Aylin had formulated a plan during her five mile hike back home. She knew she would have the house to herself at this time. If she could quickly pack her car full of gear, staying out of sight, then she could head back to Peter for the next few days. During that time, she would get every bit of information she could about Kat’s pack. When she finally returned back to the guild, she could trade that information as an apology for not completing her ritual to become a full time hunter. Trading was how their guild functioned. Information could be traded for a lighter sentencing. Sergei would be more focused on taking action against an entire pack than dealing out punishments for her defiance. She could right all the wrongs before the situation got too out of hand. 

It wasn’t a perfect plan but it would have to do.

The old floorboards creaked under foot to alert the only available member of the household to her presence. Her large, sleek black cat lazily rose his head off the sofa to see who dared to disturb his nap. When he caught sight of Aylin, his ears perked up and he gracefully leapt to the floor to greet her by weaving between her legs. He gave a piercing whine, begging for attention. 

“Yes, yes. I missed you, too, Kedi.” Aylin bent down to scoop him into her arms where he proceeded to be carried like a baby up the stairs to her bedroom loft. “Has mom been worried about me? Have you been looking after her?” 

Kedi purred, his golden eyes squinting up at her. It was a rarity to find him inside their cabin. He preferred to be out hunting for his next meal or clawing his way up the highest tree. Finding him willingly behind walls meant that he knew something was wrong. He had probably spent the night curled up next to Nesrin. Sometimes Aylin swore that he was actually a person trapped inside the body of a cat. She imagined him to be a grumpy, old man who would yell at innocent children to get off his lawn but secretly loved the attention they gave him. He was fearless, tenacious, and a ferocious serial killer of all rodents. 

A family of killers. Is that all they were?

Peter’s words from this morning still buzzed around her thoughts like an annoying gnat that refused to leave her personal space. 

“We’re not in a cult, right? I’d know if I was in a cult,” she mused down at the cat in her arms. 

He responded with a deep, guttural purr that vibrated his entire body. 

“Sergei isn’t Jim Jones or Charles Manson. He has a reason behind what we’re doing. There’s a purpose. A meaning. We’re helping people. We’re…” She paused and gave a long sigh. “My father wouldn’t have been best friends with a cult leader. He was smarter than that. He was a good man. Peter’s wrong. He doesn’t know us, does he, Keds? He’s a stupid, low life, pathetic, disgusting werewolf. He’s-” 

She stopped to listen to the words falling from her lips. No one was around to hear them and she was still holding deep prejustice for a man who had done nothing but show her kindness and grace despite her attitude. 

Lycans. That’s what Peter referred to himself as. Not a werewolf. A lycan. A person with the ability to shift into a wolf. 

A person. Not a monster.

Good and bad people. That’s what Peter had said. There were always good and bad people regardless where you stood in the world. 

Which one was she? 

Aylin carefully dropped Kedi onto her bed so she could pack a bag, trying to pull her thoughts away from Peter’s grasp and focus them back onto the task at hand. Some extra clothes, camping supplies, her crossbow, and more food would be on her list of needed items. She quickly changed out of her dress and into something more practical for forest living. She began tossing clothes out of her drawer and into the waiting duffle bag. As she turned around to pack them more neatly, she stopped to see Kedi curled up under the growing pile. 

“You’re not helping, Ked. You’ll suffocate under there if I zip it up,” she smiled softly down at the stubborn cat who merely squinted back at her. He was always able to lift her mood. “Okay fine, you can stay but I’m going to keep packing around you.” 

She grabbed an unopened pack of spare toothbrushes and ripped it apart. Carefully, she glanced over the colors, selecting a red and blue striped one for Peter. She felt like he would suit those colors…and he really needed to brush his teeth. It had probably been a while since he had a toothbrush of his own. 

With some basic grooming items taken care of and a duffle full of spare clothes, Aylin shooed Kedi out of the way to finish her getaway bag. He followed as she made a handful of trips from the house to her car, filling the trunk with everything her and Peter might need to survive for the next few days. She slammed the full trunk closed, tucking her keys into her pocket, and put her hands on her hips. A sense of determination settled over her. 

“There! We have a camping stove, some canned food, extra water…I think we should be all set for a couple days,” she spoke down to the cat waiting patiently at her feet. “If you would like to come with me, Keds, I would be more than happy to bring you. I don’t think Peter would mind the extra company.” 

Kedi’s fur raised along his back, his ears flattening, and he gave a long hiss before darting to the safety of the darkness under her car. 

“Wha- he’s not that bad, jeeze,” she frowned at his sudden change of attitude, wondering what had set him off, when she heard the crunching of footsteps making their way up her dirt driveway. 

“Going somewhere, Aylin?” The familiar baritone voice caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps. Her heart leapt into her throat as a wave of nausea overtook her. She suddenly felt faint.

She wasn’t fast enough.

The only other time she had seen Kedi display fear like that was when a black bear broke through their screened in porch one afternoon to try and grab a bite of his cat food. Even then, he had darted back out from under the safety of a chair to claw the bear across the snout before running away again. Today, he stayed hidden. 

Aylin straightened her back, attempting to fix a warm smile onto her lips, and turned around to face Sergei standing in the middle of her driveway. He was dawning his signature werewolf pelt draped over his shoulders and giving her a grin that was stretched far too thin to be anything but forced. The sight of the pelt made her sick to her stomach when she thought about the person who it once was ripped from. Barbaric. He might as well be wearing a pelt of human flesh.

Where was she going? She tried to steady her fluttering heart as a million potential answers swirled around her panicked thoughts. 

“I’m planning on going to the Catskills to hike along the Devil’s Path like I do every year,” she lied, thinking quickly. With the way her trunk was currently packed, it easily resembled a hiking trip. She could fake this scenario. 

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” He raised his scraggly brow at her. He was starting to get flecks of silver among his dark hair. The silver stood out more prominently against the midday sun and made him look closer than usual to his age. It was rare to catch signs of him aging. He seemed to always be in his prime despite how many years have passed. “Don’t you typically do that hike closer to the summer?” 

Aylin shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal, “Last summer was too hot. Thought I’d go early this year.” 

“In the rainy season, I imagine parts of the hike would be really dangerous?”

She held firmly onto her bluff, knowing he was trying to break her, and kept her eyes locked with his to help sell the lie, “Sure, but isn’t that part of our training? To overcome difficult feats despite the challenges that face us? Besides, it’s not called the Devil’s Path for nothing. It’s meant to keep you on your toes. I think I could use a good challenge. ” 

Sergei squinted at her with a hard glare, “Yes. About that. I think we need to have a talk about exactly what challenges are facing you. Something seemed to bother you the other night, did it not?” 

She could tell from his tone that he was carefully keeping his voice steady. Under the surface, he was boiling. He wanted her to pay for the other night. There had to be consequences. Aylin had not only gone against his direct orders but, in her defiance, belittled his authority in front of the guild. If there’s one thing to never do to Sergei, it would be to embarrass him. She was now caught in an unwanted game of cat and mouse and she was terrified of losing. 

She widened her eyes like it was a shock to hear that and not a conversation she had been dreading, “Oh? You mean when I ran from the ceremony? I’m so sorry about that. Really. I must have eaten something weird. Probably undercooked meat. I got really sick. I spent the night on the toilet. I had to run before I had an accident in front of everyone. You know how it is. When you gotta go, you gotta go.” 

He took a step closer, a dreadful smile flicked at the corner of his lips, “Really? I stopped by your house to check on you later that night. I wanted to make sure you were okay after that shameful display you pulled in front of everyone. Your mother told me you weren’t home. Poor woman was worried sick about you. She thought you might have run off and done something stupid.” He paused, closing the gap between them. The cold metal of her car door pushed against her back as he towered over her. He propped an arm against the roof of her car to pin her in place. “Well? Did you? Do something stupid, I mean.” 

Her stomach flipped with nerves as she shook her head. She was going to lose this game. The cat was ready to pounce and she had nowhere to hide, caught in place, forced to face her demise. Sergei went in for the kill, sensing he was gaining the upper hand in their silent standoff, and threw a heavy arm around her shoulders. He had her locked tightly in place against his side and gave a loud, dark laugh as if that would expel the thick tension between them. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. He had her exactly where he wanted. 

“Why don’t you come take a walk with me, Aylin?” He started to drag her down the driveway. “Cal made rabbit stew earlier. We can have some tea and lunch and discuss our futures. I have a proposition for you. What do you say, kid?” 

Despite his question, there was no choice to be had. She was going to be coming with him even if he had to throw her over his shoulder and carry her there. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’s okay. I should go leave a note for my mom so she knows where I’m at when she gets back…” Aylin tried to dig her heels into the dirt but got shuffled along like she weighed nothing. Any resistance would be futile. She had lost the game. The cat had caught the mouse and was now boastfully parading her squirming body down the road as he carried it proudly between his salivating jaws. 

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll inform her exactly where you are should she come asking. There’s nothin’ to worry about. You’re safe with me. You know that.” The weight of his words hung over her like a rapidly approaching storm. There wasn’t a single ounce of truth behind anything he said. 

It was only a matter of time before the cat clamped down, piercing her flesh with his razor sharp teeth. 

The Kravinoff residence was the largest house in their town. A two story cabin with breathtaking floor to ceiling windows to let in all the natural light. The eaves of the red gabled roof were decorated with ornate wooden details. They had been handcarved by Sergei Sr. when he rebuilt the Kravinoff home many years ago before his passing; his final gift to his spoiled son.

Their kitchen was larger than the floor plan of her entire house with brightly painted, red cabinets to match the color of their roof. A pot of yellow sunflowers brightened up the room to soften the red and create an inviting atmosphere. Calypso lounged against the double wide, walnut island wearing nothing more than a skimpy, silk robe. Her dark, tight curly hair haloed around her head and she flashed Aylin her infamous, pointy toothed grin. 

“Ah, the weakling has returned, I see,” she slinked over to the younger woman, standing tall in front of her. “Such a disappointment you gave the guild last night, was it not? I don’t know why Sergei holds you in such high regards. You don’t look like much to me.” 

Sergei placed a possessive hand over Aylin’s shoulder, “Now, now, Cal. Enough teasing. Everyone makes mistakes. She says she wasn’t feeling well. Ate some bad meat. Happens to the best of us. Aylin is our guest and should be treated as such. She’s here for a chat over drinks. Why don’t you make us some of your special tea?” His eyes flashed into his wife, giving her a silent command. “The kind we save for our very important guests. Aylin needs to be reminded how much her community values her.” 

Calypso smiled and bowed her head, “Of course, dear.” 

Aylin was led into the dining room with the sounds of Calypso rustling through the cabinets following her out the door. A long, black cherry dining table, lined with tall chairs, greeted them. At the head of the table was a throne, carved out of the trunk of a tree and adorned with giant wolf claws at the end of the legs. Kraven sank down onto the pelt covered seat. He looked like a true king of his castle. He waved a large hand for her to sit in one of the normal chairs beside him. 

She took a hesitant seat, having stayed quiet this whole time, terrified that speaking the wrong words would get her further into trouble. It was better to play defense with Sergei. Let him take the lead so she could match his energy. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve been in our home,” he mused, lazily scratching at his beard. “You used to visit all the time with your father. I believe the last time you stepped foot inside these walls was when you were merely 16 years of age.” 

After Samuel and Emir’s funeral. 

Sergei had held a repast at his home after the burial service. Everyone in town had attended, each bringing a dish of food or drinks, to show their support for the fallen members. Nesrin was too busy weeping in the bathroom to know her daughter was getting wasted off some stolen liquor. Aylin had snuck away from the guests with her bottle in hand to hide in one of Segei’s guest rooms. The rest of the night was a blur but she distantly remembered him finding her tucked away in the corner behind a bed and holding her while she cried. Everything after that was dark. That entire year had been dark. 

She remembered a time when she felt protected in his arms. His presence used to come with a warm safety. Now, it came with a foreboding sense of danger, like stumbling upon a sleeping rattlesnake. If she was careful enough, she might get away without a fight. If she took one wrong step, all it would take was a mere second for the snake to strike. 

“Things got bad after-” She stopped. She didn’t need to say anything else. 

Sergei gave a solemn nod, “Yes. I can imagine. Sam was my good friend. He was an important, valuable member of our guild. It was hard for everyone.” 

He was studying her face, trying to read every micro expression she held, but she kept her features stiff. She should have left sooner. Maybe if she hadn't spent so much time doting on Kedi, she would have escaped before Sergei arrived. She wished she was already back with Peter and wondered how long he would stay in her trailer before he started to wonder if she’d ever return. 

“Who’s Peter?” Sergei asked with an air of innocence, as if he had directly read her mind, but kept a close eye on how she responded. He was carefully studying her every move. 

Aylin’s eyes widened in shock for only a split second before she softened her face but there was no doubt that Sergei had caught it. Had he read her mind? There was no other way he could possibly know about Peter…was there? Her stomach churned with nerves at the question but she raised her eyebrows in feigned confusion, “What do you mean?” 

He shifted on his throne, leaning towards her, and placing his arm on the table, “When I came to pick you up, I heard you say ‘I don’t think Peter would mind the extra company.’ So, who’s Peter?”

That’s what she got for speaking out loud to a cat. She should have kept her mouth shut. 

“He’s my friend,” she lied, thinking on her feet. “Works at the gas station a few miles out. He works nights. I’ve met him a few times and we got to talking. He enjoys hiking as much as me. He was planning a trip of his own so I invited him on mine. I thought we could both use the company.” 

“Is he your boyfriend?” Sergei’s tone was light but his tense shoulders gave off the impression of a possessive, jealous lover. Aylin was beginning to see him as an overgrown child who refused to share his toys with others. She felt like she was nothing more than his property. 

She repressed a gulp, refusing to let her eyes wander from his, “No. He’s a friend.” 

He ignored her statement. “After Leah Rivera, I thought you might not be not interested in men. It’s good to know you appreciate both sides,” Sergei leaned back to give off the illusion of someone who was casually lounging instead of someone fishing for information. They were both playing a difficult game of chess, each crafting their next move, while simultaneously trying to find their opponents weakness to exploit.  “Cal swings both ways, too.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just someone who enjoys hiking as much as me,” Aylin’s jaw tightened, giving him a stiff reply. She desperately hoped the heat burning behind her cheeks wasn’t outwardly noticeable. Her racing heart spiked at the mention of Leah. That was a name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years. “I don’t swing any way. Leah was nothing more than a friend, too.” 

Liar. Leah was more than a friend. She was Aylin’s childhood best friend, her favorite person, her first crush, her first love. Leah used to be her everything. 

Until she was nothing. 

“Right, right,” he chuckled. “Cal and I were just friends once. I get it. But, Aylin, you know how this guild feels about outsiders. You can not trust them. It’s best you let that friendship drift away before it’s too late. I don’t want you going on a trip with that boy. It’s too dangerous. Cancel it. Stop seeing him. There’s more than enough eligible men here for you to attach yourself to. I can think of at least three off the top of my head who would love a chance. Stay within the guild.” 

She had tried to stay within the guild until Sergei caught on about her and Leah’s relationship. She remembered his eyes flaring with hatred when he saw them share a quick kiss behind the school house one afternoon. Neither of the girls could understand why he would care what a couple of sixteen year olds got up to. It wasn’t long after that Leah’s entire family disappeared in the middle of the night. One day they were there, the next they were gone. Banished. No explanations given. No goodbyes said. Their empty house was demolished, as per tradition, whenever someone leaves the guild. Erase everything and build back up from scratch without the tainted memories. They were to never speak about the Rivera’s again. Every ounce of Leah’s existence in Aylin’s life was gone overnight until it was almost as if she never existed at all. If it wasn’t for the pictures hidden in a shoebox in the back of her closet, sometime’s Aylin might wonder if she dreamed up the entire thing. First, her best friend disappeared, then, her father and brother were slaughtered by wolves. Sixteen had not been kind to her. 

But that was years ago. Leah was gone and so was the person Aylin used to be. She didn’t want Peter to become another pained memory added to the ever growing pile of forgotten people. She would protect this one. She wouldn’t let him be another soul for Sergei to steal from her. 

Even if that made her a traitor. 

She fixed a pleasant smile onto her face, “You’re probably right. I don’t know him that well anyway. I was just looking for a hiking buddy. Not a big deal and I’d better be safe than sorry. You never really know what those outsiders are like. Although, I do think I would be able to overtake him if it ever came to that. I’ve taken down werewolves. I think I can manage to get the upper hand on a random gas station employee. You’ve trained us well.” She threw Sergie her best attempt at a cheeky wink despite the anxious tightening of her throat. Her desperation for him to believe her was suffocating. 

Outsiders. Traitors. Banishment. 

Maybe Peter was right. She might be in a cult. 

The truth hit her hard. She forced a smile onto her face despite wanting to slide under the table and crawl away. 

Canceling fake plans with an imaginary boyfriend was easier than the truth of her deception. Outsider Peter was better than Werewolf Peter. One was a simple mistake at the hands of a lovestruck young woman. The other was direct treason against everything she ever knew. 

He didn’t look impressed with her response.

Earthy, herbal smells wafted out from the kitchen door. She caught notes of lavender and chamomile mixed with some kind of sharp spice she was unfamiliar with. Sergei noticed her analyzing the scent. 

“It’s not something we grow here in the mountains,” he remarked, blatantly ignoring her attempts to butter him up. “Calypso has family in Haiti. They send her all sorts of home grown products she can’t get here. She likes to think of herself as a bit of an alchemist when she’s in the kitchen. She makes the most wonderful tea. You’ll love it.”

As if on cue, Calypso burst through the doorway with a tray in hand. A clear teapot was placed on the table in front of them. Bits of loose herbs floated around inside the amber liquid. Skinny, swirling trails of hypnotizing white steam rose from the spout. She lifted the pot to pour out the delicious smelling tea into the delicate china cups. Aylin was handed the first one. 

“For our guest,” Calypso smirked. “Made with love.” 

Aylin ignored the snarky edge to her words and gave a polite smile. She took a small sip, happy for the distraction. It burned her tongue but slid smoothly down her throat. It was like nothing she’d ever had before. Warm and cozy with a sharp tang of spice as a lingering aftertaste. She took another big gulp as it gave her something to do with her fidgety hands. 

Calypso perched on the thick arm of Sergei’s throne as she watched her guest drink, “How is it?” 

“It’s wonderful. Thank you,” she feigned a smile. She wasn’t lying. It was delicious. She just struggled to make her voice sound genuine when her and Peter’s lives hung on her every word. 

“Pleased to hear it.” 

Sergei patted his wife’s thigh, “Aylin was just telling me about her gas station boyfriend. An outsider. They’re already planning a trip together.” 

Calypso leaned against him, running her fingers through his hair, “A gas station boyfriend? Even she can do better than that.” 

“He’s not my bo-” She was cut off by Sergei. 

“I already told her that it would be best to let that relationship fade away. I think we could find her someone better. One of us. I would be doing Sam a disservice if I let his daughter run away with an outsider.” 

Aylin bit her tongue and refused to mention that her mother was once an outsider. The longer they stayed on the topic of her lie, the more anxious she became. She didn’t want to have to keep thinking on her feet. It was exhausting her psyche. 

“I said I would. It’s not a big deal,” she huffed, taking another sip of her tea. “He means nothing to me. I just thought it might be fun to have someone to hike with but I prefer being on my own anyway.” 

Calypso smirked, “That’s what I like to hear. Outsiders are nothing. They don’t deserve your time of day. You have everything you need right here.” She shifted her body to lean forward, her deep brown eyes penetrating into Aylin’s very soul. “We’re all you need.” 

She was most definitely in a cult. How could she have ever been so oblivious? 

She might be the stupidest person alive. 

This would be her downfall. The people she loved and fought to protect were the one’s holding the knife. They would be the ones to fatally stab her. Not the Lycans. 

Before the realization could overtake her, Calypso’s loose robe had fallen open when she moved and her right breast had pushed its way out from the silky material. The sight of the woman’s freshly exposed skin caused her spiraling mind to halt. Sergei’s arm wrapped around his wife to grasp onto her breast, absentmindedly flicking her dark nipple with his thumb, as they both stared in her direction. Aylin’s ears heated up with a mixture of disbelief and horrific embarrassment. She quickly averted her gaze to the table. She got uncomfortable watching people kiss in public. Watching someone blatantly fondle his wife in front of her made her want to claw out of her own skin. They had always been overly affectionate with each other but it had never been as in her face as it was now. This was different. New. It was like they were challenging her. Like this was some kind of sick test she’d have to pass. From the moment Sergei showed up behind her, she was being tested. Her every move was stuck under a microscope and picked apart with a watchful eye. 

These were not the people she once thought they were.  

A new found hatred wrapped around her like a warm blanket. They were toying with her. Teasing her. Playing with her. They were getting off on watching her squirm. They liked this. 

This was who they really were. 

Aylin focused on her tea to keep herself distracted. She heard Calypso stifle a laugh under her breath. They were getting off on her discomfort. Her head was starting to feel dizzy and her heart felt like it was pounding in her ears. She suddenly felt very sweaty like there was a fire igniting in her stomach and spreading up her chest towards her throat. She hated them. That much was clear to her now. The guild was not a safe place. It never was. It had only felt that way because she was drinking the Kool Aid along with everyone else just like Peter said. Her whole life she had been fed a lie which she happily lapped down. Her world was crumbling down around her. Piece by piece it fell with deafening crashes and she was beginning to suffocate on the smokey rubble filling her lungs. 

A headache was rapidly growing and her vision blurred for a millisecond before she blinked it back into focus. 

“Ms. Aylin was just about to tell me what happened last night,” Sergei spoke, still massaging Calypso without any hint of embarrassment. His tone had flipped, losing the fake lightheartedness from earlier. He was serious. There was no more time for games. “She was going to explain exactly why she refused to kill a wolf in front of her entire guild.” 

She was?

“For someone who claims to have killed two on her own, without any proof, you’d think a malnourished, caged bitch would be easy,” Calypso remarked. “It sounds to me like there might be a little white lie hiding somewhere in your story, dear girl. Don’t worry, darling, you can tell us. We won’t judge. We just want the truth.”  

She took another sip of the tea to avoid having to answer them right away. Was she the only one drinking? Neither of them had touched the stuff. 

Aylin didn’t want to look in their direction to check. She didn't want to watch what they were doing. They were making her uncomfortable on purpose. A power play. A way to prove that she was nothing but inferior to them. She didn’t want to be here. Her head felt like it was swimming with a million thoughts but none of them were making it to her lips. Her body was refusing to function. She couldn’t make her mouth and brain work as one. 

“I, uh,” she stuttered over her words. “I…” 

Her mind was starting to feel like it was slowly filling with sand. An hourglass at the verge of tipping. Her mouth felt dry so she downed the rest of her cup. 

“That girl- she…she…was just…so…so young…” Aylin gave a slow blink, her chin bobbing down to her chest before quickly steadying her head back upright. “I…feel…”

She was suddenly exhausted. The empty tea cup slipped from her hand to shatter into pieces across the floor. She finally turned her attention to the couple, fearing that she was coming down with an illness. She was seeing double. Their forms wavered like rain in a puddle. 

“Something’s not right,” she whispered.

“That would be the tea,” Sergei spoke, his voice steady. “Don’t worry, my dear. You’ll be fine.” 

He pushed himself up from his throne to walk over to her. Aylin slumped into his arms, feeling paralyzed, as he easily lifted her to his chest. He cradled her there while he moved through his house, each room flashing slowly before her lagging eyes, until he stopped in front of a large bookcase. 

“Wha-” she tried to speak but words were useless to her. 

Sergei kicked his foot at something hidden against the side of the bookcase, tucked away from view, where the wall meets the floor. 

With a low grumble, the bookcase slid slowly to the right to reveal a set of wooden steps leading underground. They creaked underfoot as he carried deeper into the abyss. 

The musty smell of mildew and copper hit her nose. 

“No…” Aylin managed to whisper, in a last ditch effort to protect herself before the drugs completely captured her mind. 

“Sleep now,” Calypso purred over Sergei’s shoulder. “We have some important business to discuss. You’ll need your strength. Shh, drift off, little one. We’ll keep watch over you. Sleep.” 

[CHAPTER FIVE (part two)]

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“To meet like-minded people who share similar interests. To embrace a community that doesn’t judge you for what you like, who…take you as you are. It’s actually very liberating.” 

“Puh-lease! You threw that innuendo in there on purpose. Look. It’s a sex club. You meet up to have sex. That’s the common ground.” 

“Oh my God, you speak about it like it’s a brothel and you couldn’t be more wrong. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little provocative, but it’s not like some sex dungeon, it’s a speakeasy. There’s a bar, drinks, music, dancing, it’s totally chill. You don’t even need to have sex, it’s not a guarantee.”

You fold your arms, staring outwardly and chewing your lips as you mull over the possibility that it might not all be what you initially think it is. But the only way to prove otherwise is to go. Dammit you wish you weren't so curious. 

“And…what’s this place called?”

Danny smiles contentedly. “The Hunting Ground.”

~~~~~

“Do I really have to wear this?” The flimsy black ribbon of the mask trickles through your fingers. The shell is midnight black with a faint covering of silver lace, embellished with enough sparkle to catch your eye under the streetlights. Ahead of you is what looks like an ordinary bar under the false name of The Playground. The tinted windows and low purple LED lights inside is a clever ruse to fool anyone who is none the wiser to believe that the mystery is revealed when you step inside, leaving no other incentive to keep exploring. However, hidden behind the facade of an ‘ordinary bar’ as confirmed by Danny, is the speakeasy. It’s quietly genius; it’s all hidden in plain sight. 

“Yes, you have to wear it; it’s like a pass for entry into the club since it’s invitation-only. Plus, anonymity is kinda a thing here. Especially for newbies if they’re not too sure what they’re looking for. You get all types of people here. You’re bound to find someone who is yours.” 

You roll your eyes as you tie the ribbon tightly around your head with a grunt, the thick plastic mask sitting squarely on the bridge of your nose. “Anonymity, sure. These things are as good a disguise as Superman putting on his glasses and all of a sudden he’s Clark Kent and completely unrecognisable.” 

“Trust me. They do their job. Oh and one last thing.” Why is he smirking again? “Sub or Dom?” 

“Come again?” 

“What are you, Sub or Dom?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.” 

“God, you’re so vanilla--they’re, um…types of people.” Danny vaguely explains and purses his lips, thinking as he evaluates you. “Hmm, we'll stick to sub for now. When you get inside grab a white cup.” 

“Fuck sake.” 

You follow Danny down a poorly lit, narrow staircase and you get a sense of entering a restricted area, having it not as well decorated, but then you remember; it’s supposed to be secretive and unwelcoming to any wandering stranger. The staircase is quiet compared to the floors above you and below you, giving off a feeling of limbo, neither here nor there as the pounding of the bass-heavy music distorts your sense of direction. There’s two different songs playing and they blend into each other so well that you can’t quite tell what is coming from where, but the further you descend down the staircase, the more obvious it becomes. The floor above you is phased out when you come to a stone archway, lined with plum velvet curtains hanging at either side where wisps of vapour spill from the room. A fiery red spotlight casts a shadow where the words ‘The Hunting Ground’ are projected on the wall to welcome you. Danny stops you before you enter.

“And you told me this wasn’t a sex club,” you quip, motioning to the entrance to hell.

“Remember it’s just to socialise. Nothing needs to happen, okay? After a drink or two, you’ll start to loosen up and have more fun.” 

You huff. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

You take one step into the stuffy haze and instantly you feel the change in aura, perhaps because you know what people are here to do. Danny patiently waits with you as you soak in the sights, the smells, the heat and the very suffocating atmosphere of the room in front of you. A fine mist hovers in the air, just enough to hinder your view of anything further than 10 metres in front of you - probably intentional to hide the erotic acts in the corner - and only the blacklights and the dancing neon laser lights shoot through. Unlike the bar above, the music is slower and less adrenaline pumping, perfect to fulfil its purpose of enticing its listeners to socialise rather than all-out partying, but in effect, it makes you more nervous; how do you socialise with people you’ve never met? You bump shoulders with Danny is a quiet plea to stay close.

A few people within eyesight turn their heads as you enter in your sage green dress, making their judgements on you through the narrow slits of their masks, a symbol of membership to the club, identical to the one you wear. Under the cover of darkness, the masks do actually provide a sense of anonymity and you take back an earlier thought; what the hell are these masks going to hide? Everything apparently. 

You decide not to linger around the entrance any longer for you feel that others can smell your hesitance a mile off. You make a B-line to the table adorning white cups, directly across the table that hold a much smaller number of black cups, and perpendicular to a table with grey cups. As soon as the rim of the cup touches your lips and alcohol sears your throat, you ease a little.

“God, I feel like I’ve just entered the mafia. Why is this place so stiff?”

Danny laughs inwardly. “Oh they’re stiff alright.” That earns him a swift elbow to the ribcage. “Ow!” 

“You said this place was chill and judgement free.” 

“It is--”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being victimised?”

For a fleeting moment, you catch Danny’s eyes flitting over to the white cup you hold in your hand, being quickly emptied by you. There’s obviously significance behind the white and black cups and you’re certain Danny knows why as he too picks up a white cup with conviction, but what significance they have is being purposely withheld from you.

It’s definitely a cult thing. 

“They just want to get to know you. Give them a chance. It’s all with friendly intentions, I promise.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Like Danny said, there’s all sorts of people here; men, women, and more situated around the room whether it’s standing in small clusters around a table or sitting in smaller, more private groups in booths. Few white cups, some grey cups, but black cups hold the majority. Some are dressed more provocative than you would ever dare where some keep their secrets to themselves. Those who begin dancing are booming with confidence, sashaying their hips while others simply observe with a glass of whisky in hand. Even hours into the night, you’re still pondering over the likemindedness of such a diverse group. There must be something that ties these people together, because every hour or so you catch a glimpse of couples' escapades, hand-in-hand as they disappear through another archway with a black curtain. 

“I’ll be right back,” Danny murmurs into your ear.

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m just going to catch up with a friend. I won’t be long. You can manage your own for a bit, can’t you?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.” 

Danny quickly disappears into the smog and across the dancefloor, and by the time he reaches the bar, he’s out of your sight and anxiety creeps in. As ever, you find solace in the very alcoholic drink, quietly sipping away in a dark corner of the room. 

Or at least you thought you were in the corner of the room…

The solid wall behind you suddenly swings open and you lose your balance, falling backwards into the void that has just opened up. Your heart leaps to your throat and your lungs flood themselves with oxygen to prepare for what you know will be a painful fall and the loss of your dignity. Inches from disaster, a miracle happens when two hands reach out to hook underneath your arms and break your fall, leaving you hovering over the floor until the stranger finds the strength to bring you back to your feet again. Sadly, there’s nothing to be done about your drink that puddles on the floor…

With a breath of relief, you quickly compose yourself, turning around to see that indeed the wall you were standing against was actually a door, and in that doorway now stands the masked stranger that saved you from your fall. He stands just a couple of inches taller than you, dressed in a black suit (it could be navy - it’s just so damn dark in here) but replaces the standard crisp, white shirt with a baby blue one, keeping it casual with undone buttons by his collar. You want to make more guesses of his appearance but this club’s obsession with anonymity is slowly becoming a nuisance. 

“I’m so sorry, I really thought that was a wall.” 

“No worries, it’s easily done.” His words are smooth and puckish, and you feel like he genuinely believes you when he places a gentle supporting hand against your back. 

“Right? Especially with a place like this, I mean, would it hurt to turn up the lights even just a little bit?” An innocent laugh escapes you but the second you see his lips parting in what you can only assume is disbelief, you instantly feel like you might’ve crossed a line. His hand drops and sinks deep into his pocket. So much for no judgement…

“Well, we could but most members here know there’s a door here.” 

Caught. 

He doesn’t watch for your reaction as he picks up the empty white cup from the floor, long, slender fingers holding it tightly while he studies it for a moment and the corners of his lips tug a little before settling it on a nearby table. You’re still not privy to the colour codes and their meanings, and something itches inside of you when you see this stranger turn to you with a knowing smirk on his face. Because he knows. 

He folds his arms, muscles defined in the tight squeeze of his blazer and stands stoically before you. “You’re looking a little lost, newbie.” 

“I’m just waiting on my friend Danny. He’s the one who brought me here. I don’t know why to be honest. I don’t really think this is my kind of scene.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously. “How so?” 

You snort. Isn’t it obvious? “I mean the mask thing is a little weird. And the segregation of cups? What the hell is that all about? Like, I’m always down for something different but the anti-religion cult vibes just isn’t doing it for me. I haven’t been here that long and already I’ve had so many daggers from people that I just can’t tell whether they want to kill me or eat me.”

“Oh my God, you really have no idea, do you? Tell me then, if this place doesn’t suit your majesty’s preferences, why are you still here?”

This stranger doesn’t need you to take off your mask to know that there’s a scowl taking over your features. Affronted, you decide to mirror him, folding your arms and delivering his own stinking attitude back to him. 

“Cut the sass. You asked me a question and I answered it. If you listened, you would’ve heard me say that my friend brought me here. Said that if I was looking for something exciting and adventurous I should come here, but I’m not seeing either. Anyway, what does it matter to you?” 

“Careful, newbie. Some people here don’t take too kindly towards being spoken to like that. It can get you into a lot of trouble, unless you’re searching for it, in which case, Danny was right to bring you here. And tell him he should’ve put a straw in your drink too.” 

You’re so fed up with these innuendos. “I don’t even know what that means!” 

The stranger takes a step forwards and brushes your shoulder with his. You hold your breath as he leans down close to your ear and murmurs words that sound like a threat. A shiver descends down your spine. “Ask him to explain it. Tell him that Tom told him too.”

Your stance stays strong as the stranger sweeps past you in an obtrusive manner without a word to spare. Finally out of sight, you give in to the urge to roll your eyes and scoff with as much conviction until satisfied, having suppressed it in front of that stranger. You’re never one to be so outwardly rude to someone, but unless it’s warranted, then by all means, give them hell. 

The interaction has somewhat soured your mood, and considering that this place has yet to prove any of Danny’s claims of what a ‘friendly, non judgemental’ place this is, you might make the move to leave. You’ve been here long enough and you doubt that the fun has yet to come.

Not three steps towards your leave, you’re stopped by Danny emerging from the smog like a phantom. “Oh hey! You’re alive! See? I told you’d be fine.” 

“Yeah, not fine, Danny. Don’t leave me ever again.” 

“Such a drama queen. Where’s your drink?”

“Spilled it almost falling over. By the way, what do the colours on the cups mean? Some guy ‘Tom’ said that you were to tell me what they mean.”

His smile drops and hangs ajar, eyes wide as he processes the words, the name you’ve just invoked. “Tom--did you just say Tom?” 

“Yes, why? He also said that you should’ve put a straw in my drink too. Danny, for the love of God, what the fuck does that mean?” 

Annoyingly, he ignores your last question. “What did you say to him?” 

Danny devotes all of his attention to you as you recount the interaction from beginning to end, sure not to leave any details out. As your friend, all of your expectations are placed on him taking your side in it all, but with each word you spill, he cringes further and further into himself. 

“Then I told him to cut the sass--he was being so rude to me!” 

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” You’re struggling to understand why your friend has descended into a fit of laughter, creasing over until he can no longer catch his breath. It’s great that he’s finding it so hilarious that he can’t even seem to straighten himself up to give you an answer, but what’s even better is that you can’t even begin to imagine how many people are witness to Danny descending into mania while you stand with your arms folded, a slack jaw and a look that could kill. And even if some can’t see it, they can bloody well hear it. “I cannot believe you said that to him!” 

“Danny, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t tell me at least something, I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you.” After wiping the tears from his eyes, he latches onto your arms and pulls you into his side, directing you to look out at the room before you. “Okay, so you remember the question I asked you before we came in? About being a sub or a dom?” You nod. “The cups are representative of that. White for sub, black for dom. Grey if you don’t particularly have a preference. They’re sometimes called switches.” 

“Okay, but what does sub and dom actually mean?”

“They’re just abbreviations. Submissive or Dominant if you want to be proper. They define what a person likes to be in the bedroom. Dominants are usually controlling, they like to manipulate and gain pleasure from using submissives in whatever way they like. Submissives gain pleasure from being controlled, from being told what to do and will usually go through extreme measures to satisfy their doms, and in lieu, themselves. For example, see over there?” Danny points to a booth of what looks like two guys sitting on either side of a girl. They are shadowing over her, running fingertips up and down her leg whilst she sits bashfully in the middle. “Two doms and a sub.” 

You look to another area of the room and in the corner you see a woman, dressed in the tightest latex corset you could imagine, and she looks fucking amazing in it. Full of luscious curves. Her confidence is striking as she walks with her head high like she owns everything in the room. She somehow makes picking up a black cup look sexy, drinking from it until it’s empty but inexplicably doesn’t swallow. With her puffed cheeks, she grabs the face of a man who kneels beside her, opening his mouth—“Oh my God!” The words spill from your lips as you watch the woman spit her drink into the man’s mouth, swallowing with glee in his eyes.

“Anyone can be sub or dom. That’s why the cups make it so much easier to identify who’s who and cuts out all the small chat bullshit in between.” 

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. This is a fucking sex club. “But how did you know I was going to be a sub?” 

“I just guessed. It takes a certain confidence and skill to know how to be a dom, and no offence honey, but I don’t think you’d be a good dom.”

“And the straw?” 

“Signifies a bratty sub. A sub who likes to be controlled but also loves the fight against it. Anything to piss their dom off.” 

“Hold on. A brat?! Who the fuck does this Tom guy think he is? He’s talked to me for no more than five minutes and he calls me a brat?” 

“Shhh!! Shut up!!! Oh my God!!” He hurriedly ushers you away from prying ears and you feel a sort of trepidation when he looks around cautiously. “Honey, you know I love you and I care for you but you have seriously fucked up to the point where I literally cannot protect you from what’s about to happen.” 

“What? How?” 

“Tom’s the owner of this place.” He’s trying to hold in his laughter again. “And you just stood there and insulted everything about his club to him--oh my GOD you are so dead. I’m weak just thinking about it.” Had he not been squealing and bouncing on his tip-toes in a nervous but weirdly excited way, you probably would’ve taken Danny’s warning a little more seriously. In Danny’s overly-dramatic fashion, his translation of ‘dead’ just means that you’re only slightly in trouble. 

“So what, he’ll probably just kick me out.” 

“You better wish that’s what he’ll do because Tom is a capital D-O-M and is a stickler for obedience. He has everyone, sub or dom, address him as sir. It’s like one of his rules.” 

“Sir? Really? Are we back in school?” 

Your own mocking laughter is the last thing you hear before a voice creeps up behind you, settling deep into the canals of your ear and shocking you into a small but powerful fright. “We can be if you like. At least then I can teach you a lesson or two about how to respect me, newbie.” The way his voice instantly scorches everything inside you is mildly terrifying. It’s the mixer in your soup of emotions; trepidation, anxiety, curiosity, exhilaration, anticipation, swirling together in the pit of your stomach.  

You and Danny’s eyes are locked in a stupor, both of you donning guilt-ridden, colourless faces. You think it wise to follow Danny’s lead in not speaking, not moving because only he knows the repercussions that you face. Besides, if you listened to what your brain initially told you to do, you would be in a lot more trouble.

A wordless plea twinkles in your eye and your heart plummets when you see your friend respond with tightly pursed lips and a subtle shake of the head. 

“Next time you bring your friends, Danny, I would expect you to inform them on how to conduct themselves around me. You should know better.”

“Sorry, sir.” Danny’s voice wobbles. Fucking wobbles. Loud and proud Danny, centre of attention on the worst of days, always one to speak his mind and is never afraid of judgement, and now he’s…scared. 

“Now go. Justin’s waiting for you.” The unfamiliar person Danny has become swiftly brushes past you with no more than a final apologetic look and disappears further into the centre of the room. A certain desperation keeps your eyes on him for as long as you possibly can until you eventually accept your defeat, standing here alone with Tom stalking very close behind you. You notice his shadow standing just on the coast of your peripheral, lurking. 

After an excruciating silence, Tom eventually murmurs into your ear, just the edges of his mask skimming the side of your hairline.

“Follow me to my office. We need to have a chat about rules.” 

“Okay,” you breathe. 

Sure enough the door you nearly fell through enters the hallway leading to his office. It’s well lit, spotlighting the framed memorabilia on the wall and you almost choke a gasp when you see what they contain. Whips, paddles, cuffs, chains, anything of an erotic nature is framed, dated and hung on these walls in plain sight. Tom catches a glance of your awestruck eyes from over his shoulder, smirking wickedly. Little do you know that that isn’t even half of his collection. 

He enters the office first leaving you to nervously trail in behind him. 

“Sit.” 

The tickle of velvet feathers your bare thighs, knees already knocking together while Tom takes a stand behind his desk, underneath the low-intensity spotlight that shines down on him from above. Your eyes skate over his features the second he unties his mask, shadows hugging every sharp angle from the crook of his brow bone to the contour of his cheeks. Holy fuck. Your knees lock tighter together.

“Mask off.” It falls to your lap. When you look back up at him, you see that he doesn’t bother hiding how he takes in every inch of you and it makes the burn of his stare even more obvious. “What do you know already?” 

“Um, not much. Danny told me about the masks, Doms and Subs, the thing about the cups, addressing you as ‘sir’ and…” you clear your throat, a previous anger returning, “having a straw in my cup.” 

“Ah, so he explained it to you, did he?” Fuck, even his grin is perfect. 

You bite your gums, eyes averting. “Wish he didn’t.” 

A piercing whistle rings in your ear, short and sharp in the small, panelled office causing an audible wince. “Oi, eyes up here.” Did he just whistle at you? “I’m going to handle this very delicately because you’re new, but if you keep testing my patience then I won’t even give you the chance to back out.”

What the fuck. 

“Since your friend failed to explain the rules, I’ll have to do it instead. This is my private establishment and I expect anyone who enters it to follow my rules, including newbies like you. Rule number one: respect. Respect for me, respect for others, respect for the property. Simple, yes?” 

“Yes.” His eyes widened slightly, “sir.” 

Tom begins to circle around his desk, nearing you. You tuck your feet in underneath the chair as he leans against the desk a foot in front of you. “Rule number two: boundaries. Boundaries must be set by every individual and must be adhered to by every individual. That includes things they consent to and things they don’t consent to, and safe-words should be agreed to and abided by also. Yes?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And I know you know rule number three.” 

But does he know that you also hate rule number three? Grinding your teeth together, you bite back his answer. “Yes. Sir--” Before you’re able to utter another syllable from your lips, Tom has your cheeks in the pinch of his fingers, pulling you from your seat until you’re just a breath away from his own. Despite the circumstances of your racing heart and your throbbing cheeks, you come to realise that Tom has brown eyes, that his suit is really black, that he has one strand of hair that curls against the rest. Shit. You’re really dipping your toes into muddy water here. 

“See this fucking attitude of yours? Drop it. If you’re really so eager to talk, you’ll tell me what it is you want out of this. And know that before you start speaking, you’re on your last warning.” Thankfully, his grip loosens but it doesn’t disappear completely. Keeping you just as reigned in as before, his fingers sink to the curve of your chin and curl around it gently. It’s hypnotising enough that it coaxes you into spilling the truth.

“A little bit of excitement and adventure. Danny suggested I could find it here. So I came to find out for myself.” 

“And?” 

“I’m…not sure yet.” 

“We can certainly offer what you’re looking for, but it depends what kind of adventure you want to take. Do you want to explore or do you want to experience?” 

“What’s the difference?” 

Tom drinks in your curiosity, content with a quirk to his wet lips. All is silent in his sound-proof office, the beat of your own heart thundering in your ears and it’s the only thing you can tune into while the incredibly intimidating man in front of you sadistically drags out each and every second. “We can start off slow, test your endurance and your tolerances, discover your likes and dislikes, introduce new things one at a time, a soft start over a number of weeks.” 

“...Or?” 

His pupils dilate. “Everything all at once. A full session, right here, right now. Thrown in right at the deep end. No restrictions and I get full control. An experience to say the very least.”

You gasp and the breath gets stuck in your throat. As the idea is spoken into words, you can’t help but picture everything you saw in the hallway, the whips, the paddles, the chains, the ludicrousy of them ever being used as sources of pleasure and begin to feel yourself being overwhelmed. Albeit, the rebellious side of you plagues you with the mentality of saying ‘fuck it’ and trying it anyway, its voice ringing with the sound of your youth; willing to try everything, to say that you were brave enough to try it, to run away from the boring life of always saying no because you just weren’t sure. You might even find that it’s something you like…

“What do you say?” He whispers with the small coaxing of his thumb gracing over your pout. “And don’t leave it up to me. I think you know what I would prefer.” 

You take a breath, cheeks already flushing knowing what’s to come. “I…I want the experience.” 

He doesn’t move aside from his lids opening a fraction wider. “Say it again. To be sure.” 

“I want the experience.” 

A slow, salacious moan sings through his sigh, his breath crashing against your skin like a wave. “Mmmm, I was so hoping you would say that. I’ve been wanting to put this brat back in her place all…night…long. Now I can. All. Night. Long.” Warmth encircles your neck and you realise that his hand has completely captured your throat, controlling every breath you breathe. You desperately try to whimper but even then, all your sounds are clamped down by him. Sensing danger, your own hands reach for his wrist as he pushes you back against the spine of the chair and shadows over you with fire in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Safe word?” 

“Err…” You don’t have one. You’ll have to make one up. What did you have for dinner last night? “Pasta.” 

Tom chuckles but accepts it. “Pasta it is.” 

When your one and only chance to speak is taken, Tom quickly readjusts his grip on your throat again, closing it off until your skin is tinted red with exertion. He sinks low, invading your space until there’s nothing but him in your darkening sights, until his lips skim the tips of yours.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that urge at bay? So fucking hard. I knew you were a newbie, but fuck, you were so fucking rude. You know, you never even thanked me for helping you up earlier. Instead, you chose to insult my club and my customers, and when you do that, you insult me. That doesn’t fly with me and something will need to be done about that mouth of yours.” 

You gasp erratically, fighting for breath and his vendetta against you refuses to relent. Just as blackness consumes your vision, just as you're hanging on the precipice of consciousness, he finally relieves the tension and you gulp down air like it’s your drug, your lifeline. Almost simultaneously, Tom thrashes his lips against yours, seizing back whatever oxygen you just gained in a vicious attack. His tongue slips in almost too seamlessly, brushing against your own and tasting every inch he can reach.

From one method of suffocation to another. With his hand no longer occupied at the base of your throat, you find it clamped to the roots of your hair, keeping you detained as he forcefully kisses and licks every part of your mouth, barely leaving any time to breathe. It isn’t painful as such, but god damn it’s overwhelming. The small squeak of struggle easily gets swallowed up by him and he growls for more. In time, another is drawn out but this time it's the result of Tom’s other hand pulling down the neckline of your dress and finding your tits, pinching and squeezing with a passion that’s guaranteed to leave behind a bruise. To say you completely underestimated what the experience is and how little prepared you are for it, is under-statement of the fucking century.

He really isn’t shy, is he?

Minutes go by and you’re losing sensation in your swollen lips and Tom can sense that too; you become lethargic, sloppy and out of control but that’s exactly what Tom is waiting for. He can feel the plumpness of your lips as he drags them out slowly between his teeth, perfect to have wrapped around his cock. 

He stands to his tallest, your hair still tight in his grip. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“What else?” 

“Th-thank you for helping me up, sir.” 

“There’s actually one thing you should know about me,” he murmurs darkly. “If someone is apologising or thanking me, I expect them to show their regret or their gratitude to me. Usually on their knees. That way, I know they mean it.” 

“And if I don’t?” You are genuinely curious. 

A shadow casts over his face, eyes glowering at your words. He clenches his jaw so tightly that you have to remind yourself to unclench yours out of fear. In quiet, articulated words, he provides you with the first piece of insight of what kind of night lies ahead of you. “I will fuck you and edge you against this desk until you are spent of every piece of sanity that keeps your bratty brain together. Even if you beg, even if you are crying out for release, I will not stop until you are nothing but my cum-filled slut.” 

“Fucking hell,” you whimper quietly, but he hears it all the same. 

“I would think very carefully about your next words, newbie, or you’re going to become very familiar with my temper.” 

Hey, you said you were up for the experience…right? 

It takes just a fraction of your lips to curl into a smirk for Tom to realise your motives. Provoked by just the smallest of your smiles, he runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek. He can’t quite tell if he’s insulted or pleased, regardless, the result of either is the same; he will have you reduced to absolutely nothing if his life depends on it. After all, he doesn’t allow insults to run dry on him, he snuffs them out as soon as possible and that’s the lesson you need to learn. 

“Don’t fucking do it,” he warns one last time. How generous of him. 

The air is tight and feverish, and so very, very quiet. Until…”Fuck. You.” 

Your words trigger a pregnant pause, leaving just enough time to hear a pin drop before something sinister happens. A cacophony fills the room: the wooden scraping of the chair legs as Tom yanks you from it, the squeal and the grunt that marry together, the clutter of objects as they fall from the desk to the floor, the resounding thump as your body mercilessly collides with the wooden desk and subsequent the yelp of pain to be heard by no one other than Tom. 

The brute’s groping hands impatiently tug at your dress, whipping it up to sit around your torso and the moment your ass is exposed to him, he wastes no time to drill his hips into yours in a desperate bid to split your legs wider and keep you still. The sweltering heat of your cunt seeps onto his trousers and, even contained, his cock feels it all. The harder he pushes to force you down, the harder the edge of the desk cuts through your pelvis, and the longer you stay there, the louder your pleas become. And every second of it all is like heroin to him. This is his high. 

Tom rips your underwear from you, the thin material reduced to rags in seconds and just as quick, they become your bindings. With your hands now tied behind your back by the remains of your wet thong and your head smothered against the wooden surface, you are unequivocally oppressed. 

“Stay there, and don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t bother trying that shit with me. You’re too late. You’ve already made your decision to be a brat, so I’ll fuck you like one.” 

The recognisable sound of chain links clinking together stops your heart dead in your chest. “Wait, what are you doing?” You try to shimmy a look over your shoulder to take a peak, but you can’t see Tom crouching down behind you. 

“Extra precaution.” Cold metal tightly hugs your ankles, grinding away at your bone with every tug. There’s little room to move, you can barely bend your knee without causing yourself harm. You didn’t want to believe it, but the reality is true: he’s chaining you to his desk. 

“No fucking way.” 

“Yes way. This is what you asked for.” He leans down to leave a patronising kiss to the shell of your ear, unbinding your hands and placing them exactly where he wants them, gripped to the edge of the desk beside your head. Not chained, but the wordless warning to keep them there is evident in the squeeze to your wrists. You’re almost crucified to the desk. It’s enough to make your sweltering body shiver. “And I’ll gladly provide.” 

Without warning, he spits into your ass and stops to watch it trickle down to your clit with hunger ruining his patience. He collects it with deft fingers, spreading it through every lip of your cunt, all the way back to gloss your puckered hole. You can feel every movement of his whether feathered or anchored, following the path of his fingers from your asshole to your clit and back again, only stopping to teasingly circle your entrance. He repeats it over and over and over again until you’re leaking with your own slick, glistening underneath the singular spotlight and the fire of Tom’s eyes. It’s tantalising. Worse yet because you can’t move to stop him. You’re stuck with a burning cheek pressed against the desk and your hands trapped under what feels like Tom’s invisible reins. 

“Look over to my clock and tell me what time it is.” 

“It’s 11:57pm.” 

“Good to know.” 

By 11:59pm he has you teetering towards the edge of your first orgasm with as little as two fingers and a thumb violating your cunt. By the turn of a new day, he has you wishing you had just said sorry and meant it. 

“Such a tight little pussy.” He groans behind you, littering small kisses along the base of your spine and your ass. His two fingers enter you again, anchoring down on the spot that winds you up so perfectly, stroking it with the curl of his knuckle and just when you both sense the coil tightening, he picks up speed and power. Anxiety and excitement broil in your stomach. 

“Oh God, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He already knows this. He doesn’t need you telling him. In fact, he’s familiarised himself with the quivering of your thighs, the shaking of your body and already, he knows exactly when to stop. “No! Fuck!” You grieve over the loss of your climax quietly with a small groan laced with heavy breaths. 

His gruff, irritated voice buzzes straight down your ear, vibrating with impatience. “You will take what I give you. And you will thank me for it.” 

The voice that spills from your lips is hardly recognisable. Whining, winging and moping, you don’t quite understand where the grovelling came from and how it took over, but you can’t find it in you to stop it. 

“Thank you, sir.” 

And just like that, the routine starts again and without a doubt, the result is the same. 

Muscles ache, bones shaking, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of liquifying here on his desk. Alas, Tom possesses the ability to keep you solid like no other man has, keeping you somewhat stable and conscious enough to make you feel every last drop of his torment. No matter what sweet relief you feel when he gently massages your cunt, it’s completely forgotten about the moment he slaps the back of your thighs for moving your hands one centimetre out of place. And just like that, you’re back in the room. 

When Tom painfully edges you for the sixth time, he asks you to read the time again. The digits of the numbers have blurred since the last time you checked, but you can just make them out. “It’s 12:32am” 

He smirks. “Good to know. Fuck, look at the mess you’re making on my floor.” A flat palm smacks against your cunt, seizing at the stimulation. Your thighs beg to squeeze together, anything to build up some friction to tame the urge but the chains rattle beneath you, keeping you contained.

He tames the fire with the lick of his fingers that curl eloquently onto your clit and swivels it around in circles in the same, insatiable manner as before. At first, you think he’s going to build you up again like he has done for the last thirty-something minutes and you’re not so sure that your mind and body can take the strain, but you feel the pressure of his other hand anchoring down onto your back, pressing your stomach flat against the wooden desk and eliminating any chance you have of escaping. Not that you had any before, but Tom’s a man of guarantee rather than possibilities. 

It’s new and the prospect that he might allow to cum reignites the exhilaration in your core. 

Effortlessly, he sets your nerves on fire, plucking every one with overstimulation and you're on the cusp of the well-desired orgasm that you’ve waited for for what seems like all night. You writhe so desperately for it that your pebbled nipples are starting to chafe underneath you. 

Tom’s maniacal laugh drifts into your ears, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses against your ear and your neck. “What do you want?” 

You open your mouth and moans spill out, not the words of an answer. He continues to ruin you anyway. “I want…I want to cum. Please!” 

“So you don’t want my forgiveness? You’d rather cum instead? So fucking selfish of you.” 

He rips his fingers from you and the sensation is lost. “NO!” 

“Yessss.” 

~~~~~

You still haven’t came yet. How the fuck have you not been allowed to cum in all the pleasure Tom’s fingers and teasing words have granted you? He hasn’t allowed you to move either leaving all of your muscles, joints and sanity aching against the stiff wood as you remain prisoner to his chains. And as his prisoner, all of your self-control has been stripped from you. With your eyes closed, voice gone, mind vacant, Tom decides to finally, finally, re-evaluate the situation. 

And by re-evaluate, you mean change position. 

Now unchained, he forces you to lie on your back and you’re thankful that the desk is long enough to support your head, because when you are being punished with extremities, the littlest things can be a saving grace. 

“Tell me the time.” 

You look over, Tom catching a glint of your red cheeks and the imprints of the wooden grain etched into your skin. “It’s…it’s 1:23am.” 

He grins wickedly, licking his lips, and with a smooth wink, he replies. “Good to know.” 

“Please, Tom.” The crack is your voice is liquid gold in Tom’s ears and with his hands skating over your thighs, he hears what you have to say. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I am…so sorry. Please--I…I can’t take it anymore.” 

“What is it you want?” 

“I want your forgiveness. Please, sir.” 

He sees it. He really does; the desperation in the tear that leaves your eye, the look of absolute surrender donning your features in fear that he won’t accept your apology, and even in the way your body warms at his touch tells him that there’s nothing else that you desire. That’s the part he loves most and the main attraction for his dominant tendencies; the moment when the bad turn good. When they’re at such a loss with their original intentions that they have no other option but to surrender and submit. From brazen words to pitiful pleas. From bratty attitudes to willful compliance. From ‘fuck you’s to ‘thank you’s. When that switch is pulled, that’s when Tom knows he’s won. 

He holds your legs dearly in his hands, your swollen cunt perched directly in front of him as he crouches to the floor. It’s red, puffy and glistening in the light, screaming out to be touched, filled and ultimately freed of the orgasm that is running ragged inside. 

He eases the slight quiver in your thighs with a grounding kiss, powerful enough to emboss just the traces of teeth marks onto your skin. 

“What a good girl you’ve become.” The same kiss is planted on your other thigh, just a hint closer to your crying cunt. “I’ll tell you another thing about me,” he whispers, feeling the softness of your skin against his lips. “I don’t just dominate and manipulate people, I manipulate pleasure too. I control it. I can stop it from happening, but sometimes I can be in the mood to make sure it never stops happening.” 

You take a breath and hold it. The anticipation of what’s about to happen savagely ruins your mind that you just can’t settle your pulse, and even if you try to slowly release that breath, you realise that it is all in vain. Your heart still positively thunders in your chest. 

“And guess what, sweetheart?” 

Traces of your voice weakly spill out. “What?” 

“I’m in that exact mood.” 

Tom doesn’t waste a second before his tongue is licking a fat, wet strip up the centre of your cunt and completely destroys your sanity. It’s slow, meticulous in its travels as it covers every inch of you from your hole to your clit and your body involuntarily searches for more. It’s like a wave, rolling over your cunt before crashing into the bundle of nerves at the end. Your cries vibrate through your body, all to be felt by Tom when his lips tightly seal around your cunt, suffocating it with the heat of his mouth and the lashings of his tongue. It’s incredibly enthralling; being constantly aware of every small minuscule change in direction. From thrusting into your hole with tenacity to swirling tightly around your clit in a frenzy, there’s no telling what he’ll do next. 

Your body drips with sweat and you can’t decide if it’s from all the involuntary squirming upon the table or if it's the fire within, being fuelled by Tom’s uncontained lust. There’s a small explosion waiting to happen inside you, and Tom holds the detonation trigger.

“Holy fuck.” 

“Mmmmm.” 

With his head buried beneath your thighs, his hands blindly roam your body. They descend down your thighs and over the valleys of your hip bones, shaping the contours of your waist before feeling the grooves of your ribcage as they expand with each pant you breathe, until he finds your tits, groping and pinching where he can. In both of your minds though, his hands are an afterthought, especially when his gorgeous mouth is massaging your pussy so rhythmically, moving against you like a ship on a wave. 

“Ohhhh my God,” you whimper, feeling the burn in your abdomen descend deeper and deeper towards your cunt. You’re so close it hurts. Your legs start to twitch closer together.

“Legs open,” he mumbles. “And look at me. Look at who’s got you shaking.” 

You cast your eyes downward, unblinking as he sucks and pulls at your cunt with his lips, making what you think to be the most salacious, delicious sounds a man could make while eating you out. 

“F-fuck. Tom, please—.” 

Tom’s dark lashes lift, lids heavy as he stares at you with such forbidden intentions that it’s enough to make you shiver. Neither of you break the connection and you think it might just be the final nail in the coffin. With a deathly snarl, he claws at the back of your thighs, lifting them until they are pressed harshly against your chest and pans all of his attention, mind, body and soul into forcing you to cum. You sob as his tongue darts out, abusing your clit in all directions and it slingshots you directly towards the climax you have been aching for. 

“Tom!”

With a final flick of his tongue, you crash into your orgasm. It immediately wreaks havoc on your system and splinters your sanity completely, so much that you can’t tell whether you're ascending or crumbling right here on his desk. Your lips part to scream, but your consciousness is shattered into a million pieces and your voice is lost. Wood creaks as your nails dig into the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and numb with a grip so tight you swear you feel your bones begin to bend under the strain. 

Like he promises, Tom doesn’t stop. Despite being trapped between your thighs, despite the wriggling and writhing, your pleas and desperate whispers, Tom doesn’t stop. Not for one second. 

Every flick of his tongue is more intimate than the last, plucking at your nerves so harshly, nerves that are already pulsing and in need of mercy. Regardless, Tom remains kneeling, feasting on you like you are his last meal, last drink, last breath he’ll ever take. 

Swimming through the pain, you come out of the other side to find another climax already waiting, just seconds from bursting as drastically as the first one. With one final pleading look to Tom, his dark eyes swallow you whole, subliminally telling you that he’s more than ready to keep this cycle going for as long as he deems necessary. 

Mercilessly, his lips seal around your cunt, tongue slithering itself straight deep into your entrance, still not yet satisfied with what he’s tasted all ready. You’re so wet, and with Tom’s constant laving and licking he only just adds to the mess that he spreads with his hands to your thighs until the glossy sheen catches your eyes. The sparkle of it makes you truly realise for yourself just how aroused he has made you, the sight so alien from your own eyes. No man has ever worn you down like this before. It’s…unnerving. Only because you’re not sure if this is supposed to be what it’s like.

As another orgasm explodes, your body shudders violently on the table, his hands digging themselves into the crooks of your knees being the only thing to keep you from completely wriggling away. Your head collapses against the desk and gives way to a desperate whimper. It isn’t cute, it isn’t coy or coquettish like what you’ve heard before in porn or films. It’s raw, painful and very, very real. 

It never seems to end. You’ve lost the ability to determine when one climax ends and when the next starts. 

By the fifth time - at least, you think - he claims yet another, an hour later, you break. 

After his torture renders you thoughtless, mindless and perhaps a tad vacant, your instincts quickly take over. Your hands whip from the silent hold he had on them and swing down to push Tom’s head full of curls away from your aching cunt while it still throbs through the orgasm. He grabs your wrists, far too quickly for your liking. Tom watches your every movement through his brows, still latched onto your clit, giving nothing away of the disapproval you know he would be demonstrating had he not been so adamant in eating every particle of you. “Please,” your hoarse voice scratches your throat, sounding nothing like you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, please--ah, fuck--it’s too much.” 

Slowly, deathly slowly, Tom’s lips detach from you, finally granting you freedom, salvation, relief. Yet he just can’t resist recoiling every other second for just one last taste, one last swift lap of his tongue from entrance to clit in one clean strip. The moment all touch detaches from you, your thighs swing close, nursing the pulse that squeezes at your abused clit, taming the orgasm as it flickers its last flame. 

“Fucking hell,” you pant. “You truly are a sadist.” 

Tom only chuckles, deep, dark, leaking from lips soaked in your slick. It rumbles straight to your core. “Tell me the time, sweetheart.” 

Bleary eyes lazily drag themselves over to the clock and after a few blinks, the numbers sharpen. “It’s 2:38am.” 

His fingers tickle up your shin, tracing circles around your knee. “So, so good--” you gasp, darting to catch his hand before it sinks between your thighs. He smirks, “--to know.” 

Your sadist allows you just one minute, you know because he counts it, to cool down and let your body reset; a glass of water, a clean rag and a comfy seat, unshackled and dressed. He also very calmly warns you as he sheds his blazer and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling his sleeve up his tanned, muscular arm, that although it’s very late into the night, traipsing on the verge of closing, that you still have a long night ahead of you.

A small breath narrowly slips from your lips while you hold his stare. You can’t even dwell on the gravitas of the situation, not risking spending the valuable seconds of your - likely - only cool down. So you bite your lip, sit yourself down and quietly regain your energy.

Your heart beat doesn’t slow as quickly as you want it to. The exhilaration doesn’t leave your system either, stuck in a perpetual cycle of replaying all that had just unfolded.

You force your way through a breathing exercise sitting on the chair he originally placed you in, facing forward, blocking him out behind you because you know that one look at him and he would detonate all that you had worked to subdue. Once calm, the tether between mind and body reconnects and there’s one thing that screams down the line. 

Filled with pleasure, yet still feeling empty. Yet to be fucked. 

Tom alerts you that your cool down has come to an end as he saunters out of the dark corner behind you. It felt like barely a second. He had watched you the entire time, eyes roaming your figure, how it shook, how it quivered, how you barely managed to stand on your own two feet as you jumped from the desk, body scorching with the heat from your core. You were like a new-born deer learning to walk while he was a wolf waiting in the shadows.

Sat on the chair, you spin around to complain, attitude brimming, mouth open, words at the ready and…“Hmph!” His hand clamps down hard onto your mouth, pinching your nose with the other. Not a breath slips through. 

“Here’s me thinking you had learned to know better than to talk back to me.” His body arches over your head above you, tilting your head back to catch the panic glaze over your wide eyes. You think he’s going to do something rash, something to make you regret even thinking about turning around to answer him back; a slap to the face, a tug to your roots, something as evil as his wicked voice sounds in your ear. 

So you can't exactly blame your heart for tripping over itself when, as smooth as butter, he lowers his head, lips puckering to lay a slight kiss to your forehead. It feels like air, an offering that doesn’t conceal something malice behind it. A fragile dusting of comfort to your skin, gentle like a snowflake feathering down onto the ground. Your conscience arrows towards it.

When he lifts his hands from your mouth and nose, you don’t find yourself desperately sucking in the air you lost. Rather, you inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. It had to be that small, insignificant little kiss that lay your nerves to rest. 

Tom is one hell of a manipulator. 

His lips remain lingering on your skin, skating over the surface, mirroring his hands as they trickle down your cheeks and hold your jaw in their embrace. He whispers…“Do you think you can behave like my good girl again?” A small hum of confirmation buzzes at your lips. It isn’t enough for him. “Take this as your warning. If you decide to be a brat, if you decide to not listen to every word I say from now on, know that I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.” 

The severity of his caution has your eyes opening just a fraction wider, able to read the same warning that traces his words in his eyes. He means it. Really means it. Danny’s words echo around your head. ‘He’s a stickler for obedience’. What is he about to do to you that it’s imperative you listen to what he says? 

You could say no. You could invoke upon your safe word and make it stop right now. But when you delve deeper into the part of you that made you agree to this in the first place, you find that it still roars with life, telling you that your need for adventure hasn’t quite been satiated. 

You swallow, throat bobbing under his digits. “I understand.” 

He scrunches his nose in delight. “Perfect.” 

You don’t turn to follow his movements to the back of his office, your ears tell you what you need to know. A cupboard door squeaks open, old, rickety, likely an antique. Then rustling. Objects hard, soft, textured, plastic, rubber, metal. A hum of satisfaction, then the closing squeak of the door, different to the first. His footsteps near you, perching directly behind you while you feel the soft sweep of his torso brush against your hair. 

Then darkness. Soft, pillowy darkness that floods your vision. Remnants of light trapped in your irises float around like shooting stars before fading completely. It’s the only thing you can hone in on as the knot tied behind your head tightens, confirming that he has indeed blindfolded you. 

“Remember your safe word.” He breathes into your ear in earnest. Pasta. “Don’t hesitate to use it.” 

“Yes, sir.” You don’t know if he’s still expecting you to say that, but you do it anyway to stay in good graces with him. You’re not entirely sure if it will make a difference to the impending danger Tom warned you of. Even if it doesn’t, Tom’s lip still curls anyway. 

“Good,” a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth has you blushing, “now don’t move.” 

A single breath is all you have to prepare yourself before something cold eases across the skin of your arm. Insubstantial, almost weightless, it falls from the curve of your right shoulder and descends down until it reaches your hand, resting on the velvet arm. The sensation is ghostly but frigid, gliding but piercing. You can’t quite work out what it is…

The same icy coldness retraces its path back up your arm, floating and gliding along your clavicle and stops directly at the base of your throat, the pit where your collar bones meet. 

It knicks your skin. 

“Oh my God--”

“Don’t. Move.” 

Holy fuck. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It is a fucking knife.

That’s the metal object you heard. And its sharpest point is resting directly against your neck.

Your skin pales and your stomach swirls with nausea. All your efforts to stay still and keep calm drains very quickly and panic floods in. Any chills the knife aroused in its cold path is replaced by small beads of sweat, your entire body blazing, screaming danger. Surprisingly, among other things, your nipples begin pebbling, brushing harder against the silk slip of a dress that adorns your body the more the blade's sharpest edge tickles along your skin. Your heart pounds, the sound of panic-infused adrenaline thrumming in your ears, comparable to the time you went on that rickety, old roller coaster when you were younger. 

You guess the memory isn’t too dissimilar; forced to feel the thrill of having your own safety rest in someone else’s hands. You have no control here. 

It’s…intoxicating. 

A dark admission on your behalf, but you’re here for the experience, right? 

You dare not speak, dare not break his rules as the peak of the very sharp knife trails lightly up the column of your throat as its runway, bumping over your trachea, scraping the finest layer of your skin, commanding you to incline your head as it rises higher and higher. Your lungs expand and you can’t deflate them until the knife flicks off your chin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! 

In the stone cold silence of his room, the resonating shwing of the knife rings in your ears. A small respite. 

From what you can hear, Tom moves behind you somewhere. The creak of the floorboard dances from the left to the right and back again, giving you not one hint of where he plans to strike next, subjecting you to the torment of crippling anticipation until he does.

Suddenly the blade comes into contact once more with your skin, laying its long, razor sharp edge against your neck. Your body freezes, your nails scratch the edge of the armchair. 

“Stand,” Tom commands sharply. The knife’s blade maintains the same pressure on you, even as you come to a stand, knees knocking beneath you. 

Seconds later, the chair clatters behind you, just the swiftest of touches of velvet to your calves before it crashes off to your left, and where four legs once sat now stand just two. Tom. The warmth of his breath flowing past your ear is a stark contrast to the cool blade on your throat. But it’s the low grumble bubbling against your back that plucks a chord deep in your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter…

“I can feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage, newbie. Worried?” 

Yes…

“Or is it more than that? Excitement? Anxiety? Lust? Desire? What is it? Tell me, a penny for your thoughts.” 

“Nerves. Mostly. But…exhilaration and curiosity. And confusion.” 

“About?” 

“Do people actually get off on this?” 

He chuckles at your naivety. “Lots of people do. It’s perfect for keeping any brat in their place. But you’ll find it’s mostly the sort that spend all day bossing people about. Whose jobs are to take on the burden of responsibility, leadership, authority. If it’s been a particularly long and hard day for them, they come here. This is their relief.”

“To be held at knife point?” 

“To relinquish control. To let someone else take the reins for once. To be controlled rather than being in control. The knife just adds that flare, the incentive to keep them in that headspace of receiving orders instead of being  the one to make them. It could be a gun if you’d like,” he jests. You’d shake your head, but you might slice your throat in the process.  

You take a constricted breath, feeling the weight of the knife’s edge becoming just that little bit heavier. “And…do you like it? Being the one in control?” 

He presses himself against you as if to mould the contours of your body into his, lips furrowing deep into the crook of your outstretched neck roaming where they please. His free hand anchors down onto your hip, slithering its way across the expanse of your abdomen where, if he held you long enough, would feel the flutter of butterflies wings coming from within. Alas, he spreads his fingers, sinking lower onto your pelvis, teasing the curve of your pubic bone and presses down hard, bending you into him. As if the knife he holds against your neck isn’t controlling enough. 

His erection pokes and prods at your backside. He’s so hard you release a whimper. What you would give to feel him inside you. 

Tom’s words speak directly onto your neck like he’s tattooing them onto you. “I love it.” A beat, then--“Tell me,” he says, low in tone and volume. “Your dress. Any sentimental attachment to it?” 

“No.” 

The knife’s blade glides to the strap of your dress on your shoulder and picks it up, pulling it taut. “Good.” 

One tug and the material snaps. 

A small yelp falls out and a flinch has your shoulders raising just an inch closer to your ear. The integrity of your dress now hangs precariously with just one strap holding on for dear life. If one thing is for certain, it won’t be holding on for much longer. You smother the urge to scold him for ruining your dress, your property, and lest you forget the threat of the very sharp knife he holds against you, it’s only the straps, you could tie them back together as a temporary solution. An easy fix. 

The knife repeats its actions on the other side until your dress hangs lifelessly around your hips. The cold air bites at your nipples and Tom doesn’t wait one second before he brings the tip to circle around the little bud. 

“Oh--” You can’t stop your head tilting back onto Tom’s shoulder when the slight overdose of adrenaline makes you dizzy. The tickling sensation refuses to relent, crossing over the valley between your tits to tease your other bud just as salaciously. 

Just when you find pleasure of the tip running rings around your nipples, when Tom’s hand sinks to cup your pantiless sex, when his scent rushes in through your nose, a harsh slap of the blade's flat edge to your tit whips you back to caution. It’s unexpected. Being blindfolded, every touch is. Any touch you feel, whether blade or not, makes you flinch. Quick as a bolt of lightning surging through your body. It’s torturous because in your darkness, in your paranoia, you’re permanently recoiled, shielding, flinching at nothing, waiting for the next hit.

He’ll strike. You know he will. Not knowing when is killing you. And he knows it. 

“You asked if I like what I do-” his finger sinks into you, skimming over your clit wet with your slick, “-from what I can feel, I think you like it too.” Your hips buck to gain more friction from both his fingers and from his hard cock pressed against your ass, desperate to feel that euphoria of pleasure again. A sick, twisted crack of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him moan. “Shame you’ve forgotten your manners.” 

The surface of the knife slaps you again, harsh against your nipple. “Ow! T-thank you, sir.” 

“Better. Now move.” 

A few blind steps clumsily place you facing a wall, palms resting flat against the wallpaper while Tom kicks your feet further apart. He makes sure that while he puppeteers you to never let you forget that the knife he holds is always within close proximity, that if you dare defy him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Gentle scrapes, warning knicks, cold presses, even to go as far as break skin would he warn you. 

The audacity he has, though, when he takes the knife and slices his way through the remaining fabric of your dress, leaving you to stand stark naked before him. That’s going to be less easy to fix…

“You ripped my dress!” 

“Problem?” His voice is challenging, subliminally daring you to bite the bait.

“How the hell am I supposed to get home with no clothes?” 

The fiery attitude that tries to bloom inside dies the instant he presses the flat edge of the blade flush against your cunt. The cold surface lying against your heat causes a stutter in your breath. It pushes upwards, almost lifting you off from your feet and onto your tiptoes from fear that any slight movement of defiance would trigger excruciating pain. It’s dangerous, careless, and reckless, and you wish you could scream it, thrash around, push him away and yell in his face. The compulsion is overwhelming. If only you didn’t have a knife to your cunt…

“Telling me your problem isn’t going to make it my problem.” 

Your jaw slacks, away from his prying eyes and you suppose you could allow yourself just one moment of freedom. Just one moment of no restraint because releasing what you’re dying to say would just be as gratifying as the first time Tom allowed you to cum. You can easily feel the knot that’s dying to unwind, and saying what intransigent words would tease out the knot inside you, and also send him reeling. 

He wants to call you a bratty sub? Fine. That’s what he’ll get. 

“You are such a bastard, do you know that? I think you’ve spent too much time being told ‘yes, sir, of course, sir, thank you, sir’ that it’s all gotten to your head. Maybe you could do with being reminded that not everything you do deserves that.” 

Quick as a whip, the blade snaps to your neck, digging into your skin that you feel it tearing your skin. The wince is evidence of your pain, but Tom ignores it, settling on placing his focus not on the knife he holds against you, but how quickly he can undo his belt, his trousers, springing his hard cock free and lining it up with your sopping cunt. 

Without a warning, because you don’t deserve one, he thrusts into your core, holding your breath hostage under the knife. “So fucking tight,” he stutters to himself. Even for him, the sensation is immense. His next message is for you. “Cheeky little bitch. Think you’re clever? Think you’re funny? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re begging me to stop.”

Your bodies clash as Tom begins rutting his hips against your ass, the staccato notes of skin on skin and the room swallows every snap, barely making out the door. He fills you, stretches you, and ruins you within seconds and you can’t explain how the pain you feel translates so quickly into pleasure. You feel yourself needing more of it. The stretch, the burn, the knife, it’s indescribable.

His relentless pace maintains, stopping every ten or so seconds to ensure he fills every inch of you, submerging himself to the hilt and mercilessly grinding his hips against you, rolling around your cunt. Without fail, your hands claw at the wallpaper when he does, begging for reprieve. 

“When I tell you,” he pants, lips pursed and eyes ablaze, still holding the knife firmly against your neck. “You are going to give me everything.” 

He drops himself, snatching a slab of flesh between your neck and shoulder between his teeth and bites viciously in his frustration and you howl. His thrusts only become faster and harsher.

“I need to feel you squeeze around my cock.” A hand slides between your bodies and starts toying with your clit. “I’m not going to stop until I feel you cum around me.” 

Tom effortlessly tugs at the elastic band in your stomach and you are about to snap. He overloads your senses, violating your sensitive cunt to the point where you can feel it pulse in anticipation of the orgasm that is threatening to spill. Under the knife that now trails down your body, a pressure builds and it clenches your muscles with its tight grip, and with each pounding Tom hits you with, it grows a little closer to letting go. 

Tom fucks you in phases, fast, slow, harsh, gentle, silent, loud, anything and everything thrown into his efforts to completely tear you apart. If it’s regret he’s after, he’s got it. If it’s an apology he wants, it’s there for the taking. If he desires to hear you begging, then it’s on the horizon. You’re willing to give because you’re not sure you know where your limits are, and with your legging threatening to crumble beneath you, you sense that you’re about to get a good idea. 

Tears brim your eyes only to be soaked up by the blindfold, a quiet plea for release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please! ” Tom denies relief, keeping you squirming on his cock until his needs are satisfied. He has no care for you writhing to get away, because he can easily drag you back where he wants you with just a swift reminder of the blade that pierces your skin. You’re certain by now that you have tiny little cuts littered over your body, accidental or not. 

“Tom, stop! I can’t! It’s too much. Fuck!” He doesn’t heed your cries because to him, they are the symphonies he is waiting to hear. 

Your entire body quivers and with the flick of his deft fingers and the thrust of his cock, you come undone. There’s no holding it in anymore. The elastic band snaps and a white-hot wash of pleasure convulses through your body. Blood pumping at your core but Tom isn’t relenting. 

The squeeze of your orgasm around his cock is suffocating, but yet just as painfully pleasurable as he needs it to be for the euphoric feeling to consume him. Finally, as the walls of your cunt contract once more, he cums inside you. But by this point, you are weak and Tom can clearly see just how destroyed you are. Nevertheless, his selfishness convinces him to pull away and sink into you over and over again, slower and with purpose. 

“Don’t you have something to say to me, sweetheart?” 

“I’m s-sorry, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Taking me so well. My little cocksleeve, aren’t you?” He peels away the blindfold to find your eyes over your shoulder, but in your pain and exhaustion you can’t focus on much else and your eyes serve a very glazed-over look. “Look at me,” he spits, you obey. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Remember that any time you want to act like a brat.” He thrusts into you again as a testament to his words.

“Yes,” you meekly whisper. The word comes out of your mouth before your sex-inebriated mind can comprehend what he actually said. Once it does, you gulp. 

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl. Stay still.” Blinded by bliss, Tom pulls from you and with his size, it’s a feeling equivalent to an orgasm in itself and you hiss. Your pussy is hot, swollen, pulsing and leaking and yet somehow, as evident as it is for how sensitive it is, Tom can’t resist one more taste. The knife clatters to the ground. Salvation.

“No, no, no, no, it’s too much, Tom, please, I’m begging you.” The words drip with a desperation you don’t recognise. He simply hushes you, kneels behind you, splits you apart and continues to savour the taste of your arousal, meticulously circling his tongue around the small bundle of nerves once again. The warm, wet muscle glides from entrance to clit, cleaning you up of your wetness and replacing it with his own. For as excruciating as it is to endure so soon after an orgasm, you find yourself melting into the feeling and dizziness envelopes you in a warm hug. 

~~~~

“Tell me the time,” he murmurs, turning you around. 

Your eyes peer to the clock. “Fuck, it’s…it’s 4:29am. When does this place close?” 

Tom sniggers, floating over you with a smirk. “It closed an hour and a half ago.”

“What?! Why am I still here?” 

“I’m the owner of this place. I decide who gets to stay and I promised you an experience did I not?” 

“You did,” you agree quietly. The slight stickiness between your thighs bears a reminder of the experience and suddenly you’re burning again. You bite your lip, trying to contain the coy giggle like a teenager with a crush. “Some experience that was.” 

“Sweetheart, that was child’s play,” he laughs.

“What?”

He pulls you close, skin to skin, soothing out your muscles in a gentle massage. “You didn’t actually think I was going to show you everything, did you?” 

Would it be stupid of you to admit that you did? “I don’t know, you did say--”

“That I would give you an experience. Something new, something outside your comfort zone, something you hadn’t done before, an adventure.”

“But--” But the paddles, the chains, the whips, all the things you saw outside…

Not another word lets slip before he cups your cheeks, holding your stare and wordlessly silencing you. “If I had shown you everything, there would be no incentive for you to come back again now would there?” You shake your head. “While you may think I’m a sadist, there are some things within BDSM that newbies like you just can’t be thrown into. Trust me. I wouldn’t put you through that. At least, not yet.”

“Like what? Tell me, I wanna know.”

Tom’s lip curls. He’ll definitely be seeing you around here soon enough given you’re so invested. “Voyeurism, roleplay, flogging, bondage, anal, wax play, primal, orgies, consensual non-consent--”

Your brain fumbles over his words. “Wait what? What’s that?” 

The way his eyes lit up so brightly. He brings you closer to brush his nose against yours. “Consensual non-consent or CNC. A fetish where people enjoy being either the victim with the extreme lack of control or the predator with extreme control. Sometimes called rape play--” your eyes widen, “--but it is thoroughly negotiated beforehand and varies from scene to scene. Consent, as well as safe words, are vital. But for some people, verbally communicating consent takes away from the mood. To overcome that, they assign consent to an object. It would be agreed beforehand, could be a red scrunchie that you tie in your hair. If you came here one night wearing a red scrunchie, I would know that you would consent to me taking control over you. Perhaps drag you away against your will, take you somewhere where no one would see, make you get on your knees, suck my cock…” his voice reduces to a whisper and lets you feel his words on your lips. “Would do things to you…”

“Oh…”

Tom sighs, pulling away and composing himself. “For another time.” He winks. “But for now, you need to clean up. There’s a bathroom through that door. Feel free.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” 

~~~~

You don’t emerge from your bedroom until early afternoon the next day. In your true stubborn nature, you do anything you can to prolong the confrontation with Danny. He knows what prevailed between you and Tom, and munching away at a bowl of cereal, you find him smirking at the breakfast bar. All because he knows he was right, he knows that bringing you to the Hunting Ground was the ideal thing for you. You can’t deny him of it.

His eyes find the bite mark on your neck first, bruised and marked. Then to the large T-shirt that he’s certain isn’t yours. The memory of Tom dressing you in it last night has your heart thrashing against your ribs. 

“So how did the kinky-cultish-sex club turn out for you?” He grins, a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat. 

You click your tongue, deliberating the two ways you could go about this. Against your better character, you grin back at him, colour rushing to your cheeks. 

"Mark! Over here! Mr. Wahlberg! A word for the Youth Diary? Mr. Wahlberg!"

As it seems, Mark calmly maneuvers way past the wall of journalists, paying them, and you, no mind and strolls over to the starting point. Damn. You have to get a word with him somehow.

"Mark Wahlberg takes a mighty swing and thrashes the golf ball high into the air, and the crowd watches in astonishment as it sails its way over towards the green, a hair's breadth away from perfection as it rolls upon the hill. A round of applause circles around Mark as he proudly walks on with the confidence of a man who's set on winning this competition."

As the hours tick by, you find yourself without any luck. Those first few minutes of the competition were stuck in a loop, constantly experiencing deja vu of having to witness Tom Holland's unlucky shot followed by being ignored by Mark Wahlberg. You haven't had one decent interaction with anyone yet. Things are getting a little desperate.

You even begin to understand why the majority of journalists are following Tom Holland like a lost flock of sheep; he's very chatty. He stops at every turn to give his narration on his own playing, offers a brief insight to the projects he is currently working on, and if he likes you, even spill some of the secrets of his private life. It's a journalist's dream, one that you haven't even had the taste of yet since Mark Wahlberg is as accessible as the vaults of the Bank of England. Anyone with common sense would advise you to follow the crowd and ignore your bias towards him and just interview Tom Holland if it means you have something worth printing.

Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Not a chance. He gets enough attention as it is.

"Mr Wahlberg! A word on your new film? Could you tell us about Uncharted! Mark! Over here!"

Not even a glance is spared your way in yet another attempt to get his attention. From your left, a voice emerges. A fellow reporter sidles himself next to you, away from the crowd that follows Tom Holland. You spot the Sky Sports label wrapped around his microphone.

"He doesn't like to speak much to the press. Thinks that he'll say something and they'll twist his words," he sympathies. It's genuine, obvious that he too has been caught up in the same frustration you've been facing all afternoon. At least he has a little more insight as to why you haven't gotten a word from Mark.

"Yeah, I figured. It wouldn't hurt just to say hello and have a small chat. What could the press twist about that? If anything, I think he's damaging his reputation by not saying anything. It's rude, y'know?"

He nods his head in agreement, but the sigh he blows doesn't seem to match. "You have to let it go though. They're not obliged to tell us anything. This is just a day out for them, they're not getting paid so why should they have to say anything about their work? It's just our luck whether they choose to talk to us."

"Ugh, I guess you're right, but I still need something for my article."

"Sky Sports has had lots from Tom. Why don't you try your luck with him? He seems to be a lot chattier than Mark. I don't know much about film journalism, only sports, so I don't know what it is you're looking for. But if you ask him anything, I'm sure he's willing to provide."

You look to him with contempt in your eyes, your lack of smile instantly shuts down his suggestion.

"I appreciate the suggestion but no. He's too easy. Think of how many journalists are here desperate to get a word in about sports, golf, acting, celebrity personal lives, all that show biz. If everyone shared the one source, audiences wouldn't bother reading them all because they all be the same, boring stuff. Think about it. If you, and 30 other journalists had the chance to interview Ronaldo, you would all take it because after all its Ronaldo. The only downside would be that you would then have 30 articles all saying the same thing and audience getting bored after reading 1. Now think about having the chance to interview Messi. It would be hard but total payout if you got it. Plus, you would stand out from the rest and that's what would gain audiences' attention."

Once again, the reporter sighs. "Look, kid. I've been in this job for 20 years and I've learned that sometimes you just have to cut your losses. If your objective is to get something to write about for your article, then you should do it however and whatever way you can, doesn't matter who the source is. If your objective is to get something from Mark Wahlberg specifically? Then you should scrap the whole article and try again. Something is better than nothing."

"I refuse to take anything from Tom Holland."

"Suit yourself. Good luck. Oh, by the way, I think you're still recording. Wouldn't want you to get your chance with Mark only to realise you have no storage left on your recorder."

You mumble a weak thanks and remember to press the pause button on your recorder. The reporter saunters away back towards the crowd, your only indication of knowing where Tom Holland is. You consider it for a second, but determination drives you away, following Mark to the next hole.

~~~~

It's all to play for in the final hole with only two possible candidates capable of winning the trophy. Currently sitting in the lead is the elusive, mysterious Mark Wahlberg, strolling casually along to the final hole with his team behind him. Ah, and of course, next in line is Tom Holland soaking up the attention as he strings along behind Mark Wahlberg like an apprentice would their mentor. It's not clear whether the confidence he walks with is a poorly executed imitation of his acting mentor ahead of him, or whether it is a man deluded with besting him. All will be revealed within the hour.

It's well into the evening of the Pro Amateur competition and the luck that reporter wished you earlier has yet to find you. With the final hole well underway, you're starting to think that it never will. So far, you've gotten a few short, curt answers from other celebrities here but nothing near the sustenance your article needs. If only Mark could stop being so stubborn.

"One at a time please guys, one at a time." Tom's smug, arrogant tone of voice emerges from behind you and not too soon after, tens of other voices asking him questions. As he makes his way nearer, so do the swarm of people and in an attempt to get out of the way, you're stampeded by the press. Bumped, shoved and pushed, you struggle to find your balance and fall precariously on your knees with your equipment tumbling from your bag. In all honesty it didn't hurt, but what an inconvenience picking up all your bits and bobs. Ugh it's all his fault.

Before you do anything irrational and say something you shouldn't, you pack up your stuff and walk away.

The competition concludes with a twist that no one was expecting. With a gust of wind getting the better of Mark Wahlberg, it earned him a double bogey and cost him the trophy, annoyingly snatched up by Tom who achieved victory with a birdie. You seethe at the sight of Tom holding up the golden trophy, soaking up the champagne that his teammates spray all over him and hearing the applause from everyone, even you as a slow, lethargic clap rings from your hands. All to just to keep up the pretence of 'liking him' of course. Ugh, why did he have to win?

After a day of being the lone ranger in a journalists mission, you concede to following the crowd into the conference room where many like you await behind a wall of microphones and a valley of cables to hear from today's competitors. And Mark Wahlberg is one of them. This might be your chance to get a question in. Quick! Where's your recorder?

Fuck. It's not in your bag. Where is it? You rummage through your bag again and it's definitely not there. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where could it be? Did you lose it when you fell over? Has it been stolen? Fuck, you really need that!

You have no other option but to record from your phone and in your quiet, subdued panic, you try your best to catch anything he has to say. The quality isn't great and it's picking up outside noise to the point that articulation has no place on your recording. Sweating at the loss of some expensive equipment and valuable content, your phone drops and the clatter of it paints a mountain on its waveform, rendering the recording useless. Fuck, if you hadn't lost your recorder.

People start to look at you in your fluster and your legs starts bobbing erratically. The attention is too much and it's exactly why you prefer to stay behind the microphone and not in front of it. You have to leave. At the next possible opportunity, you end your recording and begin to make your way through the aisle, apologising profusely to the other journalists who wait for Tom Holland to make an appearance.

You just about make the double doors of the conference room when you hear Tom's voice welcoming the room.

"Before I start, I wanted to check to see if this was anyone's recorder..."

Everything about you stops dead in its tracks; your feet, your heart, your breathing, your entire existence. Nervously, you spin around to spot Tom Holland holding your recorder in his hands, fingers fluttering around its buttons. How the hell did he get his thieving hands on it?!

A pit opens up in your stomach at the dreaded thought of having to announce yourself in front of everyone to claim it. But damn, you really need your recorder back.

Braving the nightmare, your hand raises half-heartedly into the air. "Uh...it's mine. Sorry, I must've dropped it."

Tom's deep brown eyes lock onto yours from the stage and he throws, what you think, a sickly smile before he offers up the most ridiculous idea. "I can set to record if you want. I can sit it riiiiight here." He sits it directly in front of him and sends you a sly wink. It's a spot any journalist would dream of having their microphone; right under their nose on the off-chance that anything muttered under their breaths or whispered discreetly would be picked up. Journalists are a sucker for secrets. Quite frankly, you don't care for his secrets, you don't care for his thoughts on today's events, and you really don't care for what he has to say at all.

But the only reason why you end up saying yes is because you care more about what people would think of you if you gave up an opportunity like that.

"Sure. Thanks."

You proceed to endure 15 minutes of Tom glorifying himself in front of the press. God, it's embarrassing. You could plainly hear the snide tone underneath the guise of 'self-evaluation'. Everyone seems to soak it up like a sponge, praising him for his insightful words and self awareness, writing nothing but positive words about the actor. Whatever. You wish you could drown him out but your paranoia is rooted to your recorder at his table, thinking the worst outcome as his fingers toying with its external case. What if he doesn't know how to work it and accidentally erases all you had from today? One slip up and it's gone. Your eyes constantly flicker from your recorder to him and no matter who he's speaking to or where he's looking, he always manages to catch your gaze.

Already outside your comfort zone, you audibly whimper when you see him lightly tap the little trash button at the end of the recorder, miles away from the stop, pause and play buttons that you would regularly use. You would only ever press that button with intention, it’s pretty to hard to press it accidentally. Even without knowing how to work the recorder, it doesn't take an idiot to know what that means, so watching Tom play with it tells you that he is whole-heartedly toying with you, enjoying the view of you panicking from his throne of sadism.

It's like he can sense your hatred towards him.

~~~~

"Thank you, thank you! Until next year!" Tom smiles as he walks off stage, your recorder in his clutch. The further he walks away, the faster you bob and weave through the crowd, feeling like you're fighting against the tide as it sweeps you out. Then, just as the room empties you reach the entrance to the backstage area in a relief, only to hit a brick wall that stands in your way between you and your highly coveted recorder.

"No press allowed backstage." A security guard towers over you.

"Tom Holland has my recorder. I'd like to get it back." You have no time for polite small chat, your request grumbling with agitation.

"Still can't allow you back--"

"You can let her through, Jim. It's alright." A young boy’s voice echoes from behind the wall.

The guard hesitantly lets you through, keeping you under his iron gaze while you slip through the narrow space he gives you. You are led out into a hallway with plaques decorating the hall, awards from winners of tournaments the venue has previously hosted, the newest addition being Tom's 'Pro-Amateur' plaque much to your distaste.

The boy you recognise as Tom's caddie leads you down this hallway, he hasn't said so much as a word to you as he confidently walks ahead. Now he's getting his assistant to fetch you? God, the arrogance!

"He's in here."

"Thanks," you quietly mutter. The door closes behind you, locking both you and the actor into the room. When you started the day bright and early this morning, you didn't think this was where you were going to end up. You couldn't have put money on it.

Although, you have to admit: despite putting your heart and soul into avoiding Tom Holland the entire day, this could be an exclusive for your article. Nobody else has had this opportunity, so why not take advantage of it?

Tom smiles as he greets you, carelessly tossing your recorder from hand to hand. You swallow nervously. "You are...?"

You respond with your name, who you report for, and make it abundantly clear that you would like to take back your recorder in one piece.

He approaches with a small, boyish chuckle like you just told a joke. "Sorry, I was just thinking," he casually says, "about how you once said you refuse to take anything from me."

What? Where did he hear...? Fuck. He listened to it. And that entire conversation you had with the Sky Sports reporter...

Your mouth drops. As does the anchor in your stomach.

"What was it you said again...?"

"You listened to it." He ignores you.

"Oh yeah, that my 'mismatching colour-blocking golfing attire wouldn't receive the same compliments'."

"You...listened to it all?" you reiterate once again. Your voice rings with all the inflections of a question, but you already know the answer. Unfortunately.

Tom's brows furrow inward.

"Honestly, I can overlook the fact you insulted my outfit, it doesn't bother me that much." There's a 'but' in his sentence. You're just waiting for it. You inwardly panic, trying to remember what else you said that would warrant that dreaded 'but'. Your shield of writer's anonymity has fallen; it's what protects you if you are to ever post negatively about a celebrity, but now that he knows your name and your face, you're left exposed.

"But..." There it is. And in a disbelief, he bites, "I'm too easy? Really?"

There's two ways you could go about this. Stand your ground and defend yourself, or dig yourself a grave and apologise.

Ha. Yeah right.

"I don't really think it was your place to listen to my recordings."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm. Should've minded your business if you knew what was good for you."

"You--" He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, almost to contain himself and tries again. "You," he points accusingly, "are very...very lucky that you look as attractive as your voice sounds."

Your cheeks flush angrily. Safe to say, you're not used to anyone calling you attractive let alone Tom Holland, so in your fluster you have no idea how to respond. You don't know how to tame the flutter in your heart nor the fire in your stomach. Instead, you ignore it all and revert back to your original goal.

"Can I have my recorder back? Please?"

"In a minute." He swats his hand away from yours. High above your reach, you stand helpless as you watch his thumb crash land onto the record button, resuming from where it last left off. "I think that what you have about me in your article is a little bit too harsh. Why don't we start putting some positivity back in. I think you have it in you to pay me just one compliment. I did win the competition after all, I think it's deserved."

You laugh hysterically. The nerve of this guy! So conceited. "You don't deserve anything from me."

"C'mon. Just one. It's not that hard. I promise I'll give you your recorder back straight after."

Succumbing to his torment, your eyes roll over his features, his hair, his outfit and his body, trying to identify possible compliments that would meet his demands but yet wouldn't inflate his ego too much. What you don't anticipate is you're spoiled for choice.

Defeated, you sigh. "You...smell nice."

"Aw, c'mon. I said you were attractive and all you could think of was that I smell nice? Try a little harder."

"Hey, you said the deal was that I give you one compliment then I get my recorder back. Cough up, Holland."

A smug grin pulls at his lips. "I'm not satisfied. And I will give it back when I am satisfied."

Given that your hatred towards Tom Holland is now at least justified and not just self-inflicted, it means that it's twice as hard to sacrifice it all and compliment him like he so desperately wants you to, a complete betrayal to your own beliefs. But you NEED your recorder.

"You look strong."

"Elaborate."

"You clearly work out."

"What in particular?"

"Your arms."

"How can you tell?" He's really pushing the mark, overstepping it by miles with the dirty smirk he has on his face because he knows he is. You audibly grumble at the sight. Losing patience...

"They just looked particularly...muscular when you were swinging the golf club."

"Why don't you give them a feel and you can tell your readers how strong they really are in detail? I know you want to."

Is it bad of you to admit that you do want to feel them? Absolutely. Are you going to announce that to him? Absolutely not.

You don't move for a couple of seconds, your own conscience making so much noise inside your head that you can't make a coherent thought. A spark of adrenaline twitches at your hands, enough to catch Tom's eyes but it's not enough to swing it into force.

Quietly, slowly, he reaches for your hand and envelopes his fingers around yours, manipulating them to wrap around his upper arm. He makes sure to mold your fingerprints into his skin while he tenses, just to feel the sheer density of his muscles. His skin is warm, soft to touch but yet firm to grasp. While you become instantly fascinated, his glistening smile brightens in the corner of your eye. It's so quiet in the room that Tom hears the softest stutter of breaths and he feels like a winner all over again.

"Well?" He nods towards the recorder, its red button flashing. For the readers...

"Definitely..." you clear your throat. Why has your mouth gone dry all of a sudden? You retract your hand. "Definitely toned. Sculpted."

"If that's what you like then I should show you this..."

He takes your hand once again, its warmth holding you captive, and drags it all the way down to his torso. You can't pull your eyes away from how he sensually slips your hand underneath the hem of his shirt and weaves your fingers between the valley of his abs. Your fingertips skate over every sculpted ab of his, feeling the way they almost shiver at your cold touch.

Your fingertips aren't enough. Tom takes a step closer and your whole palm presses against him, almost too intimately for strangers.

Tom's head quirks to the side to get a better view of you. "Thoughts?" he asks, even though he can read them so clearly on your face. You're becoming entranced.

"...Holy shit," you whisper. "Um, yeah. Strong."

"For a woman who had a lot to say about me, you're certainly lost for words now."

As the heat rises and things escalate, neither of you diffuse the tension and the string of long, uninterrupted silence continues. Every minute that passes by is a precarious step over crossing boundaries and breaking every rule you have in your moral bible.

It forces you to suck in a nervous breath and hold it for a few seconds while you deliberate what the end goal is. Of course, it was to leave with your recorder but given your current position and your change of opinions, you're not so sure anymore. To be clear, your change of opinion isn't necessarily about Tom; you still think he's conceited, arrogant and incredibly vain, but it is what you do with that opinion that has changed. Before, you avoided him, stopped yourself becoming another little lost sheep and following him at every opportunity. Now? You're giving him every drop of attention you have to give.

Tom watches you intently while he silently introduces himself to your shyer nature, definitely not the same person that walked in here in a fit of rage and demanding for their recorder. The minute he meets that side of you, he knows exactly what to do next.

He drops his head as he drops his voice into his lower register, your hand feeling all the rumblings from his chest. "Want to be completely speechless?"

Fuck it. Sure you do. "Mm-hm."

"Good girl."

You aren't actually sure what he's planning to do so you look for intention in his eyes, but you see nothing but darkened caverns and devilish features. In fact, it's because you're looking into his eyes that you don't realise that he's grown hard underneath his straight grey trousers. Like before, he guides your hand fluidly underneath the waistband where the button pops out easily, and navigates you under the elastic band where he desperately shapes your fingers around him. He pulses underneath you, shaking with relief that he has you exactly where he wants you.

You dare not pull your eyes away from his, even as they droop in his pleasure. More so now that you admit how seductive they look. You try to mirror that same seduction with a small smile, moving your hand up and down his shaft independently.

Fuck, the more you move your hand, the more you think it's never going to end. Bluntly put, he's huge.

As a journalist, you should be eloquent with your words, careful in your choice of vocabulary, definitive with your metaphors, but all those years of reading and writing falters the second the sheer size of him stuns you. It slightly pains you to be so tasteless but nevertheless, you don't think there's any other way to put it.

So caught up in the heat of it, your common sense finally comes to once again acknowledge your recorder in his hand. You forgot he had been recording this entire conversation...

He brings it closer to his lips, seductively whispering directly into it. "Just like that..." He keeps going. "Doing such a good job - fuck - don't stop."

Encouraged, and progressively feeling turned on, you tighten your hand around his cock and move faster.

"How do I feel, sweetheart?" The microphone tilts towards you. Detail. Although at this point, you don't think it's for your readers as much as it is for you and Tom.

"So big. I almost can't fit my hand around you."

He very nearly buckled. That voice of yours is like a siren to him. Little do you know that when he found your recorder and listened to all of your little angry ramblings about him, it had sparked up a fiery, unavoidable desire inside him. It was hell having to listen to your voice talk shit about him, he just couldn't stand it. He needed to hear you compliment him, worship him, adore him, and he spent every spare minute of his day replaying your recorder, instilling your voice in his memory until he could manipulate your words, imagining what they would say about him.

But now that he actually gets to hear you feed into his desire is twice the satisfaction than he initially thought.

As quick as lightning hits, an idea occurs to him and it completely devastates his entire system; if hearing you compliment him turns him on, how would having you beg for him make him feel? The idea becomes such an unstoppable craving he already knows his imagination won't be able to satiate it this time. He needs it for real and right now.

"You wanna taste?"

Doe-like eyes stare up at him - oh, you are so capable of begging him - and your movements come to a halt...all except your thumb sweeping over his tip. You didn't actually think this was going to go any further than a hand job.

"You want me to?"

Oh no, no, no. This isn't about Tom begging. "Because I know you want to. I can see how desperately you want to tell everyone how I allowed you to come backstage, meet me, get on your knees for me, how I allowed you to suck me off and how I allowed you to taste me." His hand slithers up your jawline and brings you close, leaving nothing but a hair's breadth to separate you. As you anticipate the feeling of his lips, you have but his breath fanning over yours and the anxiety bubbling at the pit of your stomach to feed from. "You just need to beg for it, sweetheart."

Beg. It was hard enough to lose one battle and compliment him, but to lose an even bigger one and beg? You would be absolutely humiliated.

Would be meaning if it was under any other circumstance, if you weren't so spellbound and seduced by him. But that simply isn't the case.

Not uttering another word, you slowly drop to your knees keeping Tom with the wicked grin within your sights. The zipper of his trousers comes undone and you pull him free, watching as his cock stands tall and bobs heavily with weight. Instinctively, your tongue rushes to wet your lips.

"Beg." Tom demands again. The recorder soon comes back into your view and your jaw clicks with frustration. He's capturing every single word much to his demented, power-hungry mind.

You chew through your irritation and instead tune into the feeling that's bubbling in and around your stomach, the one that's being powered by him. "Please," you breathe. "Please, Tom, I wanna suck you off so badly, I promise I'll be good."

"And do you promise to never write a bad word about me ever again?"

Oh, this fucker.

"I prom-"

"Say it like you mean it."

How you so wish you could lie through your teeth, but you know for a fact that from now on, any bad word you write about Tom Holland will forever be tied with this day. You'll think twice about writing badly because being on your knees for him will get in the way. You'll struggle to find the words to knock him because the compliment you paid him stain your lips. You'll hesitate to criticise him because you'll remember how you verbalised about his good looks.

"I promise. Just--just let me taste you." It's sad how desperate you sound. "Please?"

He doesn't respond. There's one last warning to give.

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and your heart pounds. Despite being adamant in your dislike for Tom, you do somehow get the feeling that the threat that rings through his tone is not one to be taken lightly. It buzzes a little too seriously for you to brush over it. So you answer accordingly.

"Okay, I promise."

The threat dissipates and he looks at you approvingly, his empty hand dropping to cup your cheek. You aren't so unaware of the twitch of his cock in your hand. "I just want to make it clear and put on the record that out of the two of us..." Tom angles you closer, "it's you that's the easy one. Too easy. So easy that you're already on your knees and begging me."

How you would slap that grin clean from his face. The scowl on yours warns him of it, but he simply laughs, mocking you.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Admit it." His boyish chuckle continues to ring in the air and its contagious effect pulls at your lips despite trying to hide it. He sees clearly that it pains you to admit it, so as a small motivator, he crouches to your level, his hand still cradling your cheek. In quieter words, though still delivered through a smirk, he murmurs..."Be a good girl for me, yeah?" His lips melting onto yours stops you from getting the chance to reply. The surprise of it fogs up your brain, submitted into a dream-like state as he gently molds his lips onto yours. It's short and leaves you wanting more.

With a flutter of lashes, you nod. "Atta girl."

He stands up taller once again and you take that as your cue to fulfill your promise. Your lips wrap around him and your tongue darts to sweep over his tip. His groans can be heard above you and no doubt heard by the recorder, crescendoing the second your head starts bobbing. Your hand covers what your mouth can't reach, doing as much as you can to make him feel good. It seems to work; his hips begin thrusting. Slowly, at first, to swing into rhythm but the more you swallow him the less control he has of his own movements, and soon, with your hair wrapped tightly around his fist, he's rutting erratically, drinking in the sounds of your moans of pleasure and pain.

"Fuck, you're so good at that."

"Don't stop. Don't fucking stop."

"Taking me so well. Good girl."

"Just like that, shit."

"Look how easy you are, fuck. So willing, aren't you? You wanted a word for your precious Youth Diary? Here it is; you are so easy it's pitiful. Fuck--"

Tom's animalistic nature completely dominates to the point where your tears and gags are silently begging to slow down. Every part of you is screaming out: your throat is bruising, your lips are tearing, your eyes are streaming, your knees are cramping, but holy fuck hearing him talk about you like that fuels the fire inside you.

His thighs twitch underneath your hands and you think he might just cum down your throat. The red-hot grip he has of your roots is your only warning before that happens.

Warmth fills your mouth and you're quick to swallow it down before you choked, like it was instinct. He holds you hostage with his cock deep in your mouth as he uses you to string out the orgasm for as long as he can. Minutes later, you open your eyes to see Tom hunching over, still very much catching up to you in regaining his composure. He's hunched over, his white fist gripping the recorder while the other remains tangled through your locks, keeping you in place to prevent you teasing him any further.

When all seems settled, Tom lifts your chin once more - dabbing off the little drop you seemed to have missed - and catches your gaze from behind the tears forming in the corner of your eyes. You already know what he's going to ask of you and when he perches the recorder in front of you, he shoots you a wink.

"Detail." He simply says.

"Hmm, you taste so good, Tom. Best I've ever had. I could taste you all day."

At that moment, something snaps in Tom. The smirk drops and his jaw tenses. It's small, minute changes, but it dramatically changes the atmosphere in the room. You just don't know whether it's for good or for worse.

You find your answer when Tom's muscular arms promptly tuck themselves under your arms, yanking you up onto your feet. The clatter of your recorder steals your attention as Tom carelessly throws it onto a coffee table to his right; after all, he needs his hands to be free if he is planning on returning the favour. You should be complaining about his lack of regard for your equipment and how he could've broken it, but the red flashing light still shows sign of life, so you decide to overlook it for now. Besides, Tom doesn't give you long before he whips your head back to claim your lips, hungrily moaning into them as he forces his body weight against yours and slams you flat against the wall. The collision whips all the air out of your lungs but it isn't what claims the gasp from your throat. Tom's lips find your neck, suckling onto the supple skin with intentions to bruise, all to distract you from his hand slipping under your skirt. With ease, he palms your cunt, offering just enough of a tease to have you burning for more.

"I need to hear you say my name again with that voice of yours." Ah, so that's what triggered him.

"Tom," you mewl, almost purring.

"As sexy as that sounds, I think it will sound even better when you cumming for me."

Oh fuck.

It's frightening how quickly Tom is able to weaken you with just the deft touch of his fingers to your clit and punishing kisses to your neck. You try your best to soak it in and remain somewhat stable to remember every moment of it, but goddammit you can't keep yourself together. So much so that despite Tom claiming to adore the sound of your voice, for the sake of dignity, he keeps his hand clamped hard against your mouth to keep curious ears from overhearing the scandal coming from within.

Never did you think that Tom's all-round talents included making a girl cum so easily. It's kind of frustrating.

His fingers circle around your clit, dragging and pulling every nerve he can find and it winds you up perfectly. Legs shaking, breath faltering, you suspect you have mere seconds before he claims your orgasm.

Your whines and moans buzz from behind Tom's hand. He lets go, his lips once again claiming yours.

"You gonna cum for me?"

"Fuck, I--"

"Say my name. Beg me to let you cum."

"Tom, please, I want to cum. Please let me cum."

Two fingers slot themselves into you, his palm taking over pleasing your clit and you have to stop yourself from buckling. It is the last sign Tom needs to know that you're on the precipice of shattering. With a devilish twinkle to his eye and a crooked smile, he sinks closer to you, his lips narrowly brushing against the shell of your ear and whispers the word. "Cum."

In a similar fashion to Tom what seems like hours ago, you come undone. Your hands grip onto his shoulders for stability as he refuses to stop abusing your cunt. His fingers dig deeper, his hand moves faster, and the tight curl of his knuckle breaking you sends you spiralling.

Tension soon turns to bliss as he slows his movements, finally catching a breath to revel in the post-orgasm haze with a twitch or two catching you out.

For as egotistical as you believed Tom to be, with the grounding kisses he litters over your cheek, neck, lips, he completely negates that belief. He utterly dominated you, yet affection fuels his movements; something you don't expect a vain person to have. Maybe he isn't all you made him out to be...

Calmly, you both collect yourselves until you're presentable, standing apart within the room as if what just happened never happened. The heat of the room is all that's left to suggest otherwise.

Tom doesn't stop you from reaching for your recorder, the plastic rectangular object feeling like home in your hand. You firmly press the stop button, letting the audio file save before you address Tom again.

"Thanks for...y'know, keeping it safe. I genuinely don't know what I would've done if I lost it."

Tom smiles kindly. "It's no problem."

"Oh, and congratulations."

He nods humbly. "Thank you. I didn't actually think I was going to win it, but I guess luck was on my side." Huh. He's not bragging...

Settling your recorder into your bag, you begin to make your way out of the room. You hadn't realised how late it had gotten and how hungry you had became until your stomach grumbled loudly. As you take your cue to leave, Tom leads you out with a gentle hand to the small of your back and chills arise. Shit. Don't start liking him now...

Tom clears his throat before you completely disappear. "Will I be seeing you lurking about any other events this year?"

Something about his question makes you smile. "Maybe. I've got a few film premieres that I will be attending."

"Good. Well, if any of them include me, I'll make sure to review your work again." How his wink makes you weak.

"Hmm, we'll see, Tom Holland."

~~~~~

It takes you over a week after the golfing event to eventually find the courage to finish writing your article. Most of it is written from what you remember thinking throughout the day, but your work leaves much to be desired. All that's missing from the article can be found on your recorder that you have deliberately been ignoring knowing what filth it contains.

It takes a couple of glasses of wine on a Saturday night to find the bravery to listen to it once again. It all goes smoothly at first, words flow from your mind to your fingertips and your article slowly builds as your past self feeds you your own commentary from that day. You were going to stick with your original idea, deciding to keep in all your criticisms about Tom Holland because who's going to stop you?

But your valour is short lived. Because you've reach the end. When you think you have the finished product, a masterpiece of literacy for your readers to enjoy and you have nothing else to write. Just when you think you're about to press 'publish' that you reach that part of your recording that you just can't bring yourself to turn off.

Shit, it turns you on so much to hear Tom's voice once again demand that you promise to never write another criticism again and the way you so caved so easily in your lust-induced state. Even listening to it makes you resonate with it all over again, resurrecting the same excitement and anxiety to stir in your stomach. It's a reminder that persuades you that you don't necessarily agree with what you write about Tom. It makes you reconsider all that you've just written, your finger hovering over the backspace prepared to fix the promise you're about to break.

Fuck. It's such a good story. Probably one of the best articles you've written. Alas, with the disagreement going on in your head, you can't find it in yourself to commit to it There's also the problem that if you are to post it, the privilege of writers' anonymity will no longer be in your possession. Tom does, after all, know your name and your face, and you are damn sure he will take the time to find it and read it. What unnerves you is that you have no idea what actions he might take. How could you forget that warning?

"If you break that promise, I will come for you."

So there you sit with your empty glass of wine, chewing nervously on your nails while your eyes dry at the light of the screen you've been deliberating over for the last three hours. The question still remains.

The words were so demeaning in nature, yet they dripped from his tongue with a sickening sense of adoration, coming together to create a heavenly contrast that had wetness pooling between your thighs.

"One cock just isn't enough for you, is it?"

A rhetorical question that you couldn't have answered, your mouth rendered useless as Harry's grip on your hair tightened, forcing you to take his cock further down your throat.

You choked out another whimper around his length, palms pressed flat against his thighs as he relentlessly fucked your mouth. "Aw," he cooed at you, biting back his own heavy moans as he spoke, "can my little fuck-toy not breathe?"

It drove him mad—the glossy, doe-eyed expression you wore as you looked up at him through wet lashes, the tears now freely slipping down your cheeks. So sweet, so desperate, practically begging to be used. It made him regret his decision to share you with Peter; reminded of his best friends presence as he clamped a hand to his still-clothed shoulder, urging him to give you at least a moments peace. "C'mon, back off, Har."

You were grateful for Peter's distraction, taking advantage of the opportunity by momentarily pushing yourself away from Harry, nearly crumpling into the plush carpet as you gasped for air.

Compared to the two boys towering over you, you were drastically under-dressed. Peter was fully dressed still, whereas Harry had at least ditched the clothing that had covered the lower half of his body, too eager to feel your lips wrapped around him to bother with undressing fully. You, however, had been stripped down to nothing except the matching set Harry had so graciously bought for you a few days prior.

"Don't be such a prude, Parker." Harry remarked, jerking away from Peter's touch as he shot him a look that bordered on disgust. He turned his attention back to you, reaching down to let the pad of his thumb swipe at the drool that dripped down your chin, the remnants of his fevered assault on your mouth. "You can take it, can't you? Go on, tell him.”

You only blinked up at him, chest still heaving as your brain struggled to catch up with the situation, too far gone to remember how to form words.

Harry snorted, "Dumb baby is too cock-drunk to speak." His thumb moved from your chin, ghosting over your bottom lip as he smirked. "Pathetic."

Peter moved to your side, placing a hand under each of your arms and hoisting you up off the floor, effectively removing you from Harry's touch as he carefully guided you to the bed. "You're a dick." Peter spoke over his shoulder, blissfully unaware of the daggers the young Osborn was shooting into his back.

"I'm not fucking done with her!" Something close to a whine followed his words, a pitiful noise that he would have never made under different circumstances. Right now, though, he was far too frustrated to care about his tone.

He knew that you loved the way he was treating you, how rough and vulgar he was willing to get, satisfying all of the desires you would never speak aloud. Still, you were thankful that Peter was taking control, desperate for a break after Harry had essentially fucked your throat raw.

"So pretty." Peter's words were much softer than Harry, as was his touch as he laid you out against the mattress. Slender fingers grazed against your upper thigh, featherlight and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Your back arched at the sensation, the reaction eliciting a prideful grin from Peter as he repeated himself, "So fucking pretty."

His fingers dipped beneath the lace Harry had picked out for you, his thumb immediately pressing itself against your clit as his lips hovered over your inner thigh, placing wet kisses against the sensitive spot.

Another series of whimpers began to pour from your mouth, now less urgent but still just as desperate. You felt the mattress sink down beside you, Harry's tongue now swiping along the column of your throat, refusing to give Peter even a second alone with you—both of them wanting to be the one to take advantage of your body.

Eventually they'd learn to play nice—

you thought to yourself, Peter's nimble fingers now working their way inside of you as Harry's mouth worked its way south, his teeth grazing against your chest.

but for now, you'd enjoy this.

Sliding down the wall just outside your new home, you were wheezing, uncontrollably coughing and trying to catch your breath as she did the same on the other side of the wall. As one of you would finally calm down, the other would scream the phrase and it would happen all over again. 

Clutching your stomach you begged her to stop, needing to breathe in order to continue on, knowing he would be coming upstairs shortly and would need inside the apartment. Everyone always spoke of how terrible moving was. How exhausting it was trudging belongings from one spot to another, trying to organize an entirely new space from scratch, the toll it would take.

Except, that wasn’t the case for you and your little group. At all. The day had already been filled with laughter and excitement, not a single complaint dislodging from anyone. The thrill of a new beginning had you giddy from your early morning wake up. It was a new life you were about to start. 

Doing it with him made it all the better. Finally having a place to call your own was one thing, but being able to share the space with your better half, the person you loved and adored most in the world, was a feeling you couldn’t describe if you had to. It was the start of your future.

The future you two had spent countless minutes, days, and months dreaming and crafting together. It was happening. A majority of your memories were going to be happening here. The big moments, the mundane moments, and everything in between. 

You just needed to get in there first. 

His arms were overloaded with boxes, not caring about the questions your small moving crew were going to ask about how the hell he was able to carry those by himself. Leaning to the side, his beaming smile slightly diminished as he took in your frame sitting on the floor, looking over to the front door and seeing the mattress somehow standing straight up on its side, but sticking completely out of the door, not touching the floor at all. 

Kneeling down and placing the stack of boxes on the floor, his hands went to his hips and then focused his attention on you. His thumb pointed at the bed as his eyebrows shot up, his hand grabbing your outstretched one and pulling you up. “Need some help?” She screamed pivot from the other side of the wall, causing you to hunch back over in laughter as he rolled his eyes.

“Ah, that’s what’s happening. Move chuckles, I got it,” your hand wiped at your tears, watching as Peter lightly laughed, moving the mattress with ease from the precarious spot and moving it inside. 

Going to step over through the front door his worried expression greeted you as he yelled out for you to wait. Placing the bed in your bedroom, he came back to you, an eager smile on his flushed face. Without any hesitation he scooped you into his arms, a surprised yelp leaving you at the motion.

Slapping his shoulder, you shook your head. “No, no, no! You only do this when you’re married,” he shot you an unamused look before setting you back down, motioning with your finger for him to spin around. Hopping onto his back, his hands wedged under your knees, standing and running you two into your new home as laughter flitted from you both.

Running around the small apartment took little to no time before he ran into your room and jumped on the mattress. You caught your breath, eyes slipping closed as a content sigh left your lips. His hand crept onto yours that rested on your torso, linking your fingers together. 

Turning your head to look at him, he was propped up with one arm, peering down at you, eyes shimmering in the light streaming through the uncovered window. Using his free hand, he grabbed the baseball cap that sat on his head and turned it around, the bill facing backwards as he leaned down, capturing your lips against his.

“You like it? I know it’s small-” you cut him off, shaking your head as your smile only grew. “It’s absolutely perfect. It’s ours.” Your hand cradled his jaw, letting him lean in to place another chaste kiss on you before you heard a voice call out to you both from the doorway.

“No, none of that right now! We have an entire moving truck parked at the curb with too much furniture to get into this shoebox. Up!” Your mom's hands clapped at you two to follow her, May right on her heels as they talked about where the bed should go to optimize space.

It was early. Too early for anything, but especially for Peter to be up. His nightstand light was on, but dimmed to the lowest setting. The sun was already starting to peek through the curtains, but it was far too early to be up on a Saturday. 

His feet came padding back from the bathroom, collapsing on the bed with a small whimper leaving his mouth. Rolling over to fully face him, he quickly attached himself to you. “Did I wake you?” The whiny and gravelly tone that came from him had your eyes fully opening to look at him.

“No, I just sensed something was off because you’re up. Spidey sense is rubbing off on me, sticky,” he hummed in response. Something was most definitely off because he didn’t have a smart remark to dish back out to you. Your hand came up, the back of it landing on his forehead and retreating just as quick.

Peter was burning up. “How long have you been feeling crappy?” He sighed, rolling onto his back and flopping his arm over his eyes, a large pout sitting on his plump lips. “All night,” you sat up, throwing the covers off your frame, feeling the cool morning air sitting in the room.

Barefooted patters echoed in the quiet apartment as you made your way to the bathroom to grab Tylenol, Vaporub, a glass of water, and a cool rag. When you reappeared in the room, the only light still being from his nightstand lamp, you saw he had moved around again. 

Your hand went to his lips, pushing the pills through them and putting the glass of water there immediately after. He gulped it down, not realizing hours ago that some water would do him some good. Trying to sit up, your hand pushed back on his forehead to get him to lay back down. 

“Babe. Your fever is out of control. Just lay down,” his moans of protest got louder as you picked up one of his feet, slapped a huge hunk of Vaporub on it, and placed a sock over it, repeating the motion for the other one too. 

Washing your hands and returning to your shared space, he was sprawled out in the middle of the bed. Both arms extended on either side of him, wrap over his eyes, legs spread wide, covers half on him and half thrown onto the floor. You rolled your eyes. 

Didn’t look like you were going to be getting back to bed this morning. Being up before the sun did give you some time to get some chores done that you had been putting off. One load of laundry already in the wash, dishes drying on the disk rack, and still a little time to get a quick stretch in. 

As you started, what was a quiet home only occasionally interrupted with a snore from your partner, was abruptly halted when his whimpers filled the room again. “Buggy!” When you heard his weak voice beckon you to him, you walked into the room, pushing his damp hair from his forehead and lightly rubbing your thumb over the warm skin.

“Hey, sticky boy. How you doing?” He could hardly crack an eye in your direction. Mumbling an incoherent response, rolling away from you with whimpers falling from him, and groaning in pain, you reached over his figure, placing the water in front of his face. 

Turning his head away from you, you started tipping the glass, making it dribble onto his face. “It’ll stop if you just drink it!” You argued with him, hearing him concede and take the glass to stop himself from drowning. Grabbing the bottle of cold medicine you poured the cap full and watched as he drank it and grimaced, overly gagging at the taste. 

He was out within minutes. This was one of the most annoying traits of Peter. You adored the man, loved him more than anything in the world and beyond, but he was the biggest baby when he got sick. Refusing to take medicine, crying and moaning, being completely unable to function on his own.

It drove you mad. It never happened often, only on rare occasions and he would recover quickly, but during it was like fighting an overtired toddler to take a nap. Never listening, doing the opposite of what you would say, pushing you to your limits. 

Look, you get it. When you’re sick, you’re miserable. Truly you are. It just didn’t matter what kind of a cold Peter got, it would knock him on his ass and he would milk it for all it was worth. 

Deep down, you knew it was his way of making you feel bad for him and wanting to spend more time with you. With the opposition of your schedules it was hard. What he failed to realize is that when he was like this, you wanted little to do with him. 

Instead of feeling pity for him, you felt utter annoyance. You could admit though, it was nice when Peter needed you. Given his abilities and who he was, you never really felt like he needed you for anything. Until he was sick.

As you were sitting on the couch, all of these thoughts were rushing through your mind, sighing in defeat at how your heart strings tugged in his direction. Peter needed you. Peter never needed you.

Entering the dimly lit room, your head tilted at the weakened boy sweating through your sheets and comforter. “Hey, sticky.” He peeked an eye open at your towering figure, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you on top of him. 

“Where you been, buggy? I’m so sick, need you,” it was mumbled out, barely coherent, sounding stuffed and exhausted. Your hand rubbed his burning skin, putting your hand to his forehead and noticing the temperature was starting to drop.

“I’m here, babe. I’m here.” 

The front door slammed behind you both as you ignored his voice calling out your name, continuing into the bedroom to get changed. “Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t appreciate him blatantly flirting with you like that. At a work party no less!” Your eyes squeezed shut, trying to fight off the impending headache.

Sucking in a deep breath, you turned to slip your shoes off, placing your jewelry on your nightstand. “For the millionth time, Peter, he was not flirting with me. I don’t know if you think I’m just some-” your brain was running so quickly you tried to settle on a word, “hussy who fawns over all her male coworkers, but that is not me.”

He groaned, large hands enclosing on his face to rub at the skin. “Not once did those words leave my mouth. I would never call you that or even think that. All I’m saying is that you can be overly friendly and men read that wrong.” A humorless laugh fell from you as you shook your head, standing to get out of your dress.

“Okay, so I shouldn’t talk to any man anymore ever because they’re going to read my vibe wrong because apparently I am just galavanting around my office saying, ‘Hey, everyone, I’m friendly, come have sex with me!’, right?” Peter’s hands flew up, looking at you like you were absolutely batshit crazy. 

He leaned down to take his shoes off, muttering under his breath as he did. “Can’t say a thing because-” your head whipped around to face him, craning your neck towards him, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

Shaking his head, Peter sat on the edge of the bed, loosening his tie as he did. Walking around your side of the mattress to get to him, he refused to look at you as you approached him. “No, go ahead, Peter. I insist. Do you want me to walk around with a dog collar that says property of Peter? Would that make you feel better? To let men know I’m taken because my word isn’t enough?”

In one beat, Peter had you laid flat on the mattress below him. Your eyes were wide, slightly breathless as you took in his features above you. Both of his hands had your wrists pinned to the bed, the heat of his body resting on yours, your head was swimming. 

His cologne he only wore for special occasions drifted through your nose, making your eyelids flutter as he knelt down towards you. Goosebumps erupted on your skin as his voice spoke into your ear, dropping an octave as his warm breath fanned across the heated skin. “You want me to show everyone you’re mine? I’ll do that for you, baby.”

Barely getting another breath sucked in, he had you flipped, face down on the mattress, hands shoving your dress up around your hips. His large hands caressed your ass, one coming down and eliciting a groan from you as it connected to one cheek, surely leaving a large print there. 

Peter was wasting no time tonight. When he got in moods like this, where he needed to show you who you belonged to. Of course, you knew he didn’t actually believe that, but you couldn’t fight the desire that would burn low in your belly when he acted like this.

The panties you had on, Peter ripped off your hips, leaving the scraps of fabric by your face. When you tried to turn to look at him, eyes going wide at the shredded material, he didn’t let you. One hand came down, shoving your face back into the bed as he shoved into you with one thrust.

A gust of wind expelled from your lungs at the sudden movement. Setting a punishing pace, still having your face mashed with the mattress, you could hardly catch your breath. The obscene noises that echoed through the room you knew were coming from the slick that was dripping down your thighs. 

Standing on the tips of your toes, his pelvis continuously meeting with your ass in a way that you knew would be nothing but bruising. Both of his hands were occupied, one ensuring your posture remained the same, the other holding both of yours bound together, your clit was aching for some friction.

Mumbling like an incoherent idiot, drool dripping down your cheek and chin. “Ba-baby, ple-please,” you were overpowered by your own strong moans, feeling the tip of his cock reach even further in you. His thrust stopped, brushing the messy hair from your face, lightly slapping your cheek to get your attention, speaking in a condescending tone. 

“What, baby? What do you need from me?” When you tried to respond, he released you from the confines of his grasp, turning you over to lay on your back. Your legs instantly closed around his waist, ass nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. His hand firmly gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. 

“Words, baby. You need to tell daddy what you want,” clenching around nothing at the word, you whimpered at the harsh grip he held you with. “Rub my clit, daddy. Please, rub my clit,” his smirk grew at your words, thumb applying light pressure to the bundle of nerves.

Small circles were intricately pressed onto your core. Eyes slipping shut at the utter relief that coursed through you, immediately followed by immense pleasure. He leaned down over you, a looming force, a glint in his eye that showed his domineering side was out to play with you tonight. 

“Tell me,” a harsh slap to your clit when you didn’t instantly respond to him. He tsked at your lack of words, moaning instead at the brush of his calloused fingertips dancing on the top of your mound. “Tell me, buggy,” your breath caught in your throat as his fingers coaxed your entrance, replaced by the tip of his cock. 

Choking on your response, eyes slamming shut, you fought a battle within yourself. Stop the teasing and fall into pleasure or let him torture you to see how long you could take it. A bead of sweat trickled down your neck, his tongue catching it and savoring the taste before leaving a chaste kiss in its place. 

A harsh bite followed. “Be a good girl for daddy. Tell him who owns this pretty cunt of yours,” his eyes fell downcast at the mess between your legs. Your greedy hole trying to pull him further in. Anything to relieve the ache that pulsed. 

“Y-you,” his head tilted to the side, ear falling towards your mouth. “Say it again, pretty. Couldn’t hear you,” you fought the urge to slap him and how much he was enjoying this, but swallowed it down, playing into the power trip he craved. 

Batting your eyelashes at him, tears mixing with the makeup as it streamed down your cheeks, you kissed the shell of his ear, whispering your response into it, biting the lobe right after. “I belong to you daddy. Always.” 

Those words set off a wild animal inside of him that didn’t come out often, ensuring that you would be a sore, exhausted heap the next day. Not getting rest until the first streams of light would dance through the curtains, encasing him in a warm god-like glow that he most definitely deserved.

Long nights always seemed to always fade into long days. Today was one of those days. Being bombarded at work with new projects, being pulled from meeting to meeting, not getting a lunch break, not even getting a chance to check your phone until two hours after your original clock out time to see that Peter had already left for patrol. 

On top of that, it was pouring rain. You hated today. All you wanted was your partner's warm embrace and to cuddle while watching tv, but not tonight. No, not tonight. Trekking home, your pants were soaked through as were your feet from the ridiculous amounts of mini lakes that took up every street you walked on. 

Expecting to get home to a warm apartment, shower, and change was not in the cards for you today either. Instead, the cold air from outside clung to your home. Shivering at the freezing temperature, it sounded like it was raining. In the house. 

“Damn it,” you cursed out, thinking there had to have been a leak somewhere. Your search was stopped quickly when you found the culprit. A wide open bedroom window, leading to an entirely flooded bedroom. Running over to the window and slamming it shut, the floor squelched under the weight of your feet.

Grabbing every towel you owned, every article of Peter’s clothing, you laid them all over the floor, trying to soak up some of the liquid. After changing and sitting on your bed, a scowl on your face, you sat. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The window opened again, a wet Spider-Man entering your home. “Hello, my love!” His mask was removed, a large kiss planted to your cheek, still trying to catch his breath. When his eyes fell downcast, he took in the scene, a bewildered look on his face.

“What happened, bug?” Your eyebrows went up,  thumb pointing to the still open window that he had just crawled through. “Look familiar?” His jaw fell slack, moving to quickly shut the window, moving towards you with an apologetic smile gracing his lips.

Those same lips that kissed an exposed inkling of skin between each sentence spoken. “Buggy girl, I am so sorry,” his lips landed on your forearm. “I am an idiot. The biggest idiot to have ever existed,” another to the crook of your elbow. “Please forgive me.” Finishing on your shoulder, landing on your neck, then your jaw, finally landing on your own lips, you melted into him.

“There she is,” he mumbled against you, a laugh escaping as you pinched his side. “You’re cleaning this all up, okay?” He hummed in agreement, arms wrapping around you and pulling you closer to him.

“Of course,” his gloved clad hands slipped under the fabric of your t-shirt, eliciting a gasp from you. “I just have something to do first.”

Checking each of the boxes that came through the door to see what was labeled what, you pointed in the direction of wherever that room was, sending it and its carrier to the correct spot. With the main bedroom mostly finished, you moved towards the restroom.

Sure, it was small and could hardly fit you and the towel rack, but it was enough. When Peter slinked in behind you, pressed directly into your back, his arms wrapped around you. 

“First aid kit there?” You held it up, shaking it and then placing it under the sink. “Made sure it was the last thing packed and the first thing out,” he kissed behind your ear then on top of your head. “You’re a genius, buggy.” When a loud banging noise came from the living room, you looked at him through the mirror. 

He nodded, instantly knowing what you wanted. “Let me help with that, it can be a bit tricky and slip if you’re not careful,” Peter’s voice rang above everyone else's as he helped your dad lift up the coffee table, placing it in the correct spot.

You smiled to yourself, hearing how well he got along with your parents and best friend. Not that you were ever worried about that, but it was nice. No, you were always worried about other things.

Like getting your superhero boyfriend cleaned up after rough patrol nights.

The crashing noise announced his arrival before he had even fully entered the apartment. You woke up, blinking in the dark to adjust your eyes to see Peter still on the floor. Instantly, you sat up, jumping from the bed and kneeling down with him.

“Peter? Baby, can you look at me?” Panic laced through your words as he finally moved. “Yeah,” he was breathless, pulling the mask from his head, even in the dark you could make out all of the cuts and bruises decorating his face and neck.

You sighed, standing and taking his hand in yours. “I need you to come to the bathroom, baby. I need to work on you in there,” he nodded, groaning as he came to his feet, hunching over as he wrapped an arm around you to be dragged to the bathroom.

Sitting him on the closed toilet lid, the light showed him in a more terrifying matter. He was entirely black and blue, blood dripping from where you weren’t sure. Trying to calm the trembling of your hands down to begin cleaning him up was harder than you would’ve preferred. 

His gloved hand came and grabbed yours, flashing a smile to you. “Go to bed, buggy. I can do this,” you shook your head, grabbing the washcloth to begin wiping the blood away. “No. This is my job, I got this,” the soothing motion of Peter’s thumbs rubbing circles into your hip and the quiet he offered while you worked allowed you to move quickly.

In no time at all he was bandaged up to the best of your abilities. You gave a sleepy smile as you put the items away, feeling his eyes follow your every move. “Don’t know what I’d do without you. Probably would die,” his words became more muffled as he pulled you to straddle his lap, nudging his head into the crook of your neck.

Your fingers wrapped in his long locks, arms landing around his neck as you sat. “I know you would. That’s why I’m here,” his nose brushed against your pulse point, a small groan leaving him as your hips slightly moved.

You shook your head as he slowly lifted you up, speaking quietly, scared that if you spoke any louder it would only further harm him. “Sticky, no, babe. You’re too-” he cut you off with a deep kiss, capturing your bottom lip between both of his. 

He didn’t let you say anything else as he pulled your panties to the side, fully sheathing himself in you at once. You lowered yourself onto his already achingly hard shaft, accepting him in one go. 

It was a reconnecting moment. A chance to show you that he was there, he was alright, and that you were always what he needed to ground him back to the moment. To stop thinking about what was happening in the Spider-Man world. Take notice of what he had here. That was more important to him than anything.

You two climaxed together, feeling his seed leak back out onto him as you fought to catch the shared breath that flew between you both. Lips having not parted once, eyes having remained shut, hands firm on the other to keep calm. 

When you rested your forehead against his sweat ridden one, discolored from the strenuous events he had dealt with all evening, you felt his lips land all over your face. From the tip of your nose, to each eyelid, cheeks, eyebrows, anywhere he could. Anything to show the gratitude he felt when you would wake up in the middle of the night to take care of him.

He would never know what he had done to deserve it. You. Now as you stood, taking his hand in yours, you helped him finish undressing. Climbing into the tiny shower together, his arms wrapped around you from behind, silently clinging to you. Not wanting you to go anywhere as the warm water sprayed away the night from you both. 

The shower head plunged your body in scorching water, pummeling against your head. Washing away the work day and allowing you to relax. Your partner was in the kitchen currently making you dinner, you had a new book to dive into tonight, it was going to be a great night.

Until you opened your eyes. 

An ear shattering scream left your mouth, in your attempt to back up and away from it, you nearly slipped. The bathroom door flew open, crashing into the wall behind it. The shower curtain was ripped open, Peter’s eyes wild with worry. 

Immediately grabbing him, dripping wet frame, you didn’t care. You just had to get away from it. “Bug, what’s going on?” His hands searched you for any signs of injury, but when he realized you weren’t hurt, his eyes followed your pointed hand.

“It’s up there!”

His head fell forward, laughing as he nodded. “Alright, alright. I got it,” he stood on the lip of the tub, hands enclosing around the spider, and making sure to keep it away from you, exiting the bathroom to release it.

Within a minute he was back, washing his hands in front of you to ease your anxiety. Still standing outside of the shower, your trembling frame was hesitant. Peter eyed you, a small smirk on his lips. “You good, babe?” 

Nodding, he could tell you weren’t being honest. He moved towards you, a small sigh leaving him. “Would you like me to shower with you so you’re not alone in there?” You nodded, waiting for him to undress and get in.

“You first,” he stepped in, turning towards you and helping you back into the warm spray of water. Handing you the removable shower head, Peter pulled you into his grasp. “Always my damsel in distress.” 

Your elbow popped back, connecting with his ribs as your lips set into a pout. “Shut up. I am not.” His fingers attacked your sides, shooting laughter into the enclosed space.

Speechless. Entirely and utterly speechless. You were standing in the kitchen, the box sat on the countertop, your parents all beaming at you two. “How? Why?” Was all you could mutter out. Your mom shrugged with a chuckle. 

“Those pots and pans you bought were garbage. You would’ve had to replace them within a few months. These will last you a lifetime. Really, they come with that warranty.” The Caraway sets had you unable to move.

After seeing everyone on TikTok rave about these and why they were worth the insane splurge, you didn’t realize you had spoken about them so much and so often that your families would’ve noticed and bought them for you guys as a moving in present. 

The creamy white was immaculate and the stainless steel handle felt cool in your hand. You could’ve collapsed right then and there. Eyes fluttering shut, you weren’t sure what to do. 

“It’s a gift from all of us.” Setting the pan down as gently as you could, you rushed over to pull Aunt May and your parents into a bone crushing group hug. Peter’s laugh echoed behind you as he picked up the pan, spinning it in his hand with an unimpressed look on his face. 

“I just don’t get it.”

It was what you kept repeating over and over in your head. You just didn’t get it. This project had been sitting on your desk for weeks, untouched because you just couldn’t figure it out. It was getting on your absolute last nerve. 

You were losing sleep over it, wasting your entire workday by simply staring at it. Unsure what your next move was supposed to be. It was turning you into a zombie. Consuming your thoughts, hardly able to focus on anything else. 

It had simply been a shitty day. A shitty week. A shitty month. All stacked on top of each other and to make matters worse, you and Peter were fighting. Over what, you had no idea, but all you knew was that you two were in a stalemate. No one willing to budge on their position to just smooth it over. 

Days on end of the same bitter attitudes. Was it your fault? More than likely given how stressed you had been at work, but you really did not have the mental capacity to accept blame and truly apologize. 

Entering your home, you had hoped he was going to already be gone for the night. Instead, he was standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner for himself. Which was fine, you weren’t really in the mood to eat too much anyways. 

His back faced you the entire time, never turning towards you, not acknowledging you. It was fine. You didn’t want to talk anyways. Emerging from your room, changed into your lounge clothes, you were pissed to find a stain that had been washed in, now permanently there. 

Moving around the space, trying not to look his way, you grabbed a bowl and a spoon. Fetching the only cereal you had in the house at the moment and the milk from the fridge, you poured yourself a bowl. 

He was watching you from the corner of his eye. Despite how mad at you he was, he had to make sure you were okay. That you were still functioning to some degree, knowing what was happening at work right now. To him, it looked like you were on autopilot. Simply coasting to do what your body needed, but seeing your brain still functioning on overdrive. 

Picking up your spoon, you turned to grab a napkin from the counter behind you and in the process you knocked over the gallon of milk. The white contents dripped all over the counter and onto the floor. You didn’t react right away, instead just staring at the mess.

Peter literally had to fight the urge to grab it while it was falling. His mind told him that it would feel better to see you cleaning up the mess you had made. That it was what you deserved after your fight. Did it make sense? Absolutely not, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was for you to feel as irritated and peeved as him. 

What he didn't expect to see was you crumpling to the floor into the puddle of milk, sobs echoing in the room. The bowl had tumbled from your hands shattering on the floor as you went down. Cereal and porcelain mixing together.  

You didn’t really know what happened. One second you were going for a napkin and the next the contents of it all were all over the counter and floor. Too much to handle at once, your body and brain begging for a break. The cries wracked your body, trembling and shaking as you cried. 

The saying goes, don’t cry over spilt milk, but that was exactly what you were doing. Just one thing too many, something was going to have to cascade over at some point. Tonight, it was the milk. Your emotional bank having to withdraw something in order to keep functioning. 

At first, Peter thought you had gotten hurt somehow. The realization dawned on him that it was all emotional, no physical pain or injury that he could immediately see. Your tear soaked face met his as he crouched down to your level, throwing yourself on him. 

Honestly, he was going for the bowls broken and jagged pieces, but he let you wrap yourself in him. His own arms enclosed around you, hands rubbing your back as he stood you two up. You clung to him as he stood. He picked you up with him, letting you place your legs around his waist. 

“Sticky, I’m sorry,” your words hiccuped in the shell of his ear, guilt wracking his body at your apology. “I know, bug, I know.” One of his hands cradled the back of your head, gently moving across the floor to not step in any of the shards. Setting you on the counter, his hands landed on the tops of your thighs as your cries slowly stopped.

Moving them to cup your cheeks, his own thumbs wiping away the stray tears, your breathing trying to even out, he offered a small smile. “I’m-I’m sorry, bu-bug,” your lips were swollen from crying, your nose running and stuffed. You were tripping over your own words, them getting caught in your throat. 

He brought your head closer to him, placing a soft kiss to your forehead, your own hands grabbing his wrists, as you started crying again. “You’re alright, buggy girl. I’m sorry. How about I take you to the room, you get changed, and I’ll bring you some toast, yeah?”

You nodded, sniffling as your vision remained blurry. Your hand moved from his wrist to his cheek, a large pout sitting on your lips as you touched his face for the first time in four days. There was nothing worse than fighting with him. Given how stubborn you two were, it was always a recipe for disaster when it came to spats.

“I love you,” you murmured out, watching as his smile took over his face. “I love you, too. How about once you get changed I do something for you?” Hopping off the counter and emerging from your room in a fresh set of clothes, Peter cupped your face in his hands, bringing you to him for the first time all week.

When he pulled back, his smile was still persistent despite your constant stream of tears. “Wanna be Spider-Man?” A wet laugh escaped your throat as he handed you the mask and a web shooter in his open palm. 

Slipping it on, the baggy material hung on you as he fixed the web shooter to your wrist. He crouched in front of you, letting you hop on his back as he charged out of the kitchen, running around the small space, allowing you to be Spider-Man. Even for just a bit.

Anything to make you feel better.  

“No, that is not what happened, May!” Your stomach ached from the laughter that had been happening all evening. Tears were steadily falling from the corners of your eyes as May told a story about Peter eating a quarter as a child for a magic trick then having a meltdown because Ben had told him it had to come back out someway.

Peter’s face was beat red in embarrassment, the candlelight that lit the room not doing enough to cover the tint. It was the first dinner party you had hosted. Every month was a different place. Sometimes it was held at May’s, other times at your parent’s, your best friend’s apartment, Peter’s best friend’s apartment, or your brother’s place. 

This was the first time you had been able to host, finally settled into the apartment and after having found a few tables that you could squish together for the night, you were ready. Having planned a wonderful menu, moving all the furniture to make space, and ensuring there were enough chairs it was exactly what you had hoped.

Standing from your chair to head back to the kitchen and grab another bottle of wine, Peter stood with you, following you into the room. Offering a small, entertained smirk in his direction, his arms caged you in, pinning you to the counter as you joked. “Did the quarter ever come back?”

Rolling his eyes at your question that had you doubling over in laughter, you felt his lips capture yours, having you stand back upright. Your giggles bled into his mouth, the sheer thought of Peter as a child, swallowing a quarter, then promptly bursting into tears afterwards was delighting you. 

Pulling back, he narrowed his eyes at you. “Think that’s funny? Huh, do you?” His own chuckles mixed with his words, you nodding almost out of breath again. Shrugging, his shit eating smirk took over his lips as he sighed overdramatically. 

“Okay, then. Here’s another magic trick for you,” you barely even blinked before the thwip of webs echoed out into the room, the bottle you had been holding now resting soundly in his hand. You on the other hand were webbed to the counter. 

He smiled brightly, a light laugh following. “Now, for the trick. Watch as I disappear!” The door to the kitchen closed as he slipped through it despite your shocked laughter and whisper shouting his name. 

Standing there in disbelief, starting to try and free yourself from the confines of the webbing, the door opened again. You stood up straight, acting like you were working on dishes, but you relaxed when you saw Peter enter the kitchen again.

“Like I would leave my damsel in distress,” groaning, you rolled your eyes at the persona you despised. “I am not-” he cut you off, solely focusing on getting you free as he spoke with you in unison, “a damsel and I am not in distress.” 

You were biting back a smile at that, smacking his chest when the kitchen door swung open again. “Sweetheart, I asked you for a new knife like an hour ago,” Peter stood up straight covering the webs that decorated your hip and the counter. 

Her gaze fell to you two, eyeing you both in suspicion. “Everything okay in here?” You nodded, looking back at the counter that she couldn’t see. “Oh yeah, we’re just getting more bread. We’ll be out in a sec,” she turned on her heel, watching you both in curiosity as you both beamed back at her.

When the door closed, you both focused back to the mess. “Hurry!” His nimble fingers worked fast, giggling as he worked. “I’m trying! Stop moving, you’re making it worse!” You both were giggling like madmen and although your mom couldn’t see what you two were laughing at, she smiled.

Peeking in through the crack, just to make sure you were actually okay, and seeing your head fall back as Peter said something she couldn’t quite make out, but hearing your laughter mix with his. 

Nights like these made your heart soar. When everyone was good. When everyone was okay. It was these nights that you would look back on in pure admiration and yearning. For a time that you weren’t sure would happen again.

As you and Peter stood in the kitchen in utter silence, waiting for the phone to ring, you thought back to those nights. Wondering if it would ever happen again. Waiting to hear that everything was alright. That your brother was going to be fine. He had to be fine. He was going to be fine.

Getting a call early that morning from your mom had changed the trajectory of your day. Arriving at work at your normal time, 8:03 am, sitting in your chair, turning your computer on, unpacking your bag. It was regular. Supposed to be like every other day.

You were going to get through your work day, get home at 4:25 that afternoon, make dinner with Peter, he leaves for patrol once the sun goes down, and you spend the rest of the evening watching tv and reading. A normal day.

The phone call at 8:07 that morning threw that all off. Your dad told you that your mom was on a plane to California. That they had gotten news early that morning that your brother had been hit by a drunk driver just hours before. Trying to listen as he told you the latest update on him.

That had been twelve hours ago. Peter didn’t go on patrol that night. You didn’t make dinner together. You ate a bagel that Peter made for you. Only half, him polishing off the other. Sitting at the island with a chair, staring at your screen, waiting for it to light up. 

They had been able to hold off on the surgery he needed until your mom got there. That had been five hours ago. Now, you sat waiting. Peter was there the entire time. Knocking knees with you, reading to you, asking for your help with sewing his suit. You had no idea how to sew, but Peter showed you how to that night. 

One of the only breaks you had taken that day was the first time you had left the kitchen since getting home. Leaving the restroom, Peter’s loud voice boomed into the apartment, calling out to you. Running into the kitchen and snatching your phone, you immediately answered.

It was like the largest weight you had ever felt being taken from your shoulders. Tears cascaded down your cheeks, a large smile coming across your features as Peter stood, patiently waiting. Hanging up the call with your mom, you turned to face him. 

“He’s okay. Great, actually. They said as soon as he was out of surgery he was cracking jokes with the nurses. He’s okay,” Peter’s arms swept you into his embrace as you silently cried into his shoulder. That was your partner.

The man who would drop anything at the drop of a hat to ensure he was going to be there for you when you needed him most. Who would make sure that you were okay. That you were better than okay. That you were the happiest you could be. 

He had made that mistake before with someone else and he knew better this time around. He wanted to be the best he could be for you. It was the single most important thing to him. Your utter happiness.

Flopping onto the couch that sat in the empty living room, a loud groan escaping your throat as you did, you could feel the exhaustion of the day seeping into your bones. The sun was already setting below the horizon, dashing in between the various large buildings on either side of your own apartment building. The truck had been unpacked and returned. The entire family gone, leaving you alone in the apartment for the first time.

His head poked out of the door frame from the kitchen, eyes observing you to make sure you were still alive and kicking after the incredibly long day you had just endured. A soft smile played at his lips as he saw you on the verge of sleep on the sofa, sprawled out with no space for him to join.

He would make space. 

You didn’t even realize you had shut your eyes, letting the sleep overtake you until you felt arms wrap around you, pulling you up and flipping you. Instead of sinking your weight into the soft and fluffy material of the couch, warmth greeted you and circled around you.

Not even bothering to peek an eye open, you fully relaxed into him, inhaling the cologne that hung to his dirty shirt that normally you would have protested against laying on, but tonight you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

The security and comfort he offered with just a single embrace was unmatched, unparalleled. It was the feeling of his calloused palms rubbing against the bare expanse of your arm, occasionally slipping under your shirt to gently run his fingertips along your lower back that let you know it was him. That he was going to be here. That this was now your home. That he would do whatever he needed to to ensure that this would remain your home. Your safe space. Your haven. 

The warmth that expelled from you, the gentle rise and fall of your back as your head rested on his chest, the occasional twitch as you fell further into sleep's grasp, was Peter’s anchor. It was your way of letting him know that you would always be there for him. To comfort, to protect, to do anything you could for him.

God knows he would need it. It was what nagged at him. The small voice in the back of his head that would make an appearance once in a blue moon. Peter knew at some point, somewhere down the line something was going to happen. Something that would wreck him, destroy him. Something that you would have to pick up the pieces for, to make him whole again. He didn’t want it to happen. Who would? 

But it would happen. And when it does, you would be there. That was your promise. No matter what.

It had been on the news. You couldn’t believe they aired it. Happening live, no one knew it would happen. Spider-Man was there to save the day and make it all better like he always did. Except today. 

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t save everyone. 

This was a conversation that had happened many times before. Getting him to understand that despite his best efforts, there was going to come a day where it would happen. 

You just didn’t expect today to be that day.

Pacing around the living room, gnawing on your thumb nail, waiting. Simply waiting for him to finally come home. He needed to come home. 

You had turned the news off over two hours ago, unable to hear them talk about it again. Instead, a silly comedy played on the television. Something to dull the screaming voices in your head. The same voices that were at odds with each other. Did you need to go find him or just wait for him to come back?

Two hours, going on three, and then four was too long. Too long to be waiting for him to come home. Slipping your shoes and coat on, you took matters into your own hands. Grabbing your house key and phone, you made your way to the front door.

If he wasn’t going to come home then you were going to go to him. Where was he? You didn’t have the slightest idea, but you would find him. As soon as you pulled the front door open, a dull thud came from behind you. 

Whipping around, you saw him standing there, Spider-Man garb forgotten and dressed in regular clothes, he looked exhausted. Letting the door close, you turned and made your way towards him. 

“Hey, sticky,” it was spoken as quietly as you could manage. This was uncharted territory between you two, unsure how he was going to act and respond. Anything could have happened, he could have responded in any possible way.

This was not what you expected.

A large smile spread across his face, his cheery attitude partnered with it. He crossed the space, enclosing you in his arms and placing a large kiss on your lips. It shocked you. Out of everything that could have been his emotions and feelings, the cheerful and joyous man that was standing in your living room was not what you expected. Had prepared for. 

Your worried facial expression traced him as he walked through the apartment towards the kitchen, coming back just a second later with a bowl of cereal in his hands. “How was your day, baby? Did you get that project done? I know you had that presentation, too.” 

He was speaking in between mouthfuls of his bites, collapsing on the couch and lifting one arm to rest on the back, beckoning you to him. Confused, but continuing to tread lightly, you gingerly sat next to him, feeling his arm pull you into his side, a kiss landing on your temple. 

The remainder of the night continued in that nature. Like nothing had happened. Staying on the couch watching television, Peter demolishing the remainder of the cereal you had in the apartment, and then going to bed together after he showered.

Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to think twice about, nothing abnormal. Which is why you were so worried. 

In the blink of an eye, nearly three weeks had passed since the accident. Peter hadn’t displayed any emotion regarding it at all. You were entirely unsure what to do. Would bringing it up be beneficial? He hadn’t brought it up and you didn’t want to if he didn’t want to talk about it.

Maybe he had already dealt with it and you just weren’t a part of the process. Sure, it was a bit hurtful, but if he handled it, then that was better than nothing. 

When four weeks were approaching with Peter not having made a peep about it, you exploded. Sitting on the couch, watching as he discussed what was going to be happening for dinner and what you wanted to do this weekend, carrying on like nothing was wrong.

“Peter?” He hummed, sliding the sock onto his foot, the other between his teeth. When you didn’t respond right away, his eyes darted up to yours, seeing them narrowed in his direction. Irritation and anger was rolling from your figure and into the aura of the room. “Buggy?”

Shaking your head at him, your chin resting on your closed fist, you exhaled a large breath you had been holding in for nearly a month. “Are you okay?” His eyes widened in surprise, a laugh falling from his throat. Nodding in response, he shrugged, still confused as to why you were seemingly so upset.

“I’m alright. Are you okay?” You shrugged, picking the fuzz from the couch. “Honestly, I don’t know.” Peter walked over to where you were seated on the couch, trying to catch your line of vision as your gaze continued staring at the couch cushion. “Baby? What’s going on?”

Sighing, letting your eyes fall onto him, he had a true look of worry on his features. “Peter, you-I just,” you were stumbling over your words trying to figure out how to piece this together in the correct way to truly display how you were feeling.

“Peter, a child died a month ago while you were trying to save him and you couldn’t. You disappeared that night for hours, when you got home it was like nothing had happened. I keep waiting for you, or for something to happen. Like you’re going to break or something and it’s like you’re totally fine.

“If you are, that’s okay. If you worked through it in some way without me that night, that’s okay, too, but I need to hear you say that you’re okay.” When your eyes fell back to him a blank expression sat on his face. Any emotion he had been feeling, gone. His jaw was set, teeth grinding together, but his head dropped. 

His hand swiped at his nose, a small sniffle following before he nodded. “I’m fine.” You shook your head, reaching for his hand as he stood. “No, you’re not.” He ripped his hand from yours, a humorless laugh fell from his lips, hands landing on his hips. “Don’t tell me how I’m feeling.”

You shook your head, as you went to speak again Peter spoke up over you. “In fact, there’s a reason why I haven’t talked to you about this. Because I don’t need to. I am fine. I have dealt with this in my own way. Don’t bring it up again.” Brows furrowing at the tone he was speaking to you in, you were taken aback, but were overpowered by the disrespect you felt.

“No. We’re not dropping it. I don't appreciate how you’re talking to me, Peter. I want you to tell me how you dealt with this,” his hands scrubbed at his face, a bewildered expression taking over his eyes. “You don’t need to know. That’s what I’m leaving this at.” 

Following him and blocking his way from going back into the kitchen, you peered up at him, anger still prevalent in both of you. “No.” His hair fell into his eyes lightly as his tongue darted out and ran along his bottom lip, hand rubbing harshly at his jaw. 

“Yes. Move.” Your arms crossed over your chest. “Not until you tell me how you did this.” It carried on that way for a few minutes before Peter jumped to the ceiling and tried crawling behind you to get passed, but you moved too quickly, blocking any access points for him to leave. 

“Peter, knock it off! Just fucking tell me. What the fuck did you do? Is it that bad that you can’t tell me?” You were shouting, mind reeling at all of the possibilities of what he could have done, but when he yelled back, you stopped, staying rooted to your spot. 

“I fucking went to Gwen! There, is that what you wanted to happen? Is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make you happy?” He tried catching his breath, immediately calming down as he saw your reaction. Tears welled in your eyes, you nodded with a sniffle, chin wobbling as you stared at the far wall.

What you had assumed was just Peter bottling up all of his emotions and hiding from dealing with the situation is what you would have preferred than to what he had just told you. “Bug,” his voice was small, but echoed into the quiet room. Your hand came up to stop him from moving any closer to you. 

You turned to face him, finding it entirely too difficult to even look directly at him. “Fuck you.” The seething disdain that accompanied those words, really drove it into him how much he had hurt you. Turning on your heel and going into your room, you grabbed the pillow and blanket, throwing them back into the living room and onto the couch.

Peter’s eyes fell down as he went to grab it and set up what would be his makeshift bed. You snatched it from his grasp before he could reach it, shaking your head. “No. It’s mine. I refuse to sleep in that bed. Not with you.” 

Shaking your head, a decision made in a flash, you felt hot tears streaming down your cheeks. “Actually, no.” Walking over to the small entryway table and grabbing your bag, slipping your shoes and coat on, you went to the front door. 

When you turned and looked at him, you could see the disappointment and regret living on his face. He knew it was wrong and that was exactly why he had kept it from you for so long. “Do not speak to me. Do not speak to any of my family. I can’t even stand the sight of you right now. Do not even try,” you could see him crumbling as you spoke. 

Truly, you had no idea of where you were going to go, but anywhere was better than there. In the fortress of a life you had constructed with him by your side. It felt like it had been tarnished, made of only a facade. Nothing true. In the worst moment of need in his life, instead of turning to the woman he had sworn to craft a life with, he went back to who he had been with before. 

It was the worst pain you had ever endured. Wondering if there was something wrong with you. Why you weren’t good enough for him. How he opted to neglect you and your relationship in that way. The stinging sensation of remorse filled your being. Your world was crashing down around you. 

He didn’t listen to you. Instead of leaving you alone like how you demanded, you were constantly bombarded with calls and text messages, asking when you were coming home to figure this out. Home. 

A singular word that you felt had been built on a set of lies. That he was never ready to move past her. That things with you had just spiraled out of control and he didn’t know how to stop it. When in times of true crisis he would always revert back to her, not you. Not being to him what you had thought. Never having held a single doubt about your relationship together until this moment, but now had you questioning everything. All of it.

Nothing felt real anymore. 

A full week had gone by since you had seen or spoken to Peter. Having chosen to stay with your parents, not letting them in on what was actually happening. Just that you needed some space. Some time. 

When flowers arrived at your childhood bedroom door, you stared at the vase full of an apology bouquet. Your mom thought it was the sweetest thing in the world. That even though things were bad right now that he was still doing this for you. 

A knowing feeling wormed its way into your gut, telling you that he was watching. Somewhere he was spying. To see if you liked them. 

Grabbing the vase and walking outside, you lifted the dumpster lid, tossing the perfectly fine arrangement in the trash. Slamming the lid down, you slinked back into your parents home, your mom deadly silent as you walked by.

Questions were swimming in her head and you knew it. Choosing to answer in one fellow swoop of a response you spoke out. “Flowers can’t fix this,” voice raw from the shed tears over the last week, it sounded foreign to your own ears. 

Having had enough of sitting in your room, you needed answers. Instead of going to where you knew he waited with baited breath for you, you went elsewhere. The brick home greeted your vision as you strolled to the residence in Queens. Stepping up to the door, you lightly knocked. 

Aunt May answered in record speed with a large expulsion of air. “Thank god you’re alright. Peter told me you haven’t spoken in nearly two weeks.” Stepping into the warm embrace of the home, you followed her into the living room. 

As she sat with you, you turned and looked at her with tears brimming in your eyes. “I have to ask you a question and I need you to be as honest as you possibly can, okay?” She didn’t like where this was going, taking your hand in her own as she waited to hear what you were going to say next.

“Does Peter love me?” Her jaw fell slack, staring at you in awe. Shocked at how serious you were to even be asking this, tears silently cascading down your cheeks as you hiccuped. “Oh my-honey, of course he does!”

Shrugging, you shook your head. “Just not as much as Gwen, right?” At the mention of her name, May stiffened like a board. “What did he do? You tell me right now or so help me I wi-”cutting her off with a sad smile, you patted her hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

It was the answer you needed. You took your time going back to your shared apartment that night. Taking the scenic route, not wanting to rush into this. 

When you opened the door, took your shoes off, and stared at the empty apartment, sadness creeped into you. The home that you two had built, sitting nearly deserted and alone. You sat on your side of the couch, flipped the television on, and sat and waited. 

Hours had ticked by, mindlessly watching the screen, not remembering anything of what you had seen. When the window opened to your right, you didn’t turn to look at him. Didn’t want to really see him. 

Nearly falling over where he stood, his mask was ripped off his frame, staring a hole into the side of your face. “You-you’re back,” it was spoken out in utter shock, you only briefly nodded in response. 

“Not permanently.” Silence. He quickly entered the bedroom and re-emerged dressed in normal attire. Sitting on the coffee table, facing you, waiting for you to say something. 

You waited. Waited for the nine minutes that were left on the air time of the show. He could wait. Like how he had made you wait all of that time after the incident. To see if you were an actual part of his life. A functioning part. 

When the end credits rolled, you let out a soft sigh and shut the tv off. He didn’t push. Sitting patiently, awaiting anything you were going to say and do. 

“I came back to talk.” He nodded, elbows leaning on his knees, fingers linked together. “You showed me everything I needed to know. About where we are. Where we’re going. How we were doing. Obviously not as good as I had thought, but that’s fine.”

He wanted to fight you, but knew better than to speak over you. Not right now. “It’s blaringly obvious that you will never quite love me like how you did or do Gwen.” You hoped you weren’t going to cry, but as the words left your mouth, it hit you like a ton of bricks. 

Tears silently left their tracks on your cheeks, staining the skin with their traces as your eyes were downcast. Taking in a deep breath you continued on without a moment of hesitation for him to interrupt. “It kills me. I feel like I’ve given my all, showed you in every possible way that I am your person. That I am here. I thought I was what you needed, but now I can honestly say I don’t know if that’s true.”

Hiccuping through the tears, trying to get your points across, Peter stood from the coffee table and crossed the room with his back to you. His hand landed on the top of his head, tugging on the hair before landing on his hips. A sniffle echoed out in the quiet room as he turned back to face you.

Dejected.

“What-what can I do? I love you. More than I can even describe and I made a mistake. A massive mistake that I can’t take back. Baby, you gotta tell me what to do to fix this.” By the time he had finished he was back in front of you, crouched and taking your cold hands into his warm ones.

Your eyes shut, not wanting to see his skin touching yours, but savoring the feeling of it. “Tell me the truth. About it all.” Your tear filled eyes met his and he nodded with a small shaky exhale of breath. 

Removing his hands from yours he rubbed his face before starting, trembling hands coming back to enclose around yours with no fight from the receiving end. “You have to know that I have no feelings for her. Hardly even a friendship, but she was there at the start of it all. When it happened, I-I couldn't come back to you in the state I was. I couldn’t let you see me like that, bug.”

Your brows furrowed at his words, face scrunching up in disbelief. “That makes no sense, Peter.” You weren’t buying it. He was watching you slip further and further away. “I’m supposed to be the rock. The unmovable force that can weather any storm. When-when it happened, I was-wasn’t able to get control of myself.

It was the worst state I had ever been in. I didn’t want you to see me like that. I couldn’t let you. Baby, you’re my everything and I thought I was protecting you.” As he continued to talk, tears fell from both of your eyes, his hands roamed the bare expanse of skin under his palms, trying to soothe you whilst you both shattered before one another. 

“It was such a mistake. I regretted it the moment I saw you, bug. I’m so sorry,” your sob caught in your throat, letting him drop his head, kissing a trail up your arms to your neck where he stayed, tears pooling on the skin. “I’m so mad at you, Peter. I’m mad at myself for-for making you think that you couldn’t come to me. I don’t know what else I could’ve done to show you that!”

The tone of your voice lifted with confusion, a small shout escaping you as the emotions overflowed. His shaking head was him trying to show that it wasn’t you. Despite everything it wasn’t you. 

“It’s me. I had this connotation in my head that I couldn’t show you that side. I knew you had always told me that when it eventually happened that you would be there. In my head it was never going to happen and when it did, I didn’t want to show you that I was weak in any way. For god’s sake I’m fucking Spider-Man,” your hands cupped his cheeks, peering into the pooling irises that had bloodshot veins surrounding them. 

Swirled with pain and anger. Not at you, but at himself for not knowing what to do. For allowing any sense of weakness to happen and never wanting to have shown you that he could break. In his eyes, he couldn’t. Not for you.

“You’re Peter Parker most importantly! A human man who is my partner. I am so sorry if I’ve put these-these pressures on you to make you think that you can only be strong around me, but that is not a partnership. I-I want you to be vulnerable and show me everything there is with you. I love you, Peter. You. Come. To. Me.” 

As you finished, he launched himself at you. It had been weeks apart, questioning everything, and although there was still much to figure out in the hours and days ahead, at this moment it didn’t matter. When you had him against you once more, in a messy and miserable way, desperate to have your other half with you again. 

Through thick and thin, for better or worse, these were the promises you had made to one another that you knew you two would honor for as long as you had with him by your side. Even when you two were at your lowest, it didn’t matter. It was you two. 

Christmas had come so quickly this year. A year of immense struggle between you two. Where Spider-Man had taken over your lives, so much to the point where he couldn’t work. One income to support both of you with occasional photographs sold to the Daily Bugle. It had been rough. 

Exhaustion sat deep in both of your bones. Peter’s face was bruised more often than not. Constantly on the mend after dealing with issue after issue. You taking on as much work as you possibly could to make ends meet. It killed him seeing you doing this, even trying to take on a second job. 

But for the greater good, this is just how it had to be. For a bit. 

Agreeing this year that no gifts would be for the best, just spending time with one another, having a great dinner and watching Christmas films all day long. It was going to be great. 

And it was. You two had a wonderful day, enjoyed a delicious dinner that you cooked together, even spent some time on the phone with family and friends. Now, you two were lounging on the sofa, snuggled under a blanket, sipping hot chocolate and enjoying Elf. 

Peter was acting jumpy and despite your best efforts to ignore it, you just couldn’t. Giggles flew from you as you poked his side, seeing the smirk take over his face at your actions. “Alright, Parker, I’m biting. What’s going on with you?” In no time at all, he jumped from the couch. 

Returning from the bedroom, both of his arms were behind him as he ventured back out to where you sat. “Peter,” you took a beat, staring him down as he sat back on the couch, arms still behind him, “what do you have?” 

His nonchalant shrug as his attention focused back on the television gave you time to jump him. Your laughter mixed as he moved his arms to keep whatever it was in his hands out of your reach, pulling it around your body, above your head, back behind his back, just enjoying the true struggle you put up. 

When he finally decided you had enough, straddling his waist, your eyes grew misty as the tiny gift bag sat in front of your face. “Merry Christmas, my buggy girl.” Pouting, you lightly grabbed the red bad from his hands, dropping it onto his stomach as you stared down at him. 

“Pete, I-I didn’t get you anything,” he cut you off, putting the gift bag in your hands. “Shh, I know you didn’t and I didn’t want you to. You’ve done so much for us this past year, I needed to show you some sort of appreciation.” 

Sniffling, you pulled the tissue paper out of the bag, seeing a small jewelry gift box sitting at the bottom. Your hands reached in, feeling the soft box, pulling it out and quickly peeking back at the boy. He looked like a child on Christmas morning. It warmed your soul. Knowing that he wanted to do this for you one way or another. 

When you removed the top, a small gasp fell from your lips, eyes welling up again as you took in the earrings. There sat a pair of earrings, books, that had the title of your favorite book on them. It was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given you before. 

He lightly nudged you with his knee, causing you to bounce ever so slightly as you tried to peel your eyes away from the gift. “You like them? I found someone on that website you like so much. If not we can always return them and get you some-” you cut him off by wrapping your arms around his neck, smushing your mouth to his.

Feeling his laughter seep into you, shaking your bodies as he did, hands splayed across your back as he held you to him. “They’re amazing, sticky. Really, they’re the best gift I’ve ever gotten. I love you so much.” His hands moved from your back to your face, wiping away the tears. 

While nights like that made you realize how much you loved your partner and reminded you that no matter what you two would be there for each other, it was the average nights that had you in total bliss.

The nights when it was just you two, living your daily life, sharing the space of your person. Where you were sat on the couch, reading a novel that you had seen on social media, but despite the raving reviews you just couldn’t get into it. Peter sat opposite of you, reading some book on physics that you would never be able to understand no matter how much he tried to explain it to you. 

Deciding that you wanted his attention, you let out a sigh. Peeking over the cover of your book, you saw he hadn’t diverted his attention at all. Going again, this time just a tad louder than the last, his eyes briefly left his own text to glance at you. Ensure you are okay.

When he noticed that you were fine, he continued on. Another, louder sigh escaped your lips, head falling back, but Peter continued to ignore you. Having had enough of it, you crawled over to him, pushing down his book to get his attention to you. 

“Pay attention to me,” he rolled his eyes, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table next to you. His hands found home on your waist as you straddled him. Instantly crouching down to meet him, his warm palms slipped under your shirt, greeted by the smooth skin underneath. 

Deepening the kiss, you moaned as his hands continued their northern travels, cupping the supple flesh and tweaking your perked nipples. Slow and lazy were the kisses shared, movements basic and comforting, nothing extravagant and perplexing. Home. 

Breaths shallow and constant, naked against one another, riding him like it was your second job. Admiring you like the most magnificent species of woman he had ever had the pleasure of laying eyes upon. Captivated by your utter beauty. Eyelids so heavy they could hardly remain open to see who laid beneath you, but you knew the feel of him like it was your second skin.

Hands braced on his chest, chasing your highs, feeling the pull of you to him, your mouths met once again as they slowly washed over you. Nothing so intense that you couldn’t come to mere seconds later, but simply a release for both to enjoy tonight.

These were the nights you adored with him. You could only hope for a lifetime of them together. 

Plopping down on the couch with your still far too dirty clothes, boxes stacked as high as the ceiling surrounding you both, you felt the tiredness sitting deep in your bones. You had tried making a dent on them while Peter ran out to grab dinner, but you still had mountains to go.

Hearing the door open, you peeked around the corner to see him making his way in, french fry hanging out of his mouth, hat barely sitting on top of his head, hair a wild mess underneath. “Okay, I figured that since this is our first night here we needed to get something in the area. You know, start trying out the places.” 

Humming in response as he took his seat next to you, one large hand landing on your leg as he did, he showed you the takeout bag. “Burger #12?” You read out loud, staring at him with confusion evident in your eyes. He shrugged, removing the contents and handing you one burger from the bag. 

“I mean if there are other eleven Burger restaurants they must be doing something right!” You had to agree with him, sinking your teeth into the meat and being enthralled when the delicious tastes washed over your tongue. Moaning, you immediately took another bite, giggling with your mouth full as Peter brought a napkin up to the corner of your mouth, wiping away the stray ketchup.

You two ate and discussed what still needed to be done around the apartment, trying to divide tasks up for the next couple of days before his phone went off on the counter. He stood, surveying the message and groaned. 

Rushing to the luggage that sat partially open in the corner of the room, he grabbed the suit, getting changed in the blink of an eye, shooting you a sheepish grin as he finished. “I gotta-” pointing at the open window, you waved him off with a roll of your eyes. 

“Go save the world, Spidey. I’ll be here when you get back.” He rushed over to where you still sat on the couch, planting a sloppy kiss on you, before jumping out the window. The thwip of his webs echoing into the night.