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The steam from the hot tub coiled upward into the cool evening air, little tendrils of vapor that caught the glow of the rooftop string lights and turned them soft, hazy. You’d positioned the tub years ago so it faced west toward the city skyline, toward the Avengers compound in the distance if you squinted and tonight the view was doing its job. Manhattan glittered like a circuit board, all gold and white and flickering red from the tower beacons.

Your phone buzzed on the cedar decking beside the tub.

On my way. Ten minutes out. You have the files?

No emojis. No banter. Very on-mission energy from Peter Parker tonight.

You let the message sit for a full three minutes before responding, using the time to adjust the jets, to let the bubbling water massage the backs of your thighs, to touch up your lip combo in the reflection of your phone screen. The brown liner was still crisp.

The gloss sat perfect in the center of your bottom lip, catching light. Your wispy lashes fanned against your cheeks when you blinked down at the screen, and you smiled slow, private— before tapping out your reply.

I have what you need. Come to the roof. I’m in the hot tub.

Three dots immediately. Then they stopped. Then they started again.

The hot tub?? I’m coming about the Jean Grey intel. This is serious.

So am I, you typed back. And so is the intel. Door’s unlocked. Bring a towel if you’re shy.

You set the phone aside and sank a little deeper into the water, your shoulders kissed by steam, your curly flip-over grazing the nape of your neck. The water temperature sat at exactly one hundred and one degrees, perfect for loosening muscles, for softening tension, for making someone forget why they walked through the door in the first place.

Peter Parker had been in and out of your orbit for two years now. On and off, as you’d described it to your journal never quite dating, never quite strangers. A gravitational pull that kept yanking you back toward each other every few months when a case overlapped, when intel needed sharing, when he swung through your window at midnight with a gash on his ribs and that sheepish, I know I should’ve called first expression. He was brilliant.

He was maddening. He was twenty-three years old with the weight of the goddamn world strapped to his shoulders, and he still somehow found time to remember that you took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars.

But the on-and-off rhythm had tilted three weeks ago. A late-night argument about his recklessness.

Your refusal to hand over classified data without proper clearance. Words that cut deeper than either of you intended. He’d called you impossible. You’d called him a liability to himself. And then he’d disappeared into the city skyline, and you hadn’t heard from him since.

Until this morning.

I need your help. It’s about Jean Grey.

And now here you were. In the hot tub. Because if Peter Parker wanted to treat you like an information vending machine, he was going to have to work for every byte of data.

The door to the roof stairwell creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“You’re not wearing a towel,” you said.

“I— no. I’m wearing the suit. I thought this was a business meeting.” Peter’s voice had that slightly strained quality it always got when he was trying not to sound flustered. Footsteps on cedar, careful and light. “You’re literally in a hot tub.”

“Literally.”

“With… is that a mimosa?”

The glass flute sat on the tub’s lip, condensation sliding down the stem. “Orange juice and prosecco. Want one?”

His silhouette moved into your peripheral vision. He was in the red-and-blue suit, mask and all, the web pattern catching the string lights in a way that made him look like something out of a fever dream, muscle definition that the spandex did nothing to hide, lean athletic lines from shoulders to hips to thighs. He’d gotten broader since you first met him. The boyish edges were sharpening into something harder. More capable.

The mask’s white eye lenses narrowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured at the hot tub. At you. At the mimosa and the city skyline and the slow, deliberate way you lifted the glass to your lips and took a sip without breaking eye contact.

“The whole… thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You set the glass down. Trailed your fingers through the bubbling water. “You said you needed Jean Grey intel. I have it. We’re meeting.”

“We’re meeting in a hot tub.”

“Is there a problem?”

Peter exhaled, a sharp little sound that the mask’s speakers picked up and broadcast. He reached up, thumbs hooking under the edge of his mask, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Brown hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the steam. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“I remember.”

His eyes met yours. Dark, warm, a little tired around the edges. He hadn’t been sleeping, you could tell, the faint purple smudges beneath his lashes telling stories he’d probably never volunteer. But there was something else there too. Something that flickered when his gaze dipped below the waterline, traced the silhouette of your body through the steam, and snapped back up to your face like he’d been burned.

“The intel,” he said.

“The intel,” you agreed.

Neither of you moved.

“There’s a protocol for information exchange between Avengers-adjacent operatives and independent intelligence contractors,” Peter said, and it was such a transparent attempt to regain control of the situation that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Standard Form 7-B. Digital transfer preferred. Encrypted channels. Not…this.”

“Mm.” You lifted one leg out of the water, propping your heel on the tub’s edge, letting the jets churn against your calf. His throat moved. You watched it happen. “See, the thing about Standard Form 7-B is that it’s tedious. And I’ve had a very tedious week. So I thought we might negotiate more… directly.”

“Negotiate.”

“You ask questions. I answer them. Every answer costs you something.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I’m not playing games with you.”

“Then you don’t get the intel.” You sank back into the water, arms spreading along the tub’s rim, head tilting to expose the line of your throat. The brown lip gloss shimmered. Your lashes caught the light.

“And Jean Grey remains a mystery because you don’t want to play games.”

Silence.

Then a sound, half groan, half laugh. Peter dragged a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there. But so was the recognition.

The understanding that this was happening whether he liked it or not.

“What kind of games?”

“Easy ones.” You crossed your legs beneath the water. “I’m not cruel.”

“You’re a tease.”

“That’s different.”

A beat. He knew it was different. You could see him recalibrating, his scientist-brain slotting variables into place, adjusting parameters. He’d come here expecting a transaction. He was realizing it was going to be something else entirely.

“Fine.” Peter set the mask down on a cedar bench.

“First question. Is Jean Grey the Phoenix?”

“Yes and no. She’s a host. The Phoenix is separate.

They’re… entangled.” You traced the rim of your mimosa glass with one wet finger and watched his eyes follow the movement. “That’s your first answer. Now you pay.”

“What’s the price?”

“Suit off. Join me.”

Peter looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached for the spider emblem on his chest and pressed the release mechanism. The suit slackened instantly, nanotech fibers loosening their grip, and the sight of him peeling spandex away from his collarbones, his chest, the ladder of his ribs was so familiar and so foreign all at once that your thighs pressed together beneath the water.

He’d changed in three weeks. More definition across the shoulders. A new scar on his left hip, thin and pink and still healing. His cock was soft against his thigh as he stepped out of the suit, and you didn’t let yourself stare, but you noticed. You always noticed. He was proportional and cut, and the water was going to do interesting things to your self control.

Peter climbed into the hot tub without grace. One leg, then the other, a splash that sent water sloshing over the side and sank onto the bench opposite you.

The jets churned between you. Steam rose. His chest was flushed pink from the heat already.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Getting there.” You lifted your mimosa. “Question two.”

“Where is Jean Grey now?”

“Westchester. Xavier’s school. She’s been there for six months under observation.” You sipped.

Swallowed. Set the glass down. “Price: you tell me why you really showed up tonight. And don’t say the intel. You could’ve gotten this from anyone else.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. His hands were beneath the water, and you could see his arms moving slow, restless motions, palms gliding over his own thighs maybe, or gripping the edge of the bench. “The intel was a reason.”

“Not the reason.”

“No.”

“So?”

He met your eyes. The steam was making his hair curl at the temples. “I missed you.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread outward, warm and slow and dangerous.

You didn’t let your expression change. But your heartbeat had picked up, and you knew if he was paying attention. And he was always paying attention. He could probably sense it. Spider-sense or not.

“You missed me,” you repeated.

“Three weeks is a long time.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You could’ve called too.”

Fair point. You didn’t acknowledge it. Instead you reached for your mimosa and finished it in one long swallow, the prosecco bubbling against your tongue, and when you set the empty glass aside, Peter had shifted closer. Not by much. Maybe six inches. But six inches in a hot tub is a negotiation all its own.

“Third question,” you said.

“What’s the price this time?”

“Still negotiating.” You let your voice drop, let it go softer and smokier the way you knew he liked. “Ask.”

“Is Jean Grey dangerous?”

“Unbelievably. She could crack the planet in half if the Phoenix fully manifests. But she’s also the only person keeping it contained. So she’s dangerous the way a nuclear reactor is dangerous. Necessary. Volatile. Terrifying.” You paused. “That answer’s worth two prices.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just made that rule.”

“And I stand by it.” You smiled, and Peter’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and the water suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. “First price: you tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m scared all the time. Not of dying. Of failing. Of letting someone down because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Tony used to say I had a hero complex. He was wrong. I have a—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I have a worth complex. Like if I’m not useful, I don’t deserve to be here.”

The vulnerability hit you like a blade between the ribs. You’d known Peter for two years. He’d never said that. Not to you. Not to anyone, you suspected.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Second price?”

You pushed off your bench and moved through the water, slowly, deliberately, letting the jets buffet your hips, your belly, your breasts. Your one-piece was black and cut low in the front and lower in the back, and you felt his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. When you were close enough to touch his knee with yours, you stopped.

“Kiss me.”

Peter’s breath caught. “That’s the price?”

“That’s the price.”

“I thought we were—” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “On one of the off cycles.”

“We were. We’re not anymore.” You tilted your head.

“Unless you don’t want to.”

His hand came out of the water and found your jaw.

His fingers were wet and warm and slightly pruned from the steam, and they spread along the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach clench. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, webslinging calluses, rough and permanent. And when he drew you forward, the water seemed to part around you, offering no resistance, as if the universe itself was conspiring to close the distance.

The kiss started soft.

His lips brushed yours like a question, tentative, almost shy. Two years of on-and-off and Peter Parker still kissed like he was asking permission.

You answered by catching his lower lip between yours, drawing the kiss deeper, and the sound he made a low, helpless noise from somewhere in his chest. It sent heat cascading down your spine.

Tender, you thought. He’s always tender first.

And then he wasn’t.

Something unlocked behind the kiss. His free hand found your waist beneath the water, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of your swimsuit, and he pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of his chest pressing against your breasts. The kiss turned open-mouthed and urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your lower lip. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders muscle and bone and slick-wet skin and the jets continued to churn around you, indifferent, mechanical, completely at odds with the way your pulse was hammering in your throat.

Peter pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “More questions.”

“You haven’t earned them yet.”

“I kissed you.”

“One kiss. I need more.” Your fingers traced down his chest, following the center line of his sternum, nails scratching lightly through the sparse hair. His stomach contracted. His cock twitched against your inner thigh, half-hard now, growing, a weight and a warmth that you chose not to acknowledge yet. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

“I want the Jean Grey intel.”

“Bullshit.”

“I want—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were on your hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of your pelvic bones through the swimsuit. “I want you to stop pretending this is a business transaction.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You’re doing it right now.” His voice had gone lower, rougher, the way it always did when he was getting frustrated. Not angry. Just frustrated. Wound up.

“You’re sitting in my lap in a hot tub, and you’re acting like you’re handing me intel, but we both know you could’ve emailed me the file. You wanted this. You wanted me here. So stop.”

The words landed like a challenge.

You lifted your chin. “Make me.”

Peter’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger, not exactly. Control. The kind of control he wore in the suit, facing down threats that would make lesser people crumble. But this wasn’t a threat. This was you. And he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d just figured out how to solve.

“Okay,” he said.

And then his hands were under your thighs, and he was standing.

The water sluiced off both of you in sheets, spilling over the edge of the tub, and you made a sound, half gasp, half laugh as Peter stepped out onto the cedar decking with you cradled against his chest.

The lift was effortless. Superhuman strength applied with surgical precision, one arm supporting your back, the other hooked beneath your knees, the classic bridal carry executed like he’d been planning it all evening.

“What are you doing?” You squirmed, not trying to escape, just registering surprise. Your legs kicked once, a token protest. “My apartment is downstairs.”

“I know.” He was already walking toward the stairwell door, the cedar cool under his bare feet, water dripping from both your bodies and leaving a trail across the decking. “You said make you. I’m making you.”

“This isn’t—”

“You wanted a negotiation.” Peter nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried you through into the dim stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flickering on overhead. Your body angled slightly toward his chest, thighs draped over one arm, your curly flip-over brushing against his bicep. “You set the terms. You set the prices. Now I’m changing the venue. That’s allowed.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You’re not kicking.” His voice had a smile in it, even if his face stayed serious. “You’re not telling me to put you down. You’re gripping my shoulder like you’re afraid of falling, but you know I won’t drop you.” He descended the stairs, each step smooth and sure despite the slickness of his wet feet. “So you didn’t agree to it, but you’re not stopping it either. Which means you want to see where I’m taking this.”

Your heart was beating in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong about any of it.

“Where are you taking it?”

“Your bedroom.” Peter reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed through into your living room. It was dark, quiet, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He navigated the furniture without hesitation, crossing toward the hallway that led to your bedroom, still carrying you like you weighed nothing. “Unless you have objections.”

You didn’t have objections.

The bedroom door swung open. The bed was made, with dark sheets, too many pillows, a throw blanket folded at the foot because you liked the texture.

Peter set you down on the edge of the mattress with unexpected care, your legs dangling, your feet barely touching the floor. He stood between your knees. Water dripped from his hair onto your thighs.

“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go back to the roof and get the rest of the intel like a professional. I’ll do it. I’ll walk out right now.”

You looked up at him. At his chest, rising and falling with breaths that were too controlled to be calm. At his cock, half-hard and hanging heavy, glistening with hot tub water. At his face… that face you’d missed for three weeks, the stubborn jaw, the tired eyes, the mouth that had kissed you soft and then urgent and then soft again.

“Ask me the fourth question,” you said.

Peter’s breath shuddered out of him. “How do we stop Jean Grey if the Phoenix takes over?”

“We can’t. Not yet. But there’s a containment protocol being developed by Doctor Strange. Mystic dampeners. They’re not ready, six months, maybe eight, and until then we monitor. We watch. We hope she stays in control.” You reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer. “That’s your answer. Now pay.”

“Price?”

“Touch me.”

His free hand found the strap of your swimsuit and dragged it down your shoulder. The fabric peeled away, wet and clinging, revealing the upper swell of your breast. He traced the newly exposed skin with one fingertip, light, circular, teasing and you shivered.

“Where?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

Peter knelt.

The motion brought his face level with your chest, and his hands. Both of them now found the straps of your swimsuit and pulled them down your arms in tandem. The one-piece slid to your waist, then lower as he hooked his thumbs in the fabric and eased it over your hips, your thighs, your calves, until it pooled on the floor at your feet. You were naked on the edge of your bed, and he was kneeling between your legs, and the way he looked at your body. At your breasts, full and dark-nippled and tipped upward by the angle of your spine made your stomach clench.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a compliment.

Like a fact. Like he was naming something he’d always known and was finally allowed to say aloud.

“You’re so beautiful, and you know it, and you use it, and it drives me crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“Insane crazy.” His palms settled on your thighs, spreading them wider. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where the heat was building, close but not close enough. “You showed up in the hot tub with that look on your face and those lips—god, your lips—and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d break.”

“You didn’t break.”

“I’m on my knees. I broke.”

You laughed, breathless. “That’s not breaking. That’s participating.”

“Then I’m participating.” His hands slid higher. His thumbs traced the crease where your thighs met your hips, and his gaze dropped to what he was about to touch, and you watched his expression change, soften, sharpen, focus as he really looked at you.

Your pussy was bare, clean-shaven, the skin smooth and brown and slightly darker than the surrounding flesh. The outer lips were full and closed, a seam that ran from the top of your cleft down toward the tighter pucker of your ass, and when Peter’s thumbs brushed either side of that seam, you felt yourself flush with heat. Your lips parted slightly under the pressure, revealing the first glimpse of pink inner flesh, glossy, already wet, not from the hot tub.

“You’re slick,” he murmured. “That’s not water.”

“I know what it is.”

“How long?”

“Since you took the mask off. Maybe before.”

His thumbs spread you wider, and the cool bedroom air kissed your inner lips, and your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a sound, low and appreciative and held you open, studying the architecture of your arousal like it was a scientific paper he needed to memorize.

“Your clit’s already swollen,” he said, and the clinical observation delivered in that hushed voice made you throb. “Right here. Peeking out.” One thumb moved upward, barely grazing the hood. “Does that feel good? When I talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” His thumb circled, feather-light, nowhere near enough pressure. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like—” Your voice caught as he repeated the motion, clockwise this time, still too light. “I like when you describe things. What you’re seeing. What you’re going to do.”

“Okay.” Peter leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your clit, and your fingers clenched in the sheets. “I’m looking at your pussy. It’s open now, your outer lips are dark and full, and your inner lips are pink and glistening, and there’s wetness pooling right at your entrance. I can see it. I can smell it.” He inhaled, and the sound was obscene. “You smell like sex and chlorine. You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“I have.”

“I’m going to touch you now. Not with my tongue. Not yet.” His thumb returned to your clit, tracing the hood with slightly more pressure, and your back arched. “With my finger. Right here. And you’re going to tell me question five, where Cyclops fits into the Phoenix equation.”

You laughed, strangled. “You’re negotiating during—”

“You started it.” His thumb circled again, and your thighs trembled. “Answer the question.”

“He—Scott—he’s her anchor. Their bond is what keeps her tethered to her humanity. If he dies, she loses control. If they’re separated for more than a few months, she gets unstable. He’s her weakness and her strength.”

“Good.” Peter’s thumb pressed down, finally, and your clit pulsed under the attention, and the moan that escaped you was louder than you’d intended.

“Good girl. That’s what I needed to know.”

The praise hit you like a drug. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp curls, and he hummed approval against your thigh.

“You like that,” he said. “Being called good.”

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re being a brat. Even when you’re teasing me and making me jump through hoops. You still want to hear that you’re good.” He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, wetter this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“That’s okay. You can be both. You can be a tease and still be my good girl.”

The words vibrated against your skin, and your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more. Peter obliged by replacing his thumb with his mouth—one long, flat-tongued lick up the seam of your pussy that ended at your clit and sent electricity arcing through your nervous system.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Mm.” He did it again, slower this time, his tongue parting your inner lips and curling into your entrance just barely. “Question six. What’s the Phoenix’s ultimate goal?”

“I can’t… I can’t think when you’re—”

“Can’t think, or don’t want to?” His tongue circled your clit, and your vision blurred at the edges.

“Answer the question, and I’ll give you something to really lose your mind over.”

“Rebirth,” you gasped. “The Phoenix wants cosmic rebirth. Burn the old universe, seed a new one. Jean is fighting that impulse constantly.”

“Good job.” Peter’s mouth sealed over your clit, and he sucked gentle, rhythmic, devastating and your orgasm built out of nowhere like a storm front rolling over the horizon. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers pulled his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just kept sucking with that steady, patient pressure until you shattered against his tongue.

The climax rolled through you in waves, each one triggered by another flick of his tongue, another gentle suction, until you were trembling and gasping and pushing weakly at his forehead because it was too much and not enough simultaneously.

“There,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and shining. “There’s one.”

“One?”

“One orgasm. I’ve got more for you.” He rose from his knees, and his cock was fully hard now, jutting upward toward his belly, the head flushed dark and glossy with the first bead of pre-cum. “But I want to be inside you for the next one. Any objections?”

You shook your head, still catching your breath.

“Words. I need words.”

“No objections. Yes. Please.”

Peter smiled, and it was warm and kind and still slightly wicked, the smile of someone who had discovered a new favorite hobby and intended to pursue it with dedication. “Good girl. Lie back.”

You scooted up the bed, and he followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock hung heavy, the tip grazing your belly as he leaned down to kiss you, soft again, reassuring, his tongue sliding against yours and sharing the taste of your own arousal.

“I’m going to tease you first,” he whispered against your mouth. “You teased me all evening. It’s my turn.”

“That seems fair.”

“I’m a fair guy.” His hips shifted, and the head of his cock dragged through your wetness, sliding up between your pussy lips without penetrating. The sensation was electric, smooth, hot, the ridge of his head bumping against your clit with each pass.

“Feel that? That’s what you do to me. I’m dripping already. Look.”

You looked. His cock was slick with your combined arousal, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, the head glistening every time it appeared from between your folds. He repeated the motion up, down, up, down,and the sound it made was obscene. Wet. Slick. Shlick-shlick-shlick with every stroke.

“Hear that?” Peter’s voice was strained now, the first cracks showing in his composure. “That sound. Your pussy is making music for me.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please put it in.”

“Not yet.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit deliberate circles, bumping and massaging in rhythm and your hips bucked. “I want to watch you squirm a little more. You had me negotiating. Now I get to take my time.”

The head of his cock dragged lower, pressing against your entrance barely, just a suggestion of pressure before sliding away. Your inner lips clung to him, reluctant to let go, and the emptiness when he pulled back was a physical ache.

“Peter.”

“I’m right here.” Another pass. Another bump against your clit. “Ask me a question. Your turn.”

“Why did you really miss me?”

The question surprised him. His rhythm faltered, and for a moment he was just Peter again, vulnerable, unguarded, his cock sliding to rest between your folds with no intent behind it.

“Because you see me,” he said quietly. “Not Spider-Man. Not the suit. Me. Peter. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anything except what I am.”

You pulled him down into a kiss before he could say more, and he sank into it, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance and this time—this time—it stayed.

“Now?” he whispered.

“Now.”

He pushed inside.

The penetration was slow, deliberate, a centimeters-at-a-time advance that let you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the flesh currently claiming space inside your body. Your pussy stretched to accommodate him, tight, wet, welcoming and he watched your face the whole time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp.

“You feel—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.

“You feel like coming home. I know that’s cheesy. I don’t care. You do.”

“Deeper.”

He pushed deeper, and your inner walls fluttered around him. The fit was perfect, full without pain, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl against his calves.

“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Taking all of me. You’re so good at this. So good for me. Your pussy was made for my cock, you know that?”

The words—the degradation wrapped in praise, the crude language in that gentle voice sent an electric shock straight to your clit. You clenched around him, and his eyes fluttered shut, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

“Say it again.”

“Your pussy was made for my cock.” His hips drew back, then thrust forward slow, deep. “You take it so perfectly. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

“I have.”

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

He thrust again, harder, and the sound your bodies made when they met was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His pace picked up, but it wasn’t frantic it was controlled, measured, a rhythm designed to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.

“Question seven,” he said, and you stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re still—oh—” He’d angled his hips differently, and the new position rubbed his pubic bone against your clit with every stroke. “You’re still doing the intel thing.”

“Multitasking. What’s Jean Grey’s connection to the Shi’ar Empire?”

“She—god—she destroyed one of their galaxies. They’ve got a kill order on her. Xavier’s been protecting her from—from—”

“From?”

“Assassination attempts. Three in the last year.”

“Good.” His rhythm increased, and your second orgasm was building, coiling tight at the base of your spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Come for me.”

“Not until you—”

“Come for me,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your chest. “Right now. On my cock. I want to feel it.”

The command tipped you over.

Your second climax hit harder than the first, deeper, a full-body convulsion that started in your pussy and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white at the edges and all you could hear was the sound of your own voice crying out his name. Peter didn’t stop thrusting, working you through it with steady, even strokes that milked every last spasm from your body.

When you came back to yourself, he was still hard inside you. Still in control.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now let’s try the mating press. I want to see how deep I can get.”

His hands found the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, folding you in half, your knees approaching your shoulders. The shift in angle pressed his cock impossibly deeper, and your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you and thrust simultaneously.

“Ready for question eight?” he asked.

You were never going to survive this man.

His grip on your thighs tightened, not painful, just present, a grounding pressure that reminded you exactly who was holding you in place. The mating press folded you in ways your yoga instructor would approve of, knees bracketing your ears, your calves draped over his shoulders, and Peter above you like a promise he intended to keep.

“Actually, no more questions,” he said.

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread hot. You blinked up at him, sweat-damp curls, flushed cheekbones, eyes dark and focused and tried to summon something clever. Something teasing. The part of your brain responsible for banter had short-circuited somewhere around the second orgasm.

“No more intel?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended.

“I have enough for now.” He drew his hips back, nearly withdrawing, and the emptiness made your inner walls clench around nothing. “Everyone and thing can wait.” A pause. His cockhead rested against your entrance, not pushing, just there, a blunt pressure that made your toes curl. “Right now, the only thing I care about is this.”

He thrust back in.

Deep. Deeper than before, the new angle from the mating press sent him grinding against your cervix, a sensation that teetered between discomfort and ecstasy and landed somewhere in the yes-please-don’t-stop category. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The breath had been punched clean from your lungs.

“There it is,” Peter murmured, and his hips rolled in a slow circle, his cock stirring inside you like he was testing the fit. “That spot. You feel how tight you are right there? How your pussy clutches when I hit the end of you?”

Your hands scrabbled for something to hold— his biceps, the sheets, anything solid—and settled on his forearms. The muscles there were corded steel under velvet skin. “Peter.”

“I know.” Another slow withdrawal. Another deep thrust. “I know, sweetheart. You can take it.”

The rhythm he set was merciless. Not fast, not yet but thorough, each stroke a full retreat followed by an advance that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the bedroom: slick, rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the mattress and the hitch of your breathing. The city lights through the window painted stripes across his shoulders, across your thighs, across the place where your bodies joined.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the movement constrained by the press of your own thighs against your chest. Peter noticed. His gaze dropped to watch the jiggle, your dark nipples pebbled tight, the full weight of your tits shifting with every impact and his rhythm stuttered.

“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His voice had gone ragged, the controlled tone fraying at the edges. “Folded up under me. Taking my cock. Your tits bouncing every time I move.”

“Tell me.”

“You want the narration?”

“I want you.” Your nails dug into his forearms. “Stop holding back.”

Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, or the realization that you could see through the Pleasure Dom act to the strain underneath. He’d been controlling himself since the hot tub. Keeping the rhythm measured. Keeping the questions coming. Keeping his own need banked like a fire he wasn’t ready to feed.

But you’d had two orgasms. He’d had none. And his cock was rock-hard inside you, throbbing with every heartbeat, the head swollen and sensitive and leaking pre-cum that slickened your channel with each stroke.

“You want me to let go?” he asked.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. His hips snapped forward, harder this time, a thrust that shoved you up the mattress half an inch and knocked a gasp from your throat. “Like that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

The next thrust was harder. Then harder again. The controlled pace dissolved into something more urgent, more honest, the rhythm of a man who’d been patient long enough and was done pretending he didn’t need this. His cock drove into you with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall—thump-thump-thump—and you grabbed for the slats behind you, bracing yourself against the onslaught.

“This what you wanted?” His breath was hot against your ear now, his chest pressed to the backs of your thighs, folding you even deeper into the press.

“Wanted me to stop being nice? Stop asking permission?”

“I wanted—oh fuck—” He’d angled his hips and the new trajectory dragged his cockhead across your G-spot with every stroke. The sensation was electric, a live wire sparking somewhere behind your pubic bone. “I wanted you to stop thinking.”

“Thinking’s what I do.”

“Not tonight.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “Tonight you’re not Spider-Man.

You’re just Peter. And Peter gets to feel good. Peter gets to come. Peter gets to fuck me until he can’t think anymore.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours, and for three heartbeats he was completely still, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“You get to feel good.”

His hips jerked. “Again.”

“You get to come inside me.”

A groan tore from his chest, low, and desperate, completely unguarded. He started moving again, but it was different now: less controlled, more instinctive, the rhythm of a body chasing sensation rather than orchestrating it. His cock pistoned into you with abandoned precision, each thrust driving deep and fast and god, the sound of it, the wet obscene slap of his balls against your ass, the creak of the mattress, the headboard knocking a staccato against the wall.

You clung to him, your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you could reach and let yourself be fucked. There was no other word for it. He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t performing. He was fucking, raw and urgent and completely absorbed in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock.

“You feel—” Peter’s voice cracked. “You feel so good. So wet. So tight. I can feel every inch of you.

Every time you clench. Every time you—” He thrust again, and your inner walls spasmed around him.

“yeah, like that. Just like that.”

“Close,” you managed. The word was barely a syllable. A warning and a plea.

“Me too.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, swollen now, slick with your combined arousal, so sensitive that the first touch made you flinch. “No. Don’t pull away. Take it. Take what I give you.”

The pressure of his thumb circled your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts—down when he pushed in, up when he pulled out—and the dual stimulation was too much and not enough and exactly right.

Your third orgasm built differently from the first two. Slower. Deeper. A pressure that started in your toes and climbed your spine and settled somewhere in the base of your skull, white noise and static and the distant roar of blood in your ears.

“Peter, I’m going to—”

“I know. I can feel it. Your pussy’s fluttering around me. You’re going to come on my cock again. Third time tonight. My good girl.” His thumb pressed harder, circles smaller and faster. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm detonated.

Not a wave this time, a detonation, a bomb blast that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white and the only sound in the universe was your own voice keening his name. Your pussy clamped around his cock in rhythmic convulsions, squeeze-release-squeeze, milking him, and Peter’s answering groan was the most honest sound you’d ever heard him make.

“Fuck. Fuck. Your pussy is—you’re gripping me so tight—I’m going to—”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”

His control snapped.

Peter’s hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, and his whole body went rigid above you. His cock pulsed, once, twice, a third time, and you felt each jet of cum paint your inner walls in hot, thick spurts. His face was buried in your neck. His breath was ragged. His hips kept twitching, tiny involuntary thrusts that milked the last drops of his release deeper into your pussy.

Time stretched.

You floated somewhere outside yourself, aware of your heartbeat slowing, of Peter’s weight settling more heavily on your folded body, of the wetness between your thighs that was both of you combined. His cock was still inside you, softening now but still present, still connected.

“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Your cum. It’s warm.”

Peter made a sound—half laugh, half groan—against your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Worth it?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, post-coital, the sharp edges dulled by endorphins and exhaustion. But underneath the haze was something softer. Something that looked a lot like the vulnerability he’d shown in the hot tub, multiplied by a hundred.

“Worth it,” he said. “Worth everything. Worth three weeks of silence and every fight we’ve ever had and every fight we’re going to have. You’re worth all of it.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You ignored it in favor of practicality. “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” He untangled himself with exaggerated care, easing your legs down from his shoulders, slipping out of you with a wet sound that made both of you wince. His cum followed, a slow trickle that slid down your inner thigh and onto the dark sheets. Peter watched it happen. His expression flickered. “I should—do you want me to get a towel?”

“In a minute.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Stay.”

He stayed.

Peter lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, and you turned onto your side to face him. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and chlorine and the faint citrus of your diffuser still puffing away on the nightstand. Outside, the city carried on without you, sirens in the distance, the drone of late-night traffic, the glitter of lights that never went dark.

None of it mattered.

His hand found your hip, thumb tracing idle circles over the jut of bone. “I meant what I said. In the hot tub. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Then why do we keep doing this? The on-and-off thing. The fights. The three weeks of silence.”

You considered the question. Considered the answer—the real answer, not the deflection you normally reached for. “Because we’re both terrified.”

Peter’s thumb stilled. “Of what?”

“Of this.” You gestured between your bodies, the inches of space, the tangled sheets, the shared warmth. “Of something that actually matters. It’s easier to walk away when things get hard than to stay and risk losing it for real.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale, warm against your collarbone.

“You’re terrifyingly smart,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you’re right. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.

But I’m more scared of…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I’m more scared of not having this. Of waking up one day and realizing I let the best thing in my life slip away because I was too scared to hold on.”

Your throat tightened. “Peter.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know. No more off cycles. No more three-week silences. If we fight, we fight. But we don’t disappear. Deal?”

“Deal.”

His smile was small and tired and the most beautiful thing you’d seen all night. He leaned forward and kissed you, soft, closed-mouth, impossibly tender given everything your bodies had just done to each other—and you kissed him back with the same gentleness.

When he pulled away, his eyes had sharpened slightly. The post-coital haze was lifting. The scientist-brain was rebooting.

“I have one more question,” he said.

“You said no more questions.”

“This one’s not about Jean Grey.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“How do you feel about round two?”

The laugh that burst out of you was startled and genuine and so loud it probably woke your downstairs neighbor. Peter grinned—that boyish grin you’d fallen for two years ago, the one that made him look nineteen again instead of twenty-three going on ancient.

“You just came,” you pointed out.

“I’m twenty-three. I have superhuman metabolism. Give me ten minutes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

..

OH LA LA LAAAA- I’m so happy that I’m back writing. Here’s to better times and newer stories 💋.

[Edit Credits: m9stics on TikTok]

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ if someone asked the cannon: ‘cameron, is there anything better than boxing?’, he would have knocked them clean out and spit over their withering body. because how dare they? how dare they even assume there be an answer? the question had not once, in his entire six-year professional career, even occurred to him. boxing was the absolute core of his identity, down to the most microscopic parts of his being . . .

just ten minutes ago, his boxing mitts and robe were the largest gift. his world began and ended in the squared circle; twenty-three feet by twenty-three feet, sixteen ropes parallel, four fucking posts . . .

but he’s found a new love. a love that’s been in his life far longer than boxing. a love that’s always stared up at him with goggly eyes set behind massive lenses and chunky, dorky frames. a love he’ll curse himself for rejecting and swatting off, like one pesky mosquito. a love he never saw himself indulging; frequently assuring his closest brother — who was presently demoted to stupid-fucking-opponent — that he would never make any advancements, “wouldn’t touch that girl wit’a ten foot pole. trus’me.”

and almost ten years later, he is touching. touching all over. and licking and biting and kissing and grunting and moaning and trying his very best to calm it. he hasn’t had a hard-on this severe since the night he lost his virginity. those light-green eyes were watery, and very blood hot, but cameron ‘the cannon’ cade would have sworn on a stack of bibles that they were also the eyes of a sober man . . . of a man who only had his fiancée on his mind. he looks to his opponent’s sister and desperately wants to see his fiancée . . . but his brain won’t let him. she didn’t feel like this- and she damn sure didn’t smell like this either.

there’s a different sort of sweetness in the air. a homey, secure smell. a smell that when his eyes flutter shut from pleasure, his pussy-drunk brain presents a paradise his younger-self would hurl at. somehow, this smell completely overpowered the unpleasant stench of him . . . totally shocking, given the sweat hanging at his hairline, behind his steaming neck, along his tensed arms and hands (still wrapped in reddened bandages), between his straining fat thighs, and the dried blood below his nostrils and at his busted lips . . . the cannon feels stupefied.

another girly, futile whine spills and his weighty cock is twitching. it burns having to go soooo slow, but he doesn’t want to cause pain. not any more than what he was already inflicting on such a precious body. and he wasn’t even all the way in, just barely a full quarter. every-time cameron pulled back, stopping before his plump, glossy tip — deep pink in shade — could plop out . . . he’d push back to feed more of his delicious cock in— “‘s t-too m-mucch- “

shit- what a voice. “it’s not- stop sayin’ that shit.” but there wasn’t much else to do. cameron was holding both arms back, using one large hand as a makeshift-cuff. “wish i had a camera . . . let you hear how fuckin’ ungrateful you sound.” because yeah, most girls would kill to be in this position: pressed against a chilly locker with their flowery top bunched at the waist, polka-dot skirt hiked and few-of-a-kind undershorts torn through. “no more runnin’. jus’ let’me fuck you open- c’mon . . . trus’me.”

and if you weren’t so absolutely smitten by cameron cade . . . you would’ve stopped this right here. he was going against about five of your ‘non-negotiable’ boundaries during sexy-time. “you trust me, righ’?” with that free hand of his, he snakes around your waist and clamps his palm over your shivering abdomen, that dangling jewellery marking your brown skin. “i’ll make us feel good- i promise.”

“i promise,” he whispers against your neck, “i’ve got’chu.” and kisses and nibbles and licks. “know you’wanna make this dick nut- “ cameron dropped your hands and swooped around, collecting one soft boob. he squeezed and tweaked at your nipple, slowly wiggling his hefty hips, digging that huge cock a little further. there was a hole to be pierced and molded; to the shape of him. “no more cryin’ . . . le’me do ‘t all, yeaah . . .”

your face, all flush and livid pallor, blazed . . . glittery lips drawn back from your teeth in a mini pout . . . is enough to make the cannon explode. cameron bends in, hot breath fanning over your parted lips, “i’m gon’a nut insid’a you, ‘kay?” more of a declaration than a warning. a sure-thing. almost guaranteed. nothing would stop him from cumming in your tummy, not even you.

he’s in. “ooooh . . .” all the way. “shit.” you’re shuddering wrackingly, legs feeling rubbery and unreliable. “. . . doesn’t that feel soooo much better?” cameron pecks the salty patches of your cheek. “say it- tell me ‘t’s my dick makin’ this sloppy pussy feel good . . .” cameron pleads through aggressive munches.

after so long, yeah, it had been him. finally. your college-self wouldn’t believe this to be true. the boy you had a gigantic crush on throughout your child, pre-teen, and teen years? wanting to make you feel good? you? the girl cameron cade pinched and tripped and plucked and shoved and teased and mocked . . . currently being forced to take the entirety of his curvy cock.

thwack thwack thwack! seemingly, all those years of unnecessary mistreatment has . . . gone out the window. faded out into nothing. to darkness with each thwack thwack thwack. how could you still be upset when this was the outcome? frankly, you’d experience it all over again if it meant having cameron cade’s dick so far up your pussy — it was a miracle to be so incredibly lengthy and girthy and know just how to use it . . . shining pearls of wetness bubble over his happy trail and pubes.

shlap shlap shlap! “you-you’re being . . . so . . . rough!” huffing, puffing. and cameron doesn’t take that as a cry to stop. he doesn’t even ease up. again, your arm swings back to try and stop his mean ramming, but he just forces you away — changing his mind, cameron clutched a hand around your bicep, which made fucking you that much smoother.

“nuh-uh. stay here,” he chokes out, “you got it. you got it. you got it.” cameron’s voice significantly pitches and he’s so into it that he doesn’t even realize that you’re squirming . . . yet splashing and dribbling juices over your pretty, velvety ballet flats.

with the other hand, he lets go of your wobbly hip and grips the front of your neck, snatching you into his torso— “ahhn-gh~!” —so beefy. and so insanely sweaty.

plapplapplap! plap . . . plap . . . plap . . . cameron’s slowing down just so he could pant mumble in your ear, rude and annoyingly, “anyone fuckin’ this at home? hmm? who better? me or him? say th’ truth” he’s such a boy. you swallow thickly despite having an awfully dry throat, voice all raspy and strained for the very obvious reason: “nno,” you hiccuped.

cameron hums and leans his head in. like he didn’t hear you the first time. “no h-him.” and cameron feels butterflies. for a reason he can’t yet pinpoint. with a sly smile, “yea’?” well . . . this just got far more intimate. you’re nodding against him, cunt leaking a bunch more — even with sluggish, mindful plunges, he was still so deep. so so deep. sooooo deep. he didn’t have to try. he just was. that. big. and fat. for no reason at all. small amounts of slippery arousal that oozed from his tip painted your cervix.

“mggh~!” and his pace has quickened. the cannon could practically taste his oncoming load. cameron drawls, “ohhhh fucccccck,” listening to the way your gooey pussy peels away from his soaked thighs; a slich slich slich! clicky noise as he sinks back into your ribbed, silken walls. his eyes snap shut and both of his hot hands grab onto your shoulders.

with unbelievable power, cameron is banging you backbackback onto his cock. “fnh-hnnnh! cam- fucc-ah!!” and he continues to grunt out curses, knees starting to buckle. the way your pussy slurps him in, ass clapping at his pelvis, you’re short-circuiting: tearing and drooling and squirting a-fucking-gain. he keeps at it; taking you upupup to that orgasm cliff and harshly bringing you back down.

“‘m bouta busss~” cameron chortles, tugging and slamming you back and forth, just jackhammering without a single care in the world. filthy words leave his mouth, ones he could never imagine saying to you if he weren't so gone and not so damn pussy whipped. “mmm-righ’there. uurrgh!” his chest’s ballooning and you could feel how fast his heart’s beating from his palms, how careless he’s becoming from his strenuous efforts.

tongue lolled out like some stupid doll, you don’t think you’ve ever been fucked like this before. ever. and after this evening, would you ever get this back? this dick? probably not. a new bar’s been impossibly set. cameron’s ruined everything for the next man —

GASP. there’s an explosion: “hnnht!” and another sticky spurt: “hnht!” and another splash: “fuck!” syrupy ribbons of sweltry white seed trickles from your walls. to cameron, it feels like the winds been knocked right outta him. and you . . . you are suffocating. roasting from the inside out. he keeps his arms around you, worried he may collapse.

adonis is going to kill you. cameron first.

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ hello. it is currently 4:40am edt (the birds are chirping) and this took approximately 2days. i have genuinely been busy with my summer career class, job, & trying to make time for personal relationships. i do get creative writing ideas often, but i’ve been lacking the brain power to push forward. i have NAAWT dropped from the ‘tyriq withers’ wagon. i’m still at the party literally. + wondering what else i could share with this univerrssseeee!!!!!

it’s 4:52am & my period has started. perfect

The first date? Showed up late, got your name wrong twice, was only interested in speaking about himself and asked if you could cover the bill. Second date? He brought you flowers you were allergic to and accidentally kneed you in the nose when you bent down to grab a packet of tissues from your purse. The third date? Didn't bother to show up and tried to "start over" with you once he got a hold of you Instagram from a story Amirah tagged you in.

Safe to say, you probably should've said no to this date too.

"I promise, he is nothing like the last guy," Amirah said to you, both her palms flat on your marble kitchen island as she tried to convince you.

"Remember you said that about the last one? No." You continued cleaning the counters, trying to pay her no mind.

"Okay, I'll hold my hands up, I was wrong about that one. And the ones before that," she continued when she caught the pointed look you gave her.

"Mirah, I love you, but I do not want go on another one of you set ups. I'm perfectly content being single?"

"Is this the same person that cried during Rye Lane last week?"

"... I told you to forget about that."

"Mhm. Anyways, his name is Jalen and he's a basketball player───"

"Immediately no."

Amirah huffed at your interruption. "At least give a man a chance before you pull the stereotype card!"

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Part of you wanted to say yes just to get Amirah to leave you alone, whilst a smaller part of you wanted to say yes because of your curiosity.

"How do you know it won't be the same shitshow that the last three have been?"

"Because Jalen is a man," Amirah wiggled her eyebrows at you. "He ain't like none of these other brothers you mess with."

"'I mess with'─── Girl, you set me up with them!" you threw the tea towel that was previously over your shoulder at her as she caught it with one hand.

"Right, my bad forreal. Please, this is the last one, I promise. If you don't like him then I officially resign as your unofficial matchmaker."

Amirah held her hands together, now leaning on the island with her long goddess braids flowing around her.

You rolled your eyes with a groan. "One date. I swear, this is the last one."

Her screams were immediate as she tackled you in a hug, jumping up and down. "You won't regret this one, trust me."

"I hope so."

─── ༉‧₊˚✧ ───

The date with Jalen was more than you expected it to be. You knew how it was with most NBA players. Huge people with even huger egos that thought they were so entitled... at least that's how it's said to be. But from the moment you sat down across Jalen ─── yes, he was at the restaurant before you ─── you knew it was different.

It was something about the way he carried himself that brought truth to Amirah's words. "Jalen's a man." And he sure was.

He took the time to really get to know you, ask what you did or enjoyed doing, about any personal interests you had, your life growing up, all of it. And you did the same with him. The conversation didn't feel forced at all, in fact it flowed so well that the two of you lost track of time until your waitress had circled back to let you know it was closing time.

He walked you out, waited with you for your ride back home. You found yourself staring at him a little, his sharp features, how he looked so much older than his age, in a good way of course. And he was tall. You were on the taller side yourself but definitely not in the same category as Jalen.

He glanced down at you before you could look away, a sheepish smile forming on your lips. "You had a good time?"

You nodded. "Might be the best date I've been on." You weren't lying, no other date would compare to this one.

He smiled, a dimple appearing on the left side of his face. "That's good. At least I ain't gotta worry bout Mirah mauling me in my sleep."

You laughed, knowing that was exactly something that your best friend would threaten someone with.

"No, you're good. I had a great time, wouldn't mind doing it again."

If you weren't already looking at him, you would've missed the way his face ever so slightly lit up. "Yeah?"

You nodded, reaching into your purse for your phone, unlocking it before you handed it to him. Usually, you weren't the one to give out your number first, but this date with Jalen had you filled with many different feelings.

His much larger hand brushed against yours as he took your phone, saving his number and sending himself a text. Just as he handed it back to you, your ride had pulled up.

"See you soon?"

"Yeah," you smiled softly. "See you soon."

─── ༉‧₊˚✧ ───

'Soon' was about three days later. Jalen texted you about an art exhibition happening in Detroit, remembering a part of your conversation on the date where you mentioned wanting to go to more art galleries and such. Your stomach fluttered at his thoughtfulness, agreeing to meet him for another date.

The gallery had a stunning interior, somewhat of a mix between modern and traditional art. And the exhibition itself was captivating. Jalen thought so too, even if he spent more time looking at you than at the work on display.

He took you for dinner too, a quiet Greek restaurant a couple minutes away from the gallery. The tension between you two increased with each minute, never simmering down. With every accidental touch of his knee against yours, you found yourself giving in to something you weren't sure you should be reaching so early.

When he dropped you home that night, there was a brief pause between you two in his car, before you broke it with a smile, saying something along the lines of getting ready for the night before your shift the next day.

If Jalen had wanted to say something in that moment, he chose not to, saying goodnight and letting you leave.

"Bitch? You didn't kiss him?" Amirah groaned over the facetime call, visibly upset yet so interested in you and Jalen.

"Stop, I already can't get that moment out of my head." You didn't know if you wanted to kiss him yet or not, but now that the moment had passed, you knew you should've.

"It's okay, that just means when it does happen, it'll be all the while worth it."

You hoped she was right.

─── ༉‧₊˚✧ ───

Since the art gallery date, you hadn't seen much of Jalen. What with his season starting and your schedule at work, you couldn't seem to find any free time. Until he came up with a proposal.

"Come to my game next Friday." He said to you over facetime. You checked the date on your phone, Tuesday.

"What?" You wanted to make sure you heard that right. Going to his game after almost a month of knowing him felt a little like rushing things, but if he was comfortable with it then you could learn to be too.

"This Friday. We play Atlanta and I want you there," he explained casually as he seemingly threw a ball in his backyard for his dogs to fetch. "Unless you don't want to?"

"No, I do," you answered that surprisingly fast. "It's just... are you sure?"

He nodded. "I'll get you suite seats instead if that's better for you. You can bring Mirah's loud ass too."

You laughed, thankful that he thought about your probable discomfort with being shoved into any sort of spotlight at that stage.

"Okay, I'll be there." you lay on your side, your hand slightly hiding the huge smile on your face, but Jalen could see the way your cheeks raised.

"Good. And bring a bag too, you're spending the night with me. I've missed you."

You could've burst with the way his words tickled your stomach, unable to hide the smile that he now mirrored over the call. "I might've missed you too."

"Might? Okay Miss Double Texting Within The Same Hour."

"Shut up."

─── ༉‧₊˚✧ ───

The crowd at Little Caesar's Arena was alive like it always was. You sat with Amirah in the suite Jalen told you he'd get you both, overlooking the court from a decent view. At Pistons games, you usually sat wherever you could get tickets, but it was nice to be treated on this occasion.

You could see him warming up on the court, focused on nothing but the ball leaving his hands and the words of the coach beside him. You texted him before, wishing him good luck and that you'd see him later. Words couldn't describe the mix of excitement yet slight dread you felt about the upcoming events of the night.

"You're looking cute," Amirah gushed, poking your exposed arm as she took a candid of you. Smiling, you glanced at the outfit you spent hours putting together.

It was simple, yet a statement, something every Pistons fan could relate to. A blue and red gingham patterned short sleeved top, a pair of wide leg jeans that were definitely from Amirah's closet despite the amount of times you denied when she asked you, and a pair of shiny dark red Prada kitten heels on your feet.

"Thank you, gorgeous," you winked at her.

From then til half time, you both spent the majority of the time switching conversing about your lives and the game. Jalen was doing amazing so far, 16 points and 8 rebounds as Detroit led Atlanta 64-42 at the half.

"You're in for a good night," Amirah smirked, taking a sip from her drink.

Your cheeks warmed, images of Jalen flashing in your mind, seemingly trying to create a picture of whatever you could expect to follow the events of the night.

"Ain't you happy you didn't say no to my amazing matchmaking skills?"

"Top 10 lies ever," you rolled your eyes. "But you did do your big one with this one."

"Damn right," Amirah tapped her thumb and pointer fingers together.

The second half was over a lot quicker than the first half was, the Pistons winning 142-119, Jalen ending the night with a beautiful 27-14 double double. He texted you before the game started, letting you know to wait for him outside the players lounge.

Amirah walked with you there, deciding to wait with you for Jalen before leaving with her boyfriend who had come to get her. You spoke in hushed voices, smiling politely every time someone passed.

Soon enough, Jalen had come out of the media room and up the stairs to the players' lounge, dressed in his arrival clothes after a much needed shower. You didn't even hide the fact that you were looking him over, as he did the same with you whilst he walked towards you.

He wore a beige bomber jacket with matching coloured cargos and a white tee underneath, paired with his 'Black Cat' Jordan 4's. And it fit him perfectly.

"'Sup, Mirah?" he gave her a side hug as she greeted him back before turning to you, a small on his face.

When he leant in, it took you by surprise, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as your arms held around his waist for a brief moment. Jalen returned your hug, missing the way you slightly lifted one arm to mush Amirah's grinning face away from the two of you.

"Okay, I'ma leave y'all to it, my man's waiting for me downstairs." She blew the two of you a kiss when you pulled away, a chorus of bye's leaving you and Jalen's lips.

Smooth as ever, he took a hold of your hand, leading you to the player and staff car park. "You had a good time?" he echoed his words from the very first date you two shared.

"I did. You played well," you nudged him with your hip and he chuckled. "Were you showing off?"

"Course I had to, I had someone special watching me tonight," he looked at you at the same time you looked at him, the smile on your face refusing to leave.

The drive back to his was a calming one, Erykah Badu playing softly in the back as he talked to you about the game after you asked him a couple of questions.

Arriving at Jalen's house in Grosse Pointe, you admired the details of the home, so thought out and intricate even though all you saw so far was the exterior.

"I think my dogs are still awake," he mumbled as he pushed his keys in. "Gotta warn you, they can be a bit... hyper."

"That's okay," you laughed at the way he went about it, and almost immediately after he pushed the door handle down, you heard the sound of claws against the wooden floor. A black labrador appeared first, jumping on Jalen before turning to you, its nose twitching as he sniffed all around you.

"Let her get in first, damn." Jalen nudged him back a little bit, allowing you to walk into the large home. You couldn't even take it in properly, too engaged in greeting Jalen's excited lab, as well as the cane corso that had made its way to you both.

With your bags in his hand, Jalen led you to the main sitting room, the dogs hot on your tail with every step you took. "They don't even like me that much," he shook his head when he noticed both dogs laying on their sides as you rubbed their bellies.

After getting settled in, Jalen gave you a quick version of a house tour before he let you get changed into more comfortable clothes. You opted to get straight into your pyjamas, not seeing yourself being bothered to get changed yet again when it was time to go to bed.

There you sat with him, grey boyfriend pyjama set on as Everybody Hates Chris played on the TV in front of you both. Jalen sat close to you, to the point where your arm would be right up against his, had it not been for his arm being over the back of the sofa.

He'd gotten changed too, into grey sweatpants and a white tank top, the top of his chest tattoo peaking out on either side of his shoulders.

You weren't even watching the show at this point, your eyes fully and without shame on the man beside you. He caught your gaze after a while, the faintest smirk on his lips.

"You okay?"

You hummed, not a yes but also not a no. Your eyes flickered between his own and his lips, wondering just how much longer you could hold on for. He saw you deep in thought, but didn't press after it.

"Are you sure? Show's over there."

"I think we both know I'm not paying any attention to that."

"Really? Cause Chris 'bout to get blitzed in a minute, that's always fun."

"Jalen."

His laugh stopped then, his eyes back on you, really on you. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth to say something, only nothing came out because you didn't know how exactly to tell him what you wanted without it coming off weird.

Like he could sense what you wanted to say, Jalen approached you in a different manner, trying to coax it out of you. He brought the arm that was resting on the back of the sofa closer to you, your body leaning against his side.

"Whatchu want? I'm right here," he spoke lowly and your thighs pressed together, a movement that he sure as hell didn't miss.

"You." It came out as nothing more than a whisper, but he heard it. And you knew he did because of the little glimmer in his eyes, the way his face lit up.

"Yeah?" he repeated.

You nodded. "Where about you want me?"

He wasn't going to give in unless you told him exactly what it was you wanted. Or unless you showed him. And that's what you did.

Ever so slightly you lifted yourself up until your lips met his. Holding his face in your hands, you kissed him, a shameless moan leaving you after weeks of dreaming this exact moment. Jalen's hand rested on your back as he kissed you back after the initial surprise of you making the first move.

He sat forward, lips still on yours as he pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapped around your waist. When his tongue slipped into your mouth, you arched forward into his toned chest, one hand falling from his face as you struggled to keep up with him, eventually letting him lead the kiss. After that? You got greedy, you wanted more than just a taste.

Jalen's hands wandered over your body, palming your ass as he kissed you, his lashes fluttering against your nose as you moaned into his mouth.

You pulled away first, eyes still closed as Jalen left wet kisses down your jaw and neck. When he brought his face back up level to yours, he couldn't help but smile. Your pupils were wide, chest heaving a little against his, silently begging for more.

"You been holdin' out on me," his voice was low as he spoke.

"Well," you smiled. "We got there in the end."