Her lips look like Cherry Ice

“like what?”

“like you’re about to ask for some weird shit.”

“put the suit on.”

he stops brushing.

you can actually see the words register. they move across his face in stages: confusion, disbelief, offense, and then the horrible, dawning realization that you are dead serious.

he spits into the sink. “no.”

“you didn't even think about it.”

“you said put the suit on.”

“yeah.”

“so, no.”

“katsuki.”

“absolutely fuckin’ not.”

you tilt your head at him, still smiling sweetly, and it is cheap. it is shameless. it works anyway, because his shoulders tense like he’s bracing himself for impact.

“baby,” you say.

he points the toothbrush at you. “don’t.”

“i just want to see it.”

“you’ve seen it.”

“not on purpose.”

“you saw it yesterday.”

“you were bleeding yesterday.”

“yeah, and?”

“and i was busy being mad.”

“you’re always busy bein’ mad lately.”

“because you’re spider-man.”

“keep your voice down,” he hisses, glancing toward the hallway like aiya— in her six month old glory— is going to rise from her crib and report him to the authorities.

you grin wider. “put the suit on.”

“why?”

you blink at him.

he stares back.

a second passes.

another.

then his mouth drops open just slightly, like he has finally, belatedly, realised that the woman who had his child is, in fact, still capable of wanting him so badly it becomes everyone’s problem.

“no,” he says again, weaker this time.

“yes.”

“it’s not—” he drags a hand down his face. “it’s not for that.”

“i know.”

“it’s work gear.”

“i know.”

“it’s dirty.”

“is it dirty right now?”

“no.”

“then put it on.”

“you’re fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“please?”

he groans like you’ve asked him to jump into traffic. which is rich, honestly, considering his usual hobby.

but he goes.

because he is impossible and stubborn and a liar and currently still on thin ice with you, but he is also whipped down to the marrow. you hear him open the narrow cupboard in the hallway. the quiet scrape of the false back he thought you didn’t notice after you found out. a zipper. fabric. muttering.

“stupid,” he says from the hall.

“love you.”

you settle back against the pillows, biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh too loudly and wake the baby. the monitor crackles once, just static, and both of you freeze out of habit.

nothing.

then katsuki appears in the doorway.

and you forget every single thing you were about to say.

because it is one thing to know.

it is another thing entirely to see him standing there in your bedroom, mask off, hair a mess from tugging it on, the suit sealed up to his throat and clinging to every brutal, familiar line of him.

it’s not shiny. not exactly. more matte, more practical, dark red and black with webbing worked into the fabric, reinforced at the shoulders and ribs. there are seams you never would’ve noticed on the news. small armored panels along his forearms. the faint outline of hidden web cartridges at his wrists. a tear near his thigh that’s been repaired messily by hand, probably his, because he never lets anyone touch his things unless they’re you or aiya, and even then he complains the whole time.

your eyes drop.

his hands immediately move in front of his crotch.

“nope.”

you blink back up at him. “what are you doing?”

“what’re you doin’?”

“looking.”

“yeah. stop.”

“no.”

“baby.”

“move your hands, boy.”

his face goes red so fast it’s actually beautiful.

“fuck off.”

“katsuki.”

“no.”

you sit up straighter, interest sharpening. “are you embarrassed?”

“i’m annoyed.”

“you’re covering yourself.”

“because you’re lookin’ at me like that!”

“like i love you?”

“like you wanna eat me.”

“also love.”

“not helpin’.”

you crawl to the edge of the bed on your knees, and his gaze dips before he can stop it. you’re only in one of his old shirts and underwear, hair still loose from your shower, skin warm from the lamp beside the bed. you know exactly what you look like. you know he knows. he swallows like he hates that you know.

“turn around,” you say.

“jesus christ.”

“turn.”

“no.”

“i had your baby.”

he glares. “you can’t use that for everythin’.”

“watch me.”

“that’s manipulation.”

“that’s motherhood.”

he shuts his eyes for a second, jaw working, then turns around with the stiff, humiliated dignity of a man being led to execution.

you make a sound.

you really don’t mean to.

it’s small. barely anything. just a little breath punched out of you because the suit is tight over his back and tighter over his thighs, and his ass is, frankly, a public safety hazard.

his head snaps around. “don’t.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you made a noise.”

“i have lungs.”

“you have problems.”

“yes. one of them is standing in my room dressed like japan’s sluttiest arachnid.”

he turns back so fast you almost laugh. “never say that again.”

“spider-suki.”

“no.”

“spider-man.”

“no.”

“daddy long legs.”

“fuck no.”

he’s trying so hard to be irritated that it wraps all the way around into adorable. his hands are back in front of himself, shoulders hunched, mouth in that pout he pretends is a scowl. and the worst part is, you know him too well. you can see the exact second embarrassment gives way to want. the way his breathing changes. the way his eyes keep catching on your mouth. the way he shifts his weight like he thinks it’ll hide what the suit is already starting to make painfully obvious.

you smile.

his eyes narrow. “don’t.”

“move your hands.”

“no.”

“let me see.”

“it looks stupid.”

“i’ll be the judge of that.”

“i don’t usually have a fuckin’ boner in the suit.”

“i’m not laughing.”

you press your lips together.

he points at you immediately. “don’t laugh.”

“you are. i should web your mouth shut.”

you light up. “can you?”

“wrong thing to say to you. forget i said it.”

“move your hands.”

“you’re evil.”

“yeah.”

he does.

not all at once. not confidently. he drags his hands away like he’s physically suffering for it, eyes cutting to the ceiling, cheeks red, mouth pulled into a miserable little line.

and you look.

because of course you do.

because that is your boyfriend. the father of your child. the man who washes bottles at two in the morning and warms your cold hands under his shirt and comes home bruised and lies badly and loves you so hard he almost ruins it trying to keep you safe.

and he is standing in front of you in a suit that leaves very little to the imagination.

your throat goes dry.

“oh,” you say softly.

he groans. “see? stupid.”

“not the word i was going to use.”

“don’t get poetic about my dick. i will leave.”

“no, you won’t.”

he doesn’t.

you reach for him, and he comes closer immediately, helpless as gravity. one step. then another. until he’s standing between your knees at the edge of the bed, still tense, still trying to hold on to the last scraps of dignity while you run your fingers over his waist.

the material is warm from his body.

that surprises you.

you thought it would feel colder. more removed from him somehow. like a costume. like a wall between what he does out there and what he is in here.

but it isn’t.

under your hands, it’s just katsuki.

your katsuki.

the hard plane of his stomach under your palm. the hitch in his breath when your fingers press into the seam at his hip. the little twitch in his jaw when you look up at him through your lashes.

“i should’ve known,” you murmur.

the teasing leaves his face. “what?”

you slide both hands around him, palms flattening against his back, feeling him stiffen at the tenderness of it. “i know your body too well.”

his gaze drops to you.

you trace one of the repaired seams near his ribs. “this one. you came home with a bruise here and told me you fell at the gym.”

“i did fall.”

“off a building?”

he says nothing. you touch his shoulder. “and here. you said you pulled something boxing.”

“kind of did.”

“fighting crime is not boxing.”

“close enough.”

“you’re so stupid.”

his mouth softens. “yeah.”

“and i’m still mad.”

“i know.”

“furious, actually.”

“i know.”

“but also...” your fingers hook into the suit at his waist. “you look really good.”

his eyes flick away like he can’t bear that.

which is absurd, because katsuki is not shy. he is loud in every room he enters. he argues with microwaves. he threatens furniture when he stubs his toe. he walks around shirtless in summer like he was built specifically to ruin your life and feels smug when he catches you looking.

but this is different.

this is the secret part of him.

this is the body you know wrapped in the life he hid.

so when your hands keep moving, slower now, reverent despite yourself, his mouth opens on a breath that doesn’t become words.

“baby,” he says eventually, very low.

“hm?”

“you gotta stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“why?”

“because i’m tryin’ to be good.”

the room seems to shrink around you.

the baby monitor hums on the nightstand. somewhere outside, a car passes over wet pavement. the whole city keeps moving, completely unaware that spider-man is standing in your bedroom, asking for mercy from the mother of his child.

you lean forward and press your mouth to his stomach through the suit.

his hand flies to the back of your head.

not pushing. not holding you there.

just touching. like he has to anchor himself to you by touch alone.

“fuck,” he whispers.

you look up. “take it off.”

his thumb drags once over your hair. “thought you wanted it on.”

“i wanted to look.”

“yeah?”

“now i’m done looking.”

that does it.

something in him changes. not loud. not sudden. just a shift, like a lock turning.

his hand slides from your hair to your jaw, tipping your face up. his eyes are dark and soft and still a little scared around the edges, because this is new. not you wanting him. not him wanting you. that part is old as breathing.

this is you wanting all of him now that you know.

the liar. the hero. the idiot on the couch. the man in the suit. the father who catches aiya before she falls, sometimes before she even starts to tip.

“say it proper,” he murmurs.

you smile. “i want you.”

he kisses you.

it is not gentle for long. it starts that way, maybe. a brush, a question, his mouth warm and mint-clean from the bathroom. but then your fingers pull at the sealed edge of the suit and his control snaps with an almost audible thing, his hand bracing on the mattress beside your thigh, the other cupping your face as he bends over you.

you pull him closer until he has to climb onto the bed, one knee sinking into the sheets, the suit creaking softly with the movement.

“zipper’s in the back.”

then he stops.

you blink up at him. “what?”

you stare.

he stares back, already humiliated. then you burst into the quietest, most violent laugh of your life.

“don’t,” he hisses.

you clap a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking.

“it’s not funny.”

“spider-man can’t get naked.”

“i can get naked.”

“not alone, apparently.”

“it’s a security design.”

“you need mommy to unzip you?”

his eyes flash. “careful.”

your laugh cuts off into something else.

he notices. of course he notices. his head tilts, just a little, interest sharpening like a blade.

“oh?” he says.

“shut up.”

“that do somethin’ for you?”

“you’re literally stuck in your superhero onesie.”

“and you’re still wet about it.”

you kick at him. he catches your ankle easily, grinning now, finally getting some of his footing back.

“turn around.”

“bossy.”

“turn around before aiya wakes up and ruins your life.”

that gets him moving.

he sits on the edge of the bed with his back to you, and you kneel behind him. the suit is even better up close, which is unfair. there are tiny scratches in the black patterning, a place near the nape that’s been torn and resewn, the faint smell of clean fabric and him. you find the hidden zipper between his shoulder blades and drag it down slowly.

too slowly, apparently, because his head drops forward.

“baby.”

“what?”

“don’t tease.”

you press a kiss to the back of his neck.

he goes quiet.

for all his strength, he is so easy there. so vulnerable when you touch the places he cannot watch you touch. your mouth at his neck, your hands on his shoulders, peeling the suit down inch by inch until his skin is bare under your palms.

you stop at the edge of a bruise blooming yellow near his ribs.

your chest tightens.

“katsuki.”

“old one.”

“how old?”

“couple days.”

“you didn’t tell me.”

“didn’t tell you a lotta shit.”

“that is not charming honesty.”

“wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

you kiss the bruise anyway. soft. once.

his breath catches.

“you’re still on the couch after this,” you whisper against his skin.

he huffs. “figured.”

“for a week.”

“three days.”

“five.”

“four.”

“six for negotiating.”

he turns his head, glaring over his shoulder. “that’s not how that works.”

“it is in my house.”

“our house.”

“my house until i forgive you.”

his mouth twitches. “mean ass woman.”

“lying ass spider.”

he twists suddenly, pulling you forward with one arm, and you squeak before remembering to be quiet. the two of you freeze, eyes shooting to the baby monitor.

static. nothing else.

katsuki whispers, “you’re gonna wake her up.”

“you just manhandled me.”

“me?”

“yeah, you.”

“quietly.”

“you’re so annoying.”

“you love me.”

“maybe a little.”

he kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and the suit gets lost somewhere around his waist, then his thighs, then the floor. there’s a clumsy, stifled struggle with one ankle that nearly makes you laugh again until he bites your shoulder through his own shirt and mutters, “one sound and i’m puttin’ it back on.”

“threatening me with a good time.”

“you’re insane.”

“you knew that before.”

“knew it before i knocked you up, too.”

heat blooms low in your stomach. his eyes catch it.

your hand tightens around his bicep. “should do it again.”

for a second, the whole room goes still.

not because he doesn’t understand.

because he does.

because aiya is asleep down the hall, and your body remembers her. the ache, the weight, the long nights, the softness of her head under your chin, the impossible terror of loving something that small. it remembers katsuki kneeling beside the bed with a newborn tucked against his bare chest, whispering promises to both of you like he could scare the world into behaving if he growled hard enough.

his hand spreads over your stomach.

careful. reverent.

“yeah?” he says, voice rough.

you nod.

he bends until his forehead rests against yours. “you sure?”

“i’m sure.”

“not just because you’re freakin’ out over the suit?”

“that is a factor.”

he snorts.

you smile, sliding your arms around his neck. “but no. not just that.”

his thumb strokes once, slow, over your stomach.

“aiya’s gonna be pissed.”

“aiya’s six months old.”

“she’s possessive.”

“she gets that from you.”

“damn right.”

you kiss him before he can say anything else stupid, and he follows you down into the bed with an instinct that feels older than the secret, older than the suit, older than the hurt still waiting for both of you in the morning.

for now, he is warm and heavy over you, bare skin against bare skin, one hand braced carefully near your head like he still thinks he might crush you after all these years. you pull him closer anyway. you always do.

“couch tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth.

“yeah, yeah.”

“and we’re still talking.”

“yeah.”

“and you’re teaching me how the web thingy works.”

“absolutely not.”

“katsuki.”

“fine.”

“and i’m putting the suit on once.”

his head lifts.

you blink innocently.

“no,” he says.

“yes.”

“no.”

“it’s only fair.”

“you wearin’ that suit is how we end up with an army of brats.”

you gasp. “so you agree.”

“i agree you’re awful.”

the baby monitor crackles.

both of you freeze again, half tangled, half laughing, entirely caught.

aiya sighs.

katsuki lowers his forehead to your shoulder in silent, desperate prayer.

you bite your lip so hard you almost hurt yourself.

after a long moment, he whispers, “still asleep.”

“spider-sense?”

“dad sense.”

you soften before you can stop yourself. he feels it. lifts his head. the grin is gone now, replaced with something quieter. something open and tired and so painfully full of love that you almost hate him for making you feel it while you’re still furious.

“i’m sorry,” he says.

no defence. no excuse.

just that.you touch his cheek.

“i know.”

“i’ll tell you everythin’.”

“you better.”

“everythin’.”

you hold him there, fingers sliding into his hair, the city outside wet and glowing and alive around you. somewhere in it, there are rooftops he knows better than streets. alleys where he has bled alone. people he has saved without you knowing. versions of him you are only just beginning to meet.

but this version is yours.

in your bed. in your arms. warm, embarrassed, breathing hard against your throat.

“katsuki?”

“hm?”

“make another baby with me.”

he goes still for one heartbeat.

then his mouth finds yours again, and this time there is nothing funny about it.

“yeah,” he whispers.

his hand cups the back of your head like a vow.

“yeah, baby. i got you.”