arrowmance

[arrowmance]

sorry, folks! no sunday shares post this week—not too confident in my current wip catalogue so I wish to postpone it to next week! thank you for your understanding<33

[arrowmance]

🔖

[arrowmance]

—THERE IS NO 'I' IN TEAM

lesson of the day? don’t let kyle ‘gaz’ garrick out of john price’s sight.

includes: simon ‘ghost’ riley, john ‘soap’ mactavish, kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, gary ‘roach’ sanderson, phillip graves | wc: 1.58k+

contents. crack, a little bit of kyle x gn!reader >:) but otherwise platonic!reader, idk how helicopters or the military works im sorry

when captain john price takes the week off and you see the name phillip graves scrawled next to your helicopter-flight training schedule, you already know that proverbial shit is gonna hit the fan. unfortunately for you, it’s the commander’s non-proverbial vomit that might hit the helicopter fan instead.

“gaz!” he roars over the headset, “get your ass back in gear!”

“there’s only one set of gears, commander!” he turns to the man next to him, smiling, his right hand jerking the cyclic forward — the helicopter tilts and you want to hurl as you lurch against your seatbelt. soap’s face is white next to you, splotchy and red as his eyes blow wide when gaz wrenches the joystick back, laughing, “whoops, sorry guys.”

roach prays in the seat behind you, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips muttering the name of a god that doesn't exist as he clutches ghost’s arm. you wonder if he was religious before this experience or if this was his enlightenment.

“put your hand back on the control, gaz!” you plead desperately, a girlish squeal escaping your lips as the helicopter jerks again. gaz rolls his eyes, finally grabbing the control like a toddler playing with blocks only because someone beat him to the play-doh. ghost looks more like his moniker by the second.

“we’re gonna die,” soap’s voice comes out breathless, “we’re gonna die and it’s gonna be gaz’s fault i’m never gonna fucking see my fantasy football—”

“to hell with your fantasy football, sarge!” graves holds the roof handle with all the strength he has as the helicopter leans, his knuckles white and his face pale as he clings to the edge of the seat as far away from gaz as humanly possible.

“oh fuck you graves, just because you have nothing going for you doesn't mean i don't!” soap screams before he lets out a noise, jolting upwards as he grabs the bottom of his seat, “there’s gum under here, god, you people are disgusting—!”

roach gags through his mask. “how many times have you flown a helicopter?!” his back is pressed against the worn-in seat, and he can feel his uniform scrape against the leather and metal.

“i’ll let you know that i have a perfect flying record.” gaz scoffs, and you wonder in mild horror whose dick he had to stroke to get that.

roach lets out a broken sob as gaz’s left hand leaves the collective control for the second time, sending him a quick middle finger before he immediately puts it back on to dodge a scraggly tree; he pushes the throttle up, letting out a "whoo!" as the branches graze and scrape on the edges of the landing skids, sending the entire helicopter spinning to the side. the world is circles for a moment, a blur of greens and oranges meshing into an ugly brown and the urge to pass out creeps onto you before soap’s chokehold on you resuscitates you back to life.

"did you just save me?" you whisper at him, your eyes wide.

"did i?" he seems confused, and the world slows down; for a second, it's just you and him, staring into each other's eyes. he begins to smile before you kick him off of you.

"let me die next time." you seethe.

gaz has the audacity to whistle a cheery tune in front of you, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to an imaginary song as everyone yells over each other, flippantly making his way through the unknown territory while the world burns around him.

“you’re flying and suddenly you see (y/n) and i in two different helicopters!” how graves has the stomach to continue the evaluation, you don’t know, but you assume his reputation means far too much to him for gaz’s awful flying to ruin it (despite the fact that he's practically halfway off of the helicopter), “what do you do you hit?”

“you, obviously.”

“you hit the fucking collective, you dumbass!” ghost’s voice shouts in your headset, visibly stressed even through his mask. the helicopter jolts again — like the saint you are, you decide to forgive the man next to you, grabbing onto him for any ounce of comfort you can get. he squeezes your hand like it’s his lifeline, and you can see a manly crocodile tear escape his right eye.

“you guys know how if you hit the right tail rotor we go right and if you hit the left tail rotor we go left?” gaz muses, experimentally fiddling with the controls, “if you hit both, do you get a screenshot?”

“let me leave,” you whimper, “dear lord, please let me leave.”

“let me apologize, commander!” ghost shouts, “he’s like this when we don’t give him enough attention!”

“oh pipe it, manchester boy,” gaz turns around, and half of the group screams. he ignores the cries to please look forward for god’s sake, staring ghost directly in the eye as he exaggerates his british accent to mock him, “put yourself to use and get me a bo’oh o’ wa’er!”

he only turns forward to dodge the bottle of arrowhead that ghost throws towards him; it lands on the front windshield just as gaz stalls the motor and turns a sharp left to avoid hitting the side of a cliff, and the bottle punches graves straight in the stomach. he lets out a pained groan, trembling in agony as both of gaz’s hands leave the controls, plucking the bottle from the commander’s lap. graves, with all of his intelligence, decides that taking a piss at the man in control of his life is a good idea.

“arrowhead?” he hisses, “fucking brits.”

fuck me, kyle.

“you know i love it when you say things like that, babe, but not in front of the others!" gaz speeds up as you realize with a hazy mind that you must've said that out loud. "let's keep that for tonight!"

“of course the fucking american pulls the brit card, go deal with your obesity crisis!” you can hear roach from behind you, but it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s in your mind at this point.

“oh look at you, you kiss your queen with that mouth?"

“there exists a god,” soap whispers, a blank look in his eyes as he stares at the ceiling above him as ghost and graves argue about the political landscape of the two countries, “there must be a god because who else could be testing me like this?”

“i didn’t know you were so on the fence about the boston tea party, soap — the cliff!” the group lets out a collective scream as gaz narrowly avoids the sandy rock next to you, grunting as he steers sharply to the left, and soap practically falls on top of you. he’s shaking and in need of therapy. you think you all are.

“garrick, pull down so one of us can replace you.” graves bargains, a hint of a desperate plea on the edge of his tone.

“sorry, commander, can’t pull rank here,” gaz grins cheerily, “pmc’s don’t have any jurisdiction over me.”

“why the fuck am i here then?!”

“team-bonding!” gaz sings innocently, “price and alejandro are gone and i thought to myself: what better time to get to know each other better than without the two boring-ass adults gone? i put your name on there and signed everyone up, isn’t that fun?”

the helicopter is silent, and for a moment, all there is the sound of the wind rushing past the doors and the motorized spinning of the chopper.

“i’m going to skin you.” graves announces plainly, defeated and broken beyond comparison as a husk of the man he once was, and sounds of yelling peak once more.

“how about you let the team decide whether we want to bond next time?” your voice raises an octave, heartbroken and desperate through the shouts and screeches of the men surrounding you. “there is no ‘i’ in team, gaz!”

“there is in training, though,” he winks at you, before his eyes spot the landing pad right ahead, his eyes lighting up, “oh, here’s our stop! all aboard!”

he takes a nose dive, clenching the controls with a new vigor he should’ve had since the beginning, but if there’s anything worse than a lazy gaz, it’s an excited gaz. he takes you down to the treeline before slamming both of the rotor pedals at the same time. the helicopter tips and wobbles between left and right as the pressure increases, your ears ringing past the branches of green and brown, the weight of the earth above you. you cling onto soap for dear life, holding him as the gray and white pad comes closer to view, the two of you screaming as you drop down straight towards the ‘h’. roach claws at the door desperately, but it seems like ghost has already accepted his fate, gracefully awaiting the kiss of death.

“my name is roach because i survive nukes. i repeat, my name is roach because i survive nukes—!”

“don’t be such a baby.” gaz scoffs, pulling up at the very last second, your body jerking up from the acceleration, your seatbelt digging into your shoulders. your head slams against the headrest of your seat, and you decide that this must be hell. against all odds and everyone's better judgment, gaz has managed to land with everyone's bodies intact. your hearts and minds tell a different story.

graves stumbles out of the helicopter as if he's being chased by a demon, throwing his headset on the ground and making a beeline to his shadows that await him with everything he could possibly need and more. for once, you think the man deserves his rest.

roach throws up on the spot, managing to pull down his mask before he empties his breakfast on the helicopter pad, ghost hasn't moved in the past five minutes, and soap has somehow managed to acquire one of those thermal blankets they use for shocked victims, trembling under the gray sheet.

gaz turns around, smiling at you with that smile you fell in love with, a shimmer of sweat gleaming on his forehead.

kyle ‘gaz’ garrick was always a perfect man, not only was he beautiful, but he was kind and strong, and he always lifted you up when you needed him the most. you've known kyle for five years and loved him for three, and yet, he's never ceased to make your heart flutter. you smile back at him, and he melts.

“so, babe, how about a date tonight—?”

“i'm breaking up with you.”

a/n: "alexis what is this" dawg idk either

[arrowmance]

There are three things you cannot outrun in this world, folks: death, taxes, and me.

[arrowmance]

Most infuriating part of writing is having an idea and thinking oh, this is gonna be so good and wanting to IMMEDIATELY share the vision with other people because it's gonna be good but then you start writing it down and - it is gonna be good. Except. It is also gonna take so, so, so long to finish. And in the meantime. You are the only one with The Vision. Alone. Losing your mind. 😭

[arrowmance]

🏷️ : @cheretoru

[arrowmance]

✦ 𝐒U𝐍𝐃A𝐘 𝐒𝐇A𝐑E𝐒  「 10 / 08 」 : ENTRY #1

𝐖I𝐏 O𝐅 𝐓𝐇E 𝐖EE𝐊 :: clark kent x gn! reader. showcase: the first 600 words of a superman (2025) drabble that I didn't get to finish due to other wips. question is: will the full story see the light of day?

❝ THE PROPHECY SAID... that CLARK KENT had (un)discreetly been lending you a helping hand in building your ▇▇▇▇▇. ❞

Before that, let's recap.

Trust, how could anyone have known? (Amidst all the surprise gifts on your desk with accompanying pastel sticky-notes on topics ranging from "Love your new hair!" to "You should wear blue more often. It's cute." Duly signed with a smiley face plus two hearts.) 

Those were old news. For sure it will at least become more predictable since you two have started dating, right?

It had been months since the fateful day of destruction. With chaos on overdrive, and a mirage of colors bursting just outside your apartment window.

The fireworks of an extraterrestrial seizes the dark, starry night of Metropolis. Such fascinating creatures could make headlines in a normal world; seeing color pierce through each building like light to a prism.

Though, perhaps there was no hint of that normalcy. Your eyes rest. Your arms crossed, your head tilted to the side to gauge a better view of the otherworldly display.

There was no point in broadcasting spectacle if this was their new normal.

It had been the same few months since you've confessed to Clark. At the time, you weren't aware of his looming presence from behind. How he had entered without alerting you via the large creak of the door was a mystery best left forgotten.

What began as soft touches turned to a declaration. Few words were said, instead you've opted to just relish in each other's presence as you admired the view of the night sky. Much like northern lights, only this time sealed with leaning into one another's faces: lips meeting, foreheads touching, giggles between whispers with your focus away from the splendor and instead resting on his soft gaze.

It was simple—much like Clark himself.

And now that ever charming Kansas-style dorky farm boy knows that it doesn't take much to woo you. Heck, it doesn't take much to even impress you on a bad day.

Time progresses, and all still's the same. All still's the usual look back at the Daily Planet: paperwork and the passing of the latest headline, dreading the incoming reactions to your newest tabloid.

It had been the same since; the same except for one particular little thing.

Clark had slowed down.

It was clear that Clark was no longer dropping off expensive trinkets during early mornings before you clocked in. No more where those daily notes, daily sweets or daily second-hand figurine you gawked at for a minute too long when walking passed multiple shopping lanes. Tempting, but you pushed all vices of owning seemingly childish knickknacks.

While shocking, you knew deep down that he never truly stopped his ritualistic, secret (not) gift giving. In fact, it doesn't take long before he admitted to have noticed both your concern for his wallet and your little huffs every time another office mate goes forth with teasing you for another full work day.

You thought so too. 

Nowadays, Clark does it once a week. Instead of the obviously expensive treats from Seattle just sitting there on its base packaging for everyone to see, it felt more "in the moment" than casual, but welcomed delight. 

Perfectly packaged in a sturdy box wrapped in whatever cute wrapping paper caught his eye at the station. Instead of sticky notes, there were letters—some premade with corny jokes he knew you'd laugh at. 

Other times they were handwritten. You'd imagine his scribbling away during the commute to work or just, wherever Clark may be. 

Maybe you'll confront him. Maybe you won't.

✦ 𝐓𝐇E 𝐐UE𝐒𝐓IO𝐍 ::

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝐍E𝐗T 𝐓O? :: back to home, collection.

𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙮 𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙈𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙀; 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡 / 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙮 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨. 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙞.

[arrowmance]

[arrowmance]

gone for months then spawning with shocking otp ship

[arrowmance]

mara if you drop anything, and i mean ANYTHING, even remotely related to little college kid clark majoring in journalism and being a little bean in the daily planet press room i will love you froever. NEED something to feed me before i start crashing out

THIS ASK FOUND ME AT JUST THE RIGHT TIME! i've been nervous, crashing out, sweating buckets about returning to college in a couple weeks, but college boy clark i loooooove you. contents: mildly suggestive, allusions to sex, protection (wrap it before you tap it!), tooth-rotting fluff, character study, clark being a lover boy.

clark’s definitely that guy in your lecture who always shows up ten minutes early but still looks... almost surprised when you say hi to him for the first time? he's the guy sits in the second row with his little blue composition notebook and the same pen every time. has freakishly neat handwriting, but it tilts just a tad bit more the sleepier he is. never really raises his hand or asks questions out loud but writes so many notes in the margins like he’s having a conversation with the damn textbook.

he’s probably got some work-study job that no one thinks twice about—maybe filing books in the library basement or tutoring people in intro comp for twelve bucks an hour and a university-provided hoodie if they can swing it. it's clark. he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. he just goes like clockwork.

and he’s always, always carrying stuff. someone’s dry cleaning. a lost phone charger. boxes of flyers for the campus paper because he offered to help distribute them across three buildings and “it’s no trouble, really.” always something in his arms and someone saying “thanks, kent,” and him smiling just a little bashfully, proud of himself without meaning to, and already halfway down the hall with his sneakers that martha got for him the summer before he went to college squeaking.

you meet him in a class he doesn’t even really need to take—some sort of gen ed, maybe public speaking or rhetoric or intro to mass media, something that's light and can be skipped on friday mornings when everyone goes out the night before—but he ends up next to you because the seat was empty and because he’s just the kind of guy who feels bad for leaving a gap in the somewhat empty lecture hall. you ask to borrow a pen one day. he gives you two and says, “one for backup,” and just... smiles. and fuck it, that’s it, you’re whipped. you're gonna be this guy's seat partner for the rest of the year.

he’s soooo funny in this really quiet way, like he doesn’t even know he’s being funny which makes it so much better, and like he'll say “good gravy” without irony when something goes inevitably wrong with the projector and mutters “criminy” under his breath when he realizes he printed the wrong notes and his brows are furrowing and his lips jut out in a very, very slight pout. he types so softly. he eats his lunch on a bench behind the humanities building like a little old man on a break from the farm. old habits die hard.

and then one day you sit next to him again, and he offers you half his sandwich before even asking if you brought your own. like of course he fucking does. just splits his grilled cheese in half and then munches along with you in the back while wiping up the crumbs on your desk. and that's how you learn pretty quickly that he’s the kind of guy who remembers what kind of snacks you like and carries napkins in his backpack just in case, like not for any specific reason, but yknow. just in case.

he really, really likes the way you talk. he likes the way you’re not afraid to tease him, how you say “yes, country boy” or call him a midwestern huckleberry every time he does something hopelessly sweet and homemade like give someone directions or pick up a dropped pencil without making a big deal out of it. you'll catch him staring at your lips a lot while you're animatedly ranting or teasing him or chewing on your pen cap.

clark takes you to a house party once—just one, because they're honestly lame and you guys aren't doing anything that one friday night, so what the hell—and you’re not even halfway through your second drink before he’s offering you water and asking if you’re warm enough and if you want to sit down, if your shoes are okay, if maybe it’s too loud. you tell him he’s fussing. he tells you he likes fussing. you stay curled up together on a sagging couch for the rest of the night, playing some dumb party game with the rest of the floor and sneaking unsubtle little glances at each other every time someone asks “who in this room would you wanna kiss silly in the closet?"

when you end up drinking too much (happens to the best of us), he holds your hair back and rubs your back gently and just says, “you’re okay, i got you, you’re okay,” over and over and over until your stomach stops trying to escape your fucking body. doesn’t even flinch or make a face. doesn’t make fun of you. instead, he helps you rinse your mouth out and puts you in one of his old high school football t-shirts and tucks you into bed like he was born to take care of people and maybe he was.

and yeah, it’s a little awkward dating him at first, like you go to hold his hand and he's thinking you're going to high-five him so you guys bump knuckles. but then when he realizes, he just gets this... this look on his face like he got hit with a whole freight train and you’re like “clark. it’s just hands. it's me.” he nods way, way too fast and says “right. yep. just hands. totally great with hands.” and turns bright beet red from the implication.

he’s such a great fucking boyfriend, it honestly pisses me off. like high-key, not even low-key in the slightest, amazing.

clark's always ready with a granola bar or a spare umbrella or some dumb compliment that he says without even realizing i. "you’re really good at that,” he’ll say even when you’re just doing something small like showing him your notes or trying to fix your keycard that's slipped out of your wallet or brushing your hair out of your face, and it always catches you off guard because it’s so goddamn genuine.

he’s the one who drags you guys to the student health center to pick up a paper bag of free condoms before your first time and even some pamphlets because “they’re there for a reason” and you’re both sweating buckets the whole time. you do try to be casual about it, bless your soul. but you're also evil at the end of the day, so you whisper, “you picking out a good flavor for us, clark?” and he knocks over an entire bowl of dental dams. the whole fucking center goes quiet and looks over at you. you guys have to LEAVE. but he still picks up the bag :)

something you take advantage of is the fact that he gets flustered SO easily. like you’ll say one thing, not even filthy, just... maybe suggestive enough to make a nun blush—maybe something like “bet you’d look real pretty on your knees” and he just about dies. goes bright pink and blinks slow like he needs to reboot. swears and says “you’re gonna kill me” with this breathy, overwhelmed laugh, and then immediately proves you right.

and he wants. good grief, he wants so many things, so fucking bad. not just the sex, though, like hell yeah dude, that too, with this deep steady ache like gravity, but all of it. the mess of it. your clothes half on, his half off. the press of your hips against his in the middle of making a microwave dinner. lazy morning make-out sessions before running to class when neither of you smell great but you still can’t stop. he wants to be in your orbit, wrapped around you, under you, whatever you’ll let him have. he'll take it.

he’s so stupidly, wonderfully in love that it just leaks out in moments you don’t expect. like you’ll be kissing, slow and easy, not even really thinking of going anywhere in particular, and he’ll murmur “you’re so good to me” against your mouth and it knock the fucking the wind out of you. enough to make you pull him in between the stacks and wrench a couple more praises out from his pretty little mouth.

you guys also study together. or, at least you try. it usually starts out okay and productive enough but unfortunately for your grades, it ends with both of you horizontal on his tiny dorm bed, heads pressed together, blinking up at the ceiling like it might contain the answers for your exam more often than not. he hums when he reads, soft and low like a tractor engine, and when you fall asleep in the middle of writing flashcards, he covers you with his hoodie and finishes the rest for you.

he WILL say a lot, eventually. he starts off quiet in the relationship, never really opening up about smallville or his powers or his insecurities, but give him time and he’ll talk to you about everything—about growing up in a place with only one flickering streetlight and a high school class of thirty-two, about the first time he saw his name in print on the smallville post, about how sometimes he worries he’s too much, too soft, too honest for the world he really wants to write about.

you tell him he’s just right. and he believes you. eventually. again, it just takes time and a little elbow grease and some love.

but yeah... clark in college... he'll still show up to class ten minutes early. still gives you backup pens. still carries everything anyune hands him. but now he stands and waits for you by the door to the lecture hall. now he saves you a seat in every class you guys take together. now he’s got a piece of your scribbly handwriting tucked into his notebook, a little note you left him once that he rereads when he’s having a rough day, and he never tells you about it, not really, but you catch him smiling at it once and decide not to say anything. just squeeze his hand a little tighter in a dark, crowded lecture hall and smile with your eyes and ask him where he wants to get coffee that day. and that's enough.

🗽 mara's note: special thanks to @emmcfrxst for her brain, her kindness, and her willingness to thirst over college boy clark with me. mwah mwah mwah!

[arrowmance]

I think if you had the Ella enchanted curse, Gaz wouldn’t take advantage of it but only because he’d think it was cheating to manipulate you that way instead of doing it the hard way

[arrowmance]

The real question is whys he upside down

[arrowmance]

Johnny being told, “Careful, this is hot.”, only to burn his tongue and act shocked like he hadn’t just been warned. he’s been doing this since he was a child, he never learns his lesson

[arrowmance]

Missionary with your fav military man, but his dog tags keep tapping you in the face, causing you to giggle. He scoffs and nips at you playfully before taking the chain in his teeth and thrusting even harder, fucking you up the bed in punishment

[arrowmance]

It only took one mention of your feet hurting for Kyle to sweep you right off your feet.

Only after taking the darned heels off first, of course, because I don't know how you keep those torture devices on for so long, sweetheart. Really, you don't know how to cope properly with the way the heat of his chest spreads across your cheek through the thin linen of his button up. The thickness of his arms around your body as he walks down to the hotel like it's casual to be hauling you around like this.

You met him the first night you got here, aching for any company you could get your hands on. Is it a miracle that the universe put Kyle right in the palm of your hands? That when you grabbed at one of his belt loops he didn't resist, only smirked and let you continue on. That after you sucked him off in your hotel room he simply kissed the cum in your mouth and proceeded to fuck you so well, you could almost pretend you'd been with him for years.

It's been a week of this. Of afternoons bathing by the pool or the beach, eyefucking each other from respective sun loungers and meeting up for dinner only to make lewd faces while eating and afterwards fucking like bunnies. You never wake up with him still in your room and you always slip out from his in the early hours of the morning, the sky still a gloomy blue.

The fact that the end is coming so soon doesn't dawn on you. No. Kyle is nothing but capable of wiping every rational thought straight out of your head. Even like this, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat and jostling slightly with every footstep, you don't think about the fact that tomorrow neither of you will be here. Instead your core aches and you look up at the sharpness of his jawline, imagining just about everything he could do to you.

And you're right---the sex gets crazier, the head gets sloppier, the kisses become deeper, messy enough to draw blood if you bite just a little bit harder. Everything he does with your body feels other worldly, your head like cotton after one orgasm and then a third...or wait is it a fourth?

Thorougly exhausted by the time you're done, floating on a cloud of thousand-thread-count sheets and his glistening muscles beneath you. You've managed to wear him down. Finally.

When you dare to look up at him, many minutes after he's come and finished, there's a longing twinkling in his eyes. Maybe even sadness. A sobering sight if nothing else, your heart sinking so deep into your chest as you realise when you close your eyes that he won't be here.

"Kyle," you whisper. You can't contain any of the emotion that wells in your throat. You stutter for any other words but they fail you, his own finger gently smoothing over your face before pressing over your lips.

"'s alright," he murmurs. "Had fun, didn't we?"

Your nod is slow, blinks slower as you try to savour his face. The dots of stubble around his jaw, the crook of his nose which he's said is from breaking it twice, the perfect balance of the rest of his features. The expanse of his chest and the tattoo that's across his forearm. Who dares wins. You've wanted to ask this whole time and now you'll never know.

He brings his whole hand back over your nose, up your forehead until he reaches your hair and begins stroking over it gently.

"Go to sleep," he smiles down at you. Those pearly whites just as blinding and sexy as they had been the first time you saw them from across the bar.

"But," you stammer. "What about...What if I don't want to?"

Kyle leans down now, pulling you up all the same so you meet in the middle for a kiss. You sigh into it, choking down the sob that threatens to spill between your mouths.

"Don't cry, sweetheart." He coos against your lips. "Trust me. Just go to bed, okay?"

You've never known yourself to be so weak for someone, but Kyle you can't refuse. Even if it tears your chest in two. Even if the memory will kill you slowly. Even if you'll never return to the rest of your life the same.

"Okay," you concede. "Okay." Then against all your better judgement: "I love you."

He's radiant just like the sun, grin stretching up to his ears. Kyle places a final kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too."

[arrowmance]

my take, on the apple art trend....heehee

[arrowmance]

18+

best friend!satoru who eats you out for the first time as your second birthday gift. you’d joked about needing a second dessert after cake and he’d shrugged, carried you bridal style to the couch, pinned your thighs over his shoulders and said, “you want me to put frosting on it or nah?” you thought he was kidding. you learned he was not.

best friend!satoru who gets painfully hard when you wear his clothes, but doesn’t bother to hide it.

best friend!satoru who lets you borrow anything from his closet, and steals from yours constantly. “mutual property. yours is mine, mine is yours. if you see me decked out in your miniskirt, i don’t want to hear a word,” and he means it—full on struts past you one morning in your crop top, showing off his slutty waist like it’s his god-given right, looking back only to say: “you left it on the floor. you forfeited ownership.”

best friend!satoru who’s your lingerie consultant. even when you’re dating someone else, he always insists on helping you “rate” the pieces you wear for The Other Guy. “7.5. makes your tits look great, but you’re gonna waste that on him?” weeks later, you realize half those sets went missing.

best friend!satoru who feeds you fries off his plate. dips them in sauce and holds them up to your lips. always pretends to miss your mouth so he can press his greasy fingers against your bottom lip and go “oops, messy girl.” and chuckles when you lick or bite his fingers in retaliation.

best friend!satoru who lets you use his card when you’re sad. doesn’t ask what for, just sends you a selfie of him pouting with a “buy smth pretty so you don’t cry” caption. if you don’t spend at least $300, he gets personally offended.

best friend!satoru who showers with you “to save the environment,” but spends more time helping you exfoliate your back and rinse your conditioner out than actually washing himself. you turn around once and catch him palming himself lazily under the stream. “oh,” he says, blinking. “you can keep singing, don’t mind me.”

best friend!satoru who has zero boundaries when it comes to your body. he adjusts your straps, straightens your necklaces, zips you into dresses from behind with such painstaking care that should not be so casual.

best friend!satoru who hasn’t fucked you, but has definitely slept curled around you like a body pillow on many occasions. who dry humps you during cuddles—not even always consciously. sometimes it’s in the middle of a movie, arms wrapped around you, hips rocking languidly against your ass while you eat popcorn. other times he full-on moans in his sleep.

best friend!satoru who is that annoying best friend who accidentally walks in while you’re changing.

best friend!satoru who kisses your forehead chastely. who holds your hand walking through crowds. who likes to pull you into his chest and rest his chin on the top of your head

best friend!satoru who gets hard watching you cry over your ex. not out of cruelty—he hates seeing you hurt, truly—but you’re sobbing into his chest, voice wobbling through half-formed sentences, and it does something to him. part of him wants to cheer you up with takeout and movies. the other part wants to fuck you so good you forget that asshole’s name entirely.

best friend!satoru who keeps saying “it’s not sexual unless you cum” like that’s a rule in the friend handbook.

best friend!satoru who never asks you to be his, because he knows the second you say yes, he’s compromised. you’ll become the one thing he can’t afford to lose. he keeps you close, but not close enough that someone could make you a target. as the strongest, he’s spent his whole life being selfless for the sake of everyone else. but he’s just not sure he’d know how to be selfless with you.