than he is right now.

Jack groans as he reaches over, “No, just a question from Robby about that heart attack case we had this morning.”

“He can figure it out.”

“Let me answer - it will take two seconds.”

Jack types or at least tries to. She kisses up his neck - lightly sucking at the sensitive spots and then licking over them. Never doing enough to leave a mark. They don't need those questions at work tomorrow. But enough to make him dizzy.

Her legs are tangled in his and he lightly slaps her ass, “Stop being so hot please, I’m trying to get my work done.”

“Work? Flirting with Robby is more like it.”

“My bad flirting is reserved only for you.”

She points at his chest like she had done this morning, “Better be.”

He looks down and she flicks her fingers up, flicking his nose a lot lighter than she had earlier.

Jack is quicker now, grabs her finger and uses it to gently tug - to wrap her arms around his neck and pull her on top of him. Her legs fall to either side of his waist. It is hard to tell where she begins and he ends but they are a ball of laughter as they settle into each other.

She rests her head in the crook of his neck, placing a kiss there as he does the same to her forehead. Her hands play with the curls at the nape of his neck. One of his rubs up and down her thigh. Then her back. The other in her hair massaging her scalp, lulling her to sleep.

“Get some sleep, baby. I’ll punish you for that when we wake up.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Behave”

“Only cause you said so.”

They both fall asleep with grins on their faces. And wake up with them too.

#jack abbot #the Pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbott x female reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot fanfic #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbott #dr jack abbot #jack abott #jack abbot smut

2K notes · View notes