so the lion fell in love with the lamb…

“Thank you.. oh f-fuck thank you,” Peter whines, his pitiful voice barely coherent as he watches you take him in his mouth, head bobbing rhythmically as he lays before you on his plushy bed.

Peter’s hands seek your head, wanting to pull it closer to him, but he ultimately plants them on the bed, grasping at the sheets as if they’re some sort of lifeline. His knuckles turn white, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He can’t focus, how can he?

It’s not like this is the first time, or that he’s too nervous to make such a move… he’s thankful for anything you give him, and doesn’t want to take it for granted.

“Yes, oh god, thank you s-so m-much..”

Every time you suck him off, Peter can’t believe how fucking good it feels. He wonders how you’re so good, then quickly pushes the thought aside. He doesn’t want to think about the how or why.

Peter’s moans are fucking pitiful. Such a whiny boy with shaky thighs and rosy cheeks, the heat of it all rushing to tint his skin. You can taste the pre leaking from him, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The smirk that spreads across your lips as you lick the tip and hold eye contact with him makes Peter huff. His cheeks darken even more, his body heating rapidly at the sight of you as you take him fully again.

“Oh, please… I’m, fuck,” Peter’s pathetic attempt to warn you dies out, his hands gripping the sheets even harder, seemingly seconds away from ripping them. Another reason why he’s careful with touching you. Sometimes, he just can’t help himself. Pathetic.

When you slow down your pace just to tease him, you hear his squeaky whine, the breath being knocked from his lungs. Just as you expected. Peter gets so fucking needy, and you relish in it. It doesn’t take him very long to get close, ever, and a part of you can’t stand it because you want this too. You want to make it last just to see and hear how pitiful he gets.

“No- shit, please,” Peter whimpers, emphasizing his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you. You oblige, gradually fastening your pace, the filthy, sloppy sounds echoing between you. He can’t help it. His hand flies to your hair, fingers lacing through the soft strands before he tugs. “I-I’m-“

Unable to properly speak, his jaw slacks and his eyelids squeeze shut. Thighs trembling, he chokes out a cry, feeling his cock pulse with each string of cum that stuffs down your throat. Then, it’s over. Just like last time.

Peter shoots up into a sitting position, gulping thickly with a huff as reality sets in. His duvet covers are thick, splayed across his lower half, which is feeling exceptionally more warm than usual. The room is dark, cold, and very much empty. He feels it instantly, the way his briefs cling to his skin, wet and warm.

“Fuck… not again,” he whimpers, peeling his briefs down just enough to expose the globs of thick cum sticking to his skin. Now this wasn’t the first time. It’s almost nightly at this point. He glances over at his door, as if you would somehow know what happened or be there. You never were. He then turns his head toward the alarm clock on his nightstand, 3:14am. “Hey evie?”

Peter’s desktop illuminates with light as numerous monitors flash on, the system starting up.

“Yes, Peter?” evie’s artificial voice responds.

“We need to make a different kinda inhibitor,” he groans, pushing the covers off his legs before getting up, making his way toward the bathroom.

Peter didn’t go back to sleep. He spent hours trying to formulate an inhibitor that would target his arachnid DNA and block hormone levels… particularly his testosterone. With a cheap Newport cigarette lit between his lips, his fingertips pattered across his keyboard, his eyes laser-focused on the screen.

With a soft chime, his phone illuminated on the desk just beside the keyboard. He quickly glanced over, scanning the words across the screen before looking at the map beneath the text, the pinned location insinuating that you’ve arrived to work.

Peter knows it’s wrong. Having secret hidden cameras around the city is one thing, but using them to watch someone that’s not a threat is another.

He tried, really fucking tried, to let it go. To stop. But he can’t.

That’s just another reason why he needs to make an inhibitor that actually fucking works.

Ever since you moved into the apartment across the hall four months ago, he hasn't been able to get you out off his mind no matter how hard he's tried. He’d often think about the first time you met, running into each other in the hall as you rush to work and he heads to get flowers for May.

All of the innocent conversations in passing, the friendly smiles and waves… He tried so fucking hard. You’re just so pretty. So sweet. God, you smell so sweet.

He can smell you from your apartment across the hall, the scent similar to fresh-picked strawberries. He fucking loves strawberries.

That wasn’t what started it, though. After the incident two months ago, with you stuck in the middle of a bank robbery, it was as if a flip had switched and caused a surgical spell. You were sweet and innocent, just trying to deposit a measly check, and next thing you knew, you had a gun pointed at you. Since then, he feels like he has an obligation to protect you — to keep you safe. Knowing you only strengthened that feeling, but your voice… your face… the way you smell. It all adds to it.

He wants to get closer to you, so fucking badly, but he just can’t with how hectic his life is. He tells himself it’s safer for you to stay acquaintances, no matter how much it bothers him.

Ever since that incident, ever since he saw your terrified expression through the lens of his mask, he had your face in his records. He specifically had evie program a separate alert system with facial recognition just for you. So when he gets a legitimate alert, he knows if you’re nearby. That's what he tries to tell himself, anyway.

If only you knew that spider-man had a special system just to keep you safe.

But that's why he needs this to work. It has to. He knows his behavior is wrong. It's weird. Fucking creepy, even...

“Smoke detected,” evie’s voice alerts, prompting a banner message across the monitor screen. Peter’s eyes roll, mentally damning Tony for implementing smoke detection into her programming.

“Just a cigarette, evie. Same as last time, and the time before that,” Peter murmured, his voice muffled from the cigarette trapped between his soft lips.

“Cigarettes can impact your vitals,” evie’s voice responds, to which Peter sighs, pulling the cigarette from his lips and smashing the end into the ashtray beside his phone, the bright amber ash crushing into a pasty grey. He wasn’t a casual smoker. It was usually during late nights or early mornings like this, where he just needed something to ground him. He hated to admit that it calmed him, or at least thought it did. Maybe it was all in his head, but either way, he knew it wasn’t good for him.

While he waits for the inhibitor to finish, Peter thinks of a few ideas on how he could test it. Truly, there’s only one way to really test it. He has to talk to you, really talk to you, without making things awkward. He needs an excuse to see you that wouldn’t lead to a “hi” and “bye” situation. He hates how his heart races every time you smile at him or even pass by him. You have his mind completely scrambled with your fingers wedged in the folds of his brain.

He’s pacing now, crossing back and forth in front of his desk with his eyes planted on the hardwood floor. His hands moved around as he spoke, a somewhat comforting expression he did during deep thought.

“Maybe… I can wait and we bump into each other in the hall? No, that’s stupid. I could just… knock? What would I say?” Peter groans at himself, covering his cheeks with his hands and slowly pulling them toward his temples. “Or I could…”

Peter’s feet come to a halt, his eyes slowly moving to his apartment door, then to his monitor. The pin on the electronic map shows you’re still out in town.

Oh, he has an idea alright.

Not a sane one, at that.

He really needs that fucking inhibitor.

Within minutes, he has his suit on and is swinging around the outside of the apartment building, his webs allowing a clean swing around the brick structure before he lands on your fire escape just outside your bedroom window.

No, this is insane.

With his eyes squinted behind his mask, he looks through your window, immediately spotting it. A beautiful silver chain necklace with a diamond pendant, carefully laid on your nightstand. The same one he sees caressing the skin of your neck every time he sees you. He recalls the way it lies against your chest, the chain slightly pooling against your collarbones. Why’d you leave it today?

No, I shouldn’t do this, he thinks, shaking his head at the reckless idea. But he couldn’t muster any real flaws in the plan. He gets your necklace, then returns it to you as himself. Not as Spider-Man. That’s innocent, right? No, it’s not.

It’s not like he’s stealing it— well, he is. But… he’s giving it back to you. It’s not a total robbery; it’s harmless.

His gloved hands latch onto your window, pushing it up with ease despite the lack of a handle. It’s as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs, replaced by the intoxicating scent of you.

Fuck it, he thought, slipping through the open window with ease and landing on his feet with precision. His heart was thumping, but not out of nervousness. Excitement.

Glancing around your bedroom, he takes in the sight of your decor, mentally picturing and framing it inside his head against his will. He’d remember regardless.

He slowly stalks toward the nightstand, the finger pads of his gloves gently catching on the chain just before he tightens his fingers around it, holding it up at eye level. Yes, it’s the exact same one you wear all the time. Not particularly expensive looking, as far as he could tell. Not that it mattered much.

Peter felt another thump in his chest, you’ll notice it’s gone. That should’ve been enough for him to put it down. But he’s giving it back to you. Shit, what is he gonna say? That he found it in the lobby? That’s ridiculous.

Peter groans, clenching the thin chain in his fist, pressing it against his mask-covered forehead.

“This is fucking stupid,” he whispers, cursing his own thoughts. No, it’s going to work. It has to. He wants you to understand that you can trust him. He’s more than just your neighbor. He’s your secret protector, but he wouldn’t directly call himself that. He has good intentions, but that doesn’t make his actions any less wrong. He knows it too: “…and creepy.”

The skin on the nape of his neck prickles. He should put it back. This is wrong. This isn’t who he is.

Peter’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted as his head snaps up, his senses spiking. As soon as he hears the familiar jingle of your keys, his throat tightens.

Fuck.

He quickly tucks your necklace into his suit, where his phone would usually sit. Of course he forgot to grab it. Too fucking concerned about getting into your apartment, he was completely unprepared. No wonder he had no idea you were on your way back.

Peter slowly stalked back toward your window, his footsteps completely silent. As soon as his hand grasps the frame of your window, he hears a startled gasp that was awfully similar to a yelp. He whips around, seeing you in the doorway of your bedroom, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Peter’s lenses widened on his mask, emphasizing his own surprise.

For several seconds, the two of you just stared at each other.

“Oh my god.”

Think. Quick!

“Hi,” Peter greets you with a slight change in his voice, lifting a hand and giving you a small wave. He's pathetic, really.

“Spiderman?” you breathe, unsure whether you should take a step forward or a step back. The spider-man is standing in your room. You’ve seen him in person once before, your mind flashing to the incident at the bank. The way he focused on you, but never spoke to you. How could you forget?

Your expression shifts, your wide eyes narrowing slightly, eyebrows leveling and furrowing closer. Why the hell is Spider-Man in here?

“What… are you doing here?”

“Oh- aha. Just a, uh, mixup. Wrong apartment… building. Entirely. I’m a little scrambled. Hit my head on the fire escape,” Peter rambles, mustering lies while using his hands to emphasize his words since he lacked showing expression from behind the mask. His pulse is racing; he's sure you can see the way his suit shifts against his chest.

Your eyes are intensely boring into him as you take in the explanation. Strange, but believable.

“Well... are you okay?” you take a step forward, the space between you shrinking, dangerously close. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Peter feels like he’s about to fucking explode. Is he okay? No, not at all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to see him.

“I.. yeah! I’m fine, I’ll just go—“ he stammers, turning back toward your window.

“Wait-“ you stop him, slightly lifting your hand in his direction to halt him before crossing your arms over your chest. You couldn’t help but wonder. “This might be a stupid question, especially since I'm sure hundreds of people a day, but… do you remember me?”

Peter’s eyes widen again, his mask mirroring his expression. He turns back in your direction, his eyes scanning your face. Of course he does. He knows you way more than you think. It’s not a stupid question, but kind of ridiculous considering what Peter knows about you.

Though, you’re referring to him infiltrating the bank robbery, saving you amongst other innocent civilians. A pang strikes in his chest as he remembers how terrified you were, but it quickly dissipates just being in your presence.

“Uh, well,” he ponders, quickly trying to muster a response that doesn’t sound creepy while also wanting to validate your curiosity. He mirrors you and crosses his arms over his chest, trying his best to shove his panic to the side. “Now that I think about it… yeah, I do.”

“Really?” your eyes light up, and you take a step closer, your arms falling to your sides now that you feel less strange for asking. “I just- I never got to thank you.”

“Oh, no need. You don’t have to-“

“I know,” you shrug, your lips spreading into a slight smile as you step even closer, your eyes shifting from his face to his chest, then his biceps— fuck, he’s built. “but, thank you. Really. I feel a lot safer here, living here alone and all.”

Truth is, you don’t have any family here in New York. Peter didn’t know that, though. You weren’t sure what compelled you to tell him, either. Regardless, he's Spider-Man — not a threat.

Peter’s breath hitches in his throat. This is exactly what he’s been craving; your undivided attention. He made an impact, and you made it a point to mention it. He quickly shakes it off, taking in your words.

You’re not alone here. You’re so blissfully unaware that he is the same man living across the hall from you. He tries not to think about the way he feels himself twitching against his briefs within the suit the closer you step toward him. He physically can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter how tender the conversation is. He can practically feel the warmth radiating from your body despite being just a few feet away.

He needs to leave. Now.

If he doesn’t, if he allows himself to sink into your spell any further, he’s afraid he won’t be able to help himself. He can’t avoid the filthy visuals raiding his mind, disarming him of critical consideration. Your fingers had somehow sunk even deeper in the crevices of his brain. Leave.

“O-of course! Yeah, no worries at all,” he waves you off, his voice matching his relaxed, confident persona. He climbs through the window, stepping onto the fire escape with ease. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

“Whoa, hey! You can’t just break into someone’s apartment and then leave like it's normal,” you softly scoff, arms raised at your sides to express your disagreement.

“Technically, I didn’t break anything. Just came through the window, which was unlocked,” he quips with a matter-of-fact tone, the space enabling him to finally breathe and collect his thoughts.

“How is that any better?”

Well, it’s not.

Avoid the question.

With his hands still planted firmly on the windowsill, he tilts his head at you, “Lock your window.”

Mirroring him, you tilt your head as well, raising a brow at the order, “Why, so no one else can stumble in here after getting concussed?”

“Because there are people out there who aren’t as nice as me. Now lock it, and keep it that way unless you’re home, yeah?”

It’s somewhat of a cocky response, but it’s true. He lets you sit with that for a moment, the two of you just sharing a few seconds of silence before he shoots a web to the top of the building, making a quick getaway.

You stand there astonished, still trying to comprehend the fact that you came home to find Spider-Man in your room. You wish he stayed at least a little bit longer. There was something about him that felt comforting and familiar, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. You have to admit, you feel a sense of pride at the fact that he remembers you.

If only you knew.

Two nights later, Peter is pacing around his apartment, per usual. The clock on his monitor strikes 9:34pm; he's been contemplating for hours. The more he thought about how he'd return the necklace to you, the more he realized how risky it is.

There was no way he could return it as himself, as Peter, and manage to pull off a lousy lie about how he found it.

All he can think about is how you'd figure it out. He can't risk you putting the pieces together. Fuck, why didn't he think of this beforehand?

Truth is, his behavior has been beyond risky and ridiculous. You quite literally drive him insane to the point where rational decisions are nonexistent. For a split second, he even considers moving away, saving himself the absolute torture of living beside you and not being able to do anything about it.

Deep down, he knows he would never do such a thing... but he can't involve himself personally with you, he just... can't.

He has to return your necklace, but not as Peter. He understands that, but what is he going to say?

Doesn't matter. He can say a lot more with a mask on, knowing you won't figure him out. In fact, he could just tell you he took it and face zero consequences, but what's the fun in that?

As he waits for the inhibitor that’s just nearly finished, Peter lies down on his bed, staring up at the cracked brick ceiling. Maybe a tranquilizer is what he needs. He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until evie’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

Finally.

The washer in Peter’s apartment tumbled, numerous articles of clothing swishing and sloshing, covered in suds. His suit was laid flat on top, shaking along with the rumbling of the machine.

“Alright,” Peter sighs to himself, reaching around to settle the inhibitor on the back of his neck. He feels it latch on, letting out a small grunt as his eyes scan the monitor in front of him.

“Arachnid levels decreasing,” evie states as the orange-tinted bar lowers in real time.

“And my hormones?” Peter inquires, raising a brow.

“Decreasing,” evie’s responds, pulling up a second page on the screen to show various hormone levels. Peter lets out a breath of relief, nodding to himself.

“Perfect," he whispered, snatching his suit off the top of the washer.

In your bedroom, you're comfortably sprawled out, sketchbook in hand as you continue marking the thin sheet of paper with a charcoal pencil. A loud knock startles you, causing you to jump and inevitably scratch the pencil across the paper, ruining your work.

Your head whips in the direction of the sound; your window. On the other side of the glass stands Spider-Man, his arms crossed comfortably on the outside of your windowsill as he waits for your response. His suit is glistening, the loud pattering of rain bellowing in his ears.

You quickly close the sketchbook, tossing it aside before standing from the bed.

Peter would usually feel his heart racing the moment you look at him, but he feels calm. Much better. Even though you look so fucking good in your pj shorts.

Hands finding the latch, you unlock the window and push it up, opening it swiftly. The sound of the rain pattering loudly against the fire escape and nearby streets is much clearer now. Before you can even ask why he's here, his voice shuts you down,

“Good girl,” he drawls out in a high teasing tone, voice still quippy and unrecognizable. You blink, your lips parting slightly, but no words come out. What an introduction.

That's the first thing he says? Not that you can complain. You'd be lying if you denied the way it made your stomach twist deliciously.

“W-What?”

“You locked the window.”

You let out a breath, unable to contain your smile and the slight tint in your cheeks. Face flushing, you turn away from the window to make your way back toward your bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“You scared the shit out of me. I can’t keep seeing you like this, you know,” you say, which catches him completely off guard. You can't see it, but a sense of hurt mixed with panic flicks in his eyes before he can control it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean with you, at my window, uninvited,” you explain. Peter’s mouth opens slightly, words dying in his throat. Before he has a chance to panic further, your next words take him by surprise. “Come in.”

“What?”

“I said come in. You can’t be uninvited when I’m telling you I want you here,” you add softly. You took the chance, throwing the ball into his court for him to catch.

Was it bold? Yes. Did he find it hot? Also yes.

Feeling an instant wave of relief, you hear a cute, "Oh," before he chuckles, slipping through your window, his feet landing effortlessly on your bedroom floor as he stands upright. He takes in the environment, your ambient lighting causing the droplets of water on his suit to reflect even brighter.

"Care to tell me why you've blessed me with your presence again? Everything okay?" you ask jokingly, yet still surprised by his sudden return. It's been two days, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought about him since then. That’s what he hoped, at least.

"I was just coming to check on you," he lies, standing still so as not to get any of your belongings wet. Besides your floor, of course.

“Why?”

“Because someone broke into your apartment.”

Another lie.

“That was you."

“I meant the building.”

“Still applies.”

“I’m aware,” he quips, the eyes of his mask squinting playfully at you as he tilts his head slightly. You snicker. This back-and-forth game gives him a rush he hasn’t felt in a while. He feels much more confident this time, much more willing to play such a game.

That fucking smirk, he thinks.

“Well, as you can see,” you start, holding your arms up at your sides. “I’m fine.”

Peter tsks, sucking his teeth slightly as he steps toward you, almost as if he's sizing you up. "Well, that's not the only reason I'm here."

You watch as he lifts his hand, loosening the grip of his fingers to release the chain in his fist, dangling it in front of you. Your necklace.

"Oh my god," you softly gasp, reaching for the silver chain and grasping it from his hold. "How did you... Wait, did you take this?"

Now he's panicking.

"W-what? No, no. I found it," he lies again, his tone strong but his legs are feeling a bit weak. Shit.

"...In my room?"

"No," he laughs, trying to muster an explanation before you can dig any deeper. His heart is thundering so fast, he can feel it in his veins, causing him to twitch slightly. "Why would I steal from you?"

Good thing you're gullible enough to believe Spider-Man wouldn't steal from you. Because that's not who he is, right?

"Where was it?"

He rehearsed this, but the way you're looking at him makes it impossible to mutter out a lie. On the ground outside of Delmar’s? No. Fuck it.

"Don't worry about it."

"But how did you know-"

"I've seen you wear it," he admits, unable to control the smile spreading across his lips beneath the mask.

You don't think much of it. He must’ve recognized it from the bank. Opening the clasp, you reach behind you to latch it around the back of your neck, the necklace now resting against your collarbones, the pendant nearly reaching your cleavage. You twist slightly to face away from him, “Can you help me, please?”

He doesn’t answer, immediately grasping the ends from your delicate fingers. His gloved fingers graze the nape of your neck, and he notices the instant goosebumps that litter your skin. He struggles at first, the chain being so small and not having much to work with, but he manages, “anddd... got it.”

You turn back and smile up at him, at his figure standing directly in front of you, head peering down at you.

You felt incredibly inferior, watching him stare with his head tilted in such a way, like you were some sort of prey. If only you could see what's underneath the mask.

"Thanks. I owe you one, again,” you smile, eyes fluttering up at him. His stomach is doing somersaults.

"We talked about this. You don’t owe me anything," he quickly responds, referring to your last conversation. All in all, he’s grateful to return it without consequences. He appreciated the gratitude, but he didn’t expect a damn thing from you. Just the ability to see you.

Pausing, unable to form a proper response, you gaze up at him. Never, ever would you have thought you would be in this position before. Especially with him being so intimately close to you.

You stand, instantly feeling the heat radiating from him. He’s so close. Less than a foot away, chests just barely touching. His posture is steady as he awaits your next move, shocking even himself. If it weren't for his inhibitor, his mind would be going absolutely nuts.

"I know," you finally murmur a response, your eyes searching for his, but all you can see is white mesh. You lift your hand, instinctively trying to reach for him, but you stop yourself. He doesn't move.

You do it anyway. Your hand finds rest at his jaw, your thumb softly rubbing over the ridges of the mask. What is it about him that gets you so?

Is it that he saved you? No...

Maybe the fact that he remembered you and made it a point to make you safe.

It's not like you could stay casual after hearing him praise you like that.

"You... you should probably stop," he warns softly, but doesn't pull away from you. He knows you can feel his chest thundering just a mere inch from you. Despite that, the inhibitor was working, because if it wasn't... you'd definitely not be standing any longer.

"Do you want me to?"

He doesn't answer immediately, his eyes intently focusing on yours through his mask. Is that even a question? It's not like he could just tell you that this is practically torture for him.

"No."

That's just enough for you to raise your other hand, fully grasping his jaw on both sides to get a good look at his mask. Curiosity gets the best of you, your thumb reaching down and gently tugging at the edge of his mask beneath his neck. You just want to feel his skin, feel how warm he is. Feel how real he is.

In a flash, his hand wraps around your wrist, stopping your hand in place.

"Hey, hey. I didn't say you could do that," his tone is playful but his thoughts are a complete contrast, his grip tight on your wrist, but not too tight. Just enough to convey the message. God, he wanted to let you, though. So fucking bad.

It’s too risky. No matter how badly he wants to.

Even if he only shows his lips, he’s sure you’d recognize them after so many small talks. After so many exchanged smiles.

"Then how am I supposed to..." you trail off, the word kiss dying in your throat as your eyes trail down to where his lips would be beneath the mask, then down to where his hand is wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but soft. He understands immediately.

"You don't."

It killed him to say it.

"I can't kiss you?"

"No."

Your lips curl into a small frown. You understand and respect his boundaries, but you can't deny how much you've thought about this. Rehearsed this. Ever since you caught him in your room, you couldn't help the thoughts that pooled in the moment he left. The fact he'd saved you once before only strengthened that.

What if he just took you, right then and there? God, that's fucked up. You knew that, but... the way you'd feel your core twist and get damp, fuck.

I mean, who doesn't want to fuck him? He's a hero. He's sweet. He's incredibly muscular, and his suit only accentuates that. You could go on and on.

It's not crazy to think about. You're not the only one that thinks this either, confirmed by the many reddit forum threads you dove down after he left. But, you are the only one to have this kind of luxury. The luxury of him being in your room, so close to you, touching you

"You're right, I'm-" you cut yourself off, taking a step back as you rethink your actions. What the hell are you doing? You don't even know him. You're being ridiculous - pathetic, even. You shake your head at yourself, shyly plastering your hand over your face. "I'm so sorry-”

"No, no, don’t be,” he whispers, releasing your wrist from his grasp, shaking his head. If this is his chance, he’d be a goddamn fool to pass it up.

“I can’t kiss you, but..” he continues, his hands moving to find your waist, gently gripping your soft skin through your soft, silky shirt. "I can touch you.”

No, he shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve left right after giving you the necklace. This wasn’t part of the plan at all.

Tilting your head back up, you peer at him through the gaps of your fingers, your cheeks tinted rosy pink.

“Wha.. what?”

It's a bold move, he knows that. At least it's something he can actually give you.

Slowly, he backs you up, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, inevitably making you fall back down into a sitting position. He leans down, hands planting on your plushy covers on either side of your thighs. You’re trapped.

“You heard what I said. I can touch you— I want to touch you,” he repeats, his teasing grin beneath the mask widening as he watches your eyes melt. Despite his rather audacious idea, Peter truly didn’t have a dominant bone within him. Not when it came to sex, anyway.

He would try for you, though. If that’s what you wanted.

The heat radiating from your skin through your shirt was a clear sign of just how much he was affecting you. You don’t know he can tell, but he does. He can sense it. He can smell it.

Despite how much he’s wanted this, how much he’s been dreaming of this, he couldn’t shake the thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t right. This feels too fast. No real connection. No romance.

But if you want this just as much as he does, he’s not fucking leaving.

“I…” you start, your words absolutely failing you. You feel so small below him, so vulnerable. An idea sparks, and there’s a particular glint in your eye. Fine, you can play that game. “If I can’t see you, then you can’t touch me until I say so.”

Oh.

Peter wasn’t expecting that. Not by a long shot.

“Oh really?” he murmurs, his purr causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together. You’re fucking leaking. Maybe he can… just only when you tell him to. You’re calling the shots. His padded fingers move to gently caress your jaw, softly grasping your chin. “You sure about that?”

Who is he kidding? Peter knows he would be a fucking mess if you told him when he could and couldn’t feel you or take control of himself. He loves seeing you flustered, though. It’s a sight he will never forget.

You grab his hand, pulling it away from your chin before pushing him over to land beside you. He lets you, allowing himself to plop down on the bed, his legs still hanging off the edge. He stabilizes himself, sitting up to grab your waist as you straddle him.

Just before his hands can make contact with you, you quickly grab his wrists, shaking your head at him with a grin, “Nu-uh.”

“That’s not very fair.”

“You heard what I said.”

Peter let’s put a short, weak huff of protest at you using his own words against him. You’re fully aware that he’s much stronger than you could ever be, and yet he was letting you control him. You release his wrists, pressing a hand against his chest, pushing him down until his back is against the bed.

Softly grinding your hips on his way down, you could feel him twitching and hardening against your clothed cunt, his suit failing him tremendously.

“Shit, you’re that easy?” you tease, moving your hips back and forth, the friction only worsening the wet spot forming on your panties, seeping to your shorts. He could feel it.

“F-fuck, so are you,” he whimpers in defense, unable to control how pathetic he is from the change in dynamic, his gloved fingers grasping at the blanket to avoid touching you without permission. “You’re so wet.”

“You can feel that?” you smile, leaning forward to cup his jaw, running your thumb over his mask-covered lips. You lift yourself up, and he whines at the loss of contact. A playful smirk tugs at your lips, “Aw, don’t be like that.”

Your hand moves from his face and down his chest until you feel his abs, feeling them twitch beneath your touch. You need to see him.

“Take it off,” you demand softly, removing yourself from his lap and moving to lay properly on the bed, watching as he struggles to regain himself to stand. Once he does, you watch him discard the suit, taking note of the way the cloth tightly hugs his muscles until it’s gone. Your eyes light up as soon as his abs are exposed, you almost want to throw the whole game out the window and have him take you. But you had to admit, watching him struggle and fall apart was even better.

Your eyes trail down to his briefs, the large tent exposing just how much he needs you. Of course, he kept the mask on. He stands there, unsure of what to do, suit discarded to the floor.

You twist your wrist, motioning for him to come closer with your finger, curling it toward you. His drops his bare hands to the bed, carefully crawling onto your covers until he’s hovering over you.

“Now take mine off.”

Holy fuck.

Swallowing thickly, Peter’s hands shift to the hem of your shirt, wanting to slip them underneath and touch your warm, bare skin. He contains himself just enough. He gently pulls your shirt up, his heartbeat picking up once again. He pushes it above your waist, exposing your bra that's so pretty and lacy. Almost as if you'd planned this already.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers to himself, the barrier of the mask making it difficult for you to hear. You don't bother having him repeat himself, lifting your back slightly to allow him to pull your shirt over your head.

He reaches to grab your clothed breast, eyes wide and hungry, but he stops himself. Still lifted, you unclasp your bra and before you can even move another inch, he's tugging it off you, the straps easing off your shoulders.

"Shit," he nearly moans, the sight enough to have him leaking. He's already throbbing, it's almost painful. He wants to touch them, to squeeze your plushy skin, but you haven't told him to yet. "You're so pretty. You know how fucking pretty you are?"

"I've been told," you smile irresistibly, your shoulders lifting slightly in a shrug. You've been told? By who?

Stop it, he thinks to himself, to his own thoughts. He has you right here, underneath him.

His hands shift downward, eager and cold, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. He doesn’t waste any time. As he tugs your shorts down your thighs, you hear a pitiful, muffled whimper. You look down to see his thumb just barely grazing the wet spot on your panties.

God, you smell so sweet.

“Please,” he whimpers again, his fingers hovering over the side of the thin cotton, wanting to pull them aside. You smile, your hand lowering and wrapping around his to guide his hand, having him push them over, exposing your slick folds.

"Go on," you nod, slightly condescending and full of pity as you hand-over-hand guide him further, allowing his finger to graze before pushing closer, his finger slipping between your wet slit and making a filthy squelch. 

“Pretty,” he huffs. He’s fucking vibrating. Every bone in his body, his mind, everything is telling him to just take you. He’s being good, though. You have to give him that credit. 

He pushes his finger inside you, a puff of air being knocked out of his lungs as he feels your walls hug around it. You’re tight. He curls it inside you, earning a tiny moan from you as you buck your hips up ever so slightly. All restraint is lost. 

“Oh, god,” you whimper softly, melting beneath him. You sound so pretty. He can’t take it. He can’t keep holding back. He needs you to break and give in fully. 

Peter’s free hand moves to your lower stomach, pressing down to hold you in place as his finger works inside you, pumping slowly yet deliciously loud. 

“S-shit, so wet. So fucking wet,” he murmurs to himself, easing in a second finger. It almost feels like he’s done this before, or it’s just from the spike in confidence after hearing the pretty noises you make. 

Softly biting your lower lip, you try to grasp his hand, wanting to stop him just to tease him but he surprises you. Quickly, moves his free hand to grab yours before holding it down against your stomach, on the same spot that his was previously. “J-Just.. wait. Please, let me.”

Of course, you give in. Peter experiments, pumping his fingers as deep as he can, the veins in his hands prominent. He watches, completely mesmerized, at the way your pussy sucks in his fingers, accepting them, your juices leaking around them. The filthy sound your pussy’s making combined with that warm squeeze — he can’t wait any longer.

If you smell this good, he can only imagine how you taste. He needs to know. He pulls his hand back, looking up at you.

“Please… Cover your eyes,” he demands in a gentle tone, waiting until you cover them with your forearm, your back resting comfortably against your plushy sheets. He pulls the mask up just enough to expose his lips, raw and plump from him biting them, trying to keep himself from sounding utterly fucking pathetic. 

He doesn’t even bother properly removing your panties first, he just keeps them held to the side as he dives down. You gasp, feeling his tongue dip between your folds, collecting your wetness on his tongue before swiping it up to your clit. You taste just as sweet as he thought you would; even more so. 

He groans against you, the vibrations shooting straight into your core. His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, pulling a loud, unapologetic moan from your throat. The pretty sound causes his cock to twitch against his briefs, his hips starting to slowly rutt into the mattress. He’s ravenous. 

“Fuck, you taste so sweet... so good.. s'good,” he slurs incoherently, his tongue working almost expertly, swirling around your sensitive bud with such focus, softly sucking then lapping at it. Over and over. 

You feel his fingers push inside you again, your mouth falling open with a pitiful cry. His mouth works meticulously with his fingers, feeling your orgasm creeping closer, the spindle in your core tightening with each passing second. 

“My fucking g-god, you’re… you’re doing so good,” you breathe between your words, your chest rising and falling rapidly as he laps at your messy cunt like a little puppy. He whimpers against you, his fingers curling each time he sucks around your bud. The friction he's created, rutting his cock against the mattress, he's already fucking close.

So are you. It shocks you, really. You’ve never had someone get you so close so quickly. It’s like he was made for this.

“Shitshit, I’m— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you squeak softly, whimpering when you feel his free hand on your waist, his fingers squeezing your soft, plushy skin. He keeps the same pace, not wanting to ruin this for you. He can feel you squeezing around his fingers that are expertly pumping inside you, curling deliciously to graze your sweet spot. “F-fuck!”

Your thighs squeeze together, trapping his face against your messy cunt as you start to cum, your eyes blowing wide. You’re shaking, and not just because of the force of his fingers ramming into you, working you through your orgasm. Peter can feel how hard you’re breathing, his thumb rising and falling on your stomach as he keeps his grip on your waist firm, holding you.

Just as you start to reach down for his head to pull it closer, he pulls away from you, the filthy pop of his lips disconnecting from your clit echoing between you. 

"Shit, what's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong," he responds a little too quickly.

You can hear the rustling of him pulling his mask back down, your heart jumping in your chest. 

“You can look now,” he breathes, moving to hover above you, his cock throbbing against your thigh within the confines of his briefs. You’re still panting as you move your arm away to see him hovered above you, your eyes searching his through the mask. “Did I do a good job?”

“Such a good job,” you huff, a smile pulling at the corner of your lips. Your hand instantly moves down to his clothed cock, your fingers curling around him. You feel the definition, and how much he’s throbbing. 

Nearly instantly, he’s whimpering. You feel his two fingers, still wet and messy from you, pushing against your lips. You were hoping to taste yourself on his tongue, but this’ll do. You part them, sucking them as soon as they touch your tongue.

Peter didn’t expect it to feel so good, the way your tongue wraps around his fingers makes his head spin. You hadn’t even really touched him yet and he’s a leaking, moaning mess. 

Taking him by surprise, you slip your hand into his briefs, your soft fingers wrapping around him to slowly stroke him as you continue sucking on his fingers. His eyes roll, his head tilting back slightly as he relishes in the feeling. It’s just like how he imagined it. 

Despite being unable to see his face, you can tell he’s falling apart. You swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing, but has never been touched before. Maybe he really is just that pathetic. 

You start to fasten the pace of your hand, but just as you start, he’s just as quick to stop you.

“S-stop,” he whimpers, pulling his fingers from your mouth and lifting his hips. You retract your hand, and before you can ask what happened, he’s quick to continue, “I’m already getting close.”

What?

He pushes his briefs down the rest of the way, kicking them off. You see the way his cock springs free, aching red and already leaking precum at the tip. In an instant, he's hovering over you again, his cock just mere inches from you. From where you want him the most.

“You poor thing-” your teasing is cut short when you feel his arms wrap around your thighs, pulling them closer to him. You gasp, eyebrows raising as he softly grinds his tip against your slit free-handed. He’s rushing and he knows it. He can’t fucking help it. 

You wanted to degrade him, to remind him of his rules, but he's just so desperate. So needy. It's a pretty sight.

“J-Just tell me when I can, please,” he huffs, his tip rubbing between your folds causing a filthy squelching sound. His eyes are focused on your pretty cunt, at the way his tip fits perfectly against your slit before he starts to push in, “Oh my god, fuck, please. Tell me. Tell me I can—“

"Of course you can, baby. Touch me," you purr teasingly, your hands move to his hips, gently tugging to pull him even closer. The pet name nearly makes him rut, but he's hanging on to the last thread of control he has left. He pushes in slowly, the pitiful sound he makes nearly making you gush.

"O-oh my, fuck. Thank you. Shit, you're so tight," he whines, pushing into you slowly, watching your pussy take him, sucking him in inch by inch. Your hands tighten on his hips, your nails sinking into his taut skin.

“Feels so good, doesn’t it?” you purr, intently watching the way his movements stutter at your teasing. He can't take it. He can't fucking take it anymore.

"Yes, yes. Feels so fucking good," he whimpers, pushing in the rest of the way before bottoming out completely with his hips snug against yours. The feeling makes your eyes roll slightly, your head tilting back against the pillow.

When you move to roll your hips against his, his hands fly from your thighs to your waist, pushing you slightly up the bed with such ease, stopping your movements, "S-stop, stop."

You look up at him, naturally searching for his eyes through the mask, "It's okay, we can stop."

"No, I just," he grunts, his hips shaking slightly as he fights to control himself. "I need a second."

“Okay,” you nod softly, lifting a hand from his hips to wrap it around the side of his throat, your thumb gently caressing his adam’s apple. He swallows thickly, and you feel it bob under your touch. 

With the remnants of your orgasm still rippling through you, you can’t control the way your cunt flutters around him. Fuck, is he gonna have to cum before he can keep going? He wants this to last. 

Slowly, his hips start rolling against yours, “I-I’m okay, sorry, m’sorry,” he whispers, looking back down at where you’re connected before rambling on. 

"You have no idea-" he grunts, eyes locked onto the way his cock is fully stuffed inside you, your pussy taking him so good. So wet and eager. He pulls his hips back until his cock slips out halfway, glistening with your juices before he slowly pushes back in, listening to the filthy sound it makes, "-how much I've thought about this."

His hands are still tightly gripping your waist as his hips work to keep a steady pace. He doesn't want to go too fast, he can’t. This is so embarrassing. 

Your eyes light up at the admission, hand still gently wrapped around the side of his neck, “Shit. I’m- me too.”

His ears perk, his hips never faltering. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, your response making him whimper. 

“I want to see you,” you whisper, your fingers slipping down to the edge of his mask at the base of his neck. “Let me kiss you.”

He stills. Is it too risky? At this point, how would a kiss be more ridiculous than him literally eating you out?

Well, it’s not, but it’s too much risk. 

“You can’t.”

“Why? You don’t have to tell me your name.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

How is he supposed to answer that? 

His hands leave your waist, leaving your skin cold. He slips a hand underneath you, between your back and the mattress, lifting you enough to press your chest against his. Your face rests just above his shoulder as his hips continue thrusting against yours, deep and slow. His arm stays there, tightly holding you against him, your eyes struggling to stay focused. That’s when you hear it. 

With his free hand, he pulls the mask off, but purposely holding you close enough that he could hide his face over your shoulder. 

“Y-You really don’t trust me?” you manage with a moan, feeling his bare chest tighten against yours at the accusation.  

“That’s not it,” he groans softly against the side of your neck, his lips finally touching the skin of it, warm and wet. You feel his cock twitch inside you, your eyes hooded with the inability to focus. 

“Mmh, then what is it?”

“I trust you. I don’t trust what might happen.”

“Please.”

“I can’t, f-fuck,” he whimpers against your skin, his hips starting to fasten in pace at the sound of your plea. The filthy fucking sounds your pussy is making is driving him insane, his cock easing in and out effortlessly. You know there’s no winning this. 

You wrap your arms above his shoulders and around his back, holding him as you tuck your chin into the crevice between his neck and shoulder. You feel him breathing into your neck, his breath shaky and weak. That oh-so familiar scent has Peter’s head spinning. 

“You smell so good. I fucking dream about this, about you,” he pathetically admits, voice weak and breath hot against your neck. “Y-You- fuck, you make me fucking cum in my sleep. Make me- agh, wake up all messy.”

He’s losing it. He’s so vulgar.

He hears your gasp, so close and soft beside his ear, it sends a chill down his spine. 

“It’s pathetic, isn’t it?” he whimpers, his voice barely audible when all you can focus on is how much of a loud fucking mess he’s making of your poor cunt. “I dream about fucking you, just like this, making you cum around me, s-shit.”

The thought has his hips stuttering before he picks up the pace even more, his hips smacking yours with a force that causes your body to jolt with each thrust. His grip is tight as he holds you, feeling you jolt against him all while he whimpers in your ear, struggling to not look at you. His other hand remains on your waist, helping to stabilize you as he fucks into you. The filthy squelching of your cunt grows even louder, and you feel the vibrations of a low growl against your neck, “F-Fucking god, do you hear it?” 

“Mh-m, yes,” you moan, your nails digging into the skin of his back. Peter wouldn’t be able to explain the sudden confidence boost, particularly with his words. 

“S’fucking messy,” he whimpers, your wetness splashing on his thighs after each deep thrust, dribbling down his skin. You feel his lips connect with the side of your neck, sucking a harsh love mark into your skin before softly licking it to soothe it. He does it again, over and over, his pitiful noises vibrating against your throat.

Your eyes roll at the feeling, your senses overloading. You feel your core tightening, your second orgasm growing dangerously close. 

“I’m gonna… mmph, fuck, I-I’m close,” you moan into his ear, your pussy milking him with each jolt he causes. With the arm wrapped around your back, he pulls you closer. With his other, he releases your waist, his free hand moving to grab your arm and guide your hand down to your stomach. Pressing his hand on top of yours, he forces you to feel your lower stomach.

You feel it immediately, your stomach bulging slightly with each pump of his cock. He’s in your fucking guts.

“Y’feel it? Feel me in your tummy?” he moans softly in you ear, his pathetic expression one that he’d be embarrassed for you to see. There’s no way you don’t feel it, even he can as he holds your hand down against your rapidly bulging skin. “Feel me filling y’up.”

That was a statement. A demand. Your eyes roll back again, your body growing weak in his hold as he takes complete control. You don’t have any fight left in you to tease him. You’re so fucking close, facing an internal conflict with the need to cum and the desire to keep going. 

“Fill me up,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his, purposely squeezing your pussy around him, wanting to milk every last drop. “I wanna feel you cum.” 

“O-oh my, haah, g-god, aaagh,” Peter instantly whines, his mouth parting open as he starts driving into you faster, pounding his hips into yours. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was being so good, now he’s rushing just because you told him to fill your pretty cunt with his cum? 

How pathetic can he get?

“You’re doing so fucking good,” you praise softly, feeling him fuck into you even deeper with your hand still prisoned between his and your stomach. That’s all he needed. 

“S-shit, t-thank you,” he whines louder, his voice cracking in your ear as his chest tightens against yours, his breath growing shallow. He doesn’t have time to warn you before he’s cumming. “Thankyouthankyou, fuck!”

His cock twitches with each spurt of thick, warm ropes of cum stuffing inside you. The pathetic sounds he’s making and the feeling of his cum filling you up is enough for you to break, your pussy spasming around him uncontrollably. Your body goes slack against him, thighs trembling as you gasp like all the air in your lungs was violently knocked out.

What’s shocking is he doesn’t stop. His hips keep moving, pistoning relentlessly as he keeps cumming. Your pussy can only contain so much, the leftovers of cum leaking out of you, bubbling around your slit and making a filthy mess each time he pulls his hips back and thrusts back in. It’s like he purposely wants to overfill it, to stuff you full and keep fucking it back into you, not wanting to waste it. 

With your limbs weak and achy, you’re completely limp, but that doesn’t mean you want to stop. You lift your hand from your stomach, lacing your fingers with his before he plants your hand back down against your plushy skin, not letting up. You move your other hand from his back to the nape of his neck, barely grazing his hair as your fingers unintentionally land on his inhibitor.

Oh dear. 

“F-fuck, don’t. Don’t touch that,” he struggles, a whiny moan escaping him as he feels your pussy squeezing him so fucking tight. He pulls his hand from yours on your stomach, quickly moving to grab your wrist, but it's already too late.

He feels it detach from his skin.

You didn’t mean to, only wanting to grab onto him, but it catches onto your fingers and slides out of place. 

“Shit!” he grunts, his free hand moving to cover your eyes. He sits up, still inside you as he looks around for the inhibitor that’s now fallen and out of sight.

“W-what! What was that?”

“Just- don’t move,” he pleads, his head twisting as his eyes search the bunched up sheets. “Fuck, where did it go?”

“Please, just let me see you,” you beg, your hand moving to grab onto his that’s blocking your vision. 

“N-no! Just hold on a second—“

“Peter.”

Oh, no.

He stills completely, eyes widening as he takes in hearing his name coming from your mouth. His ears start ringing. 

“Peter, I know it’s you.”

“What? That’s… not my name,” he lies, eyes still wide, his cheeks flushing rosy red. 

“Inhibitor complete. Trial number forty-seven on standby.”

This can't be happening.

“What did you say?”

Peter gasps, his back shooting up from his bed. Eyes wide, heart pounding. He’s in his room. Peter’s hand quickly moves up to graze the back of his neck. His skin is damp, a cold chill creeping through him at the realization he never had the inhibitor on.

No, no, no. It felt so real.

Whipping his head in the direction of his monitor, he sees the notification that the inhibitor is complete, blinking across the screen. The same notification he swore he already saw. But he didn’t.

When he laid down for that nap at nine, he never truly woke up.

How did he possibly wake up from a nap, put the inhibitor on, and go see you, all within one dream? It made sense, considering how fast things escalated and how he knows what your bedroom like looks now, but…

Something is wrong. It felt too fucking real.

He glances over at his nightstand, the clock blinking 6:26am. Beside his alarm clock was… nothing. No, he could’ve sworn that’s where he put your necklace, carefully laid on the stained wood.

What is going on?

That’s when he feels it. The dampness in his briefs, warm and sticky. His hands fly to his face, a frustrated groan bellowing from him.

“Fuck!”

Now it’s past midnight, and he’s sitting at his desk trying to stitch up a tear in his suit with e.d.i.t.h. guiding him. You figure he needs space to work, so you slip into the bedroom alone, sliding under the sheets.

Except you’re needy, too. The heat between your legs has been throbbing all night, and thinking about how close he is only makes it worse. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers sliding into your own slick heat. It starts slow with small circles, your hips tilting subtly into the touch.

Out in the main room, Peter stops dead.

With his enhanced hearing, it’s deafening. The friction of your skin, the soft hitches in your breathing, the slick sounds of you working yourself open, the helpless sigh that slips past your parted lips...

Just like that, the suit is tossed aside.

He stands up from the desk, his frame looming in the doorway. He doesn't make a sound as he walks over. He just stands there in the dim light, watching you. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black.

When your eyes snap open and you gasp, trying to pull your hand back, he doesn't give you room to hide.

In one motion, he’s crawling over the mattress, his heavy weight settling over you, pinning your wrist above your head before you can even cover yourself.

"What're you doing?" his voice is a low rasp right against your ear.

"I—I thought you were busy," you stammer, squirming under the sheer pressure of his body. "Peter—"

"You're acting like I haven't seen you a million times," he murmurs, his dark gaze burning into yours. "And you're acting like I haven't been smelling you all day. You think I didn't notice?"

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, taking a desperate drag of your scent that sends a shiver straight through his frame. "It's been driving me insane since this morning. And then you come in here and start touching yourself? Right down the hall from me?"

"I was trying to give you space—"

"Don't," he growls softly, his lips dragging across your jaw. "Don't ever give me space when you look like this... smell like this."

His free hand grips your thighs, dragging your shorts and panties down in one impatient pull.

"Look at you," he cooes, his thumb grinding against your swollen clit until youre a gasping mess, arching up into his hand. "So, so wet. All for me, right? Tell me it's for me."

"It's yours—fuck, peter, yes," you gasp, your hips blindly chasing his fingers.

A satisfied look washes over his face, and he yanks his sweatpants out of the way, lining his thick, leaking tip right against your entrance.

He's rubbing himself through your slick until you're arching off the bed with a whimper. "So fucking whiny for me."

"Peter, yes—fuck, please—"

He hooks your legs up, bending your knees over his shoulders, and drives in with one ruthless thrust that folds you nearly in half.

His enhanced strength lets him handle you even more effortlessly, rolling his hips into brutal thrusts that make your eyes roll into the back of your head, your walls gripping tight around his thick cock.

He buries his face in your hair, letting out groans and needy whimpers while he uses your tight, wet cunt as he pleases.

"Fuck—yes, baby, right there—feels so good, fuck—!" His voice stutters over the wet slaps of his skin against yours.

When you feel your climax rushing up on you, your nails dig hard into his back, pleas tumbling out for him to go faster, deeper—anything to take you over. He doesn't hesitate. His hips roll into shorter, punishing hits that push you straight off the precipice, your walls clamping tight around his cock as your orgasm tears through you.

Peter lets out a gasp against your neck as your climax pulls him right with you. His rhythm turns frantic, driving himself into you with desperate thrusts that knock the remaining air from your lungs. He’s whining against your skin now—utterly unraveled by the feeling of you coming around him—begging through broken breaths to just let go.

"Baby—please. Can't— can't hold back anymore, gotta fill you up—"

Before you leave for work, you kiss your man goodbye, only it doesn’t work that way.

Saying your goodbye, you lean forward to peck his cheek. You stood zero chance as his arms wrapped around your waist pulling you in for more.

The kiss starts off slow. It's passionate and you both feel the fire behind it. It gets progressively messier.

His tongue sneaks into your mouth and you gladly welcome it. You grab onto his shoulders for balance, the passion making you dizzy.

The only way the kissing stops is when you pull away for a breath. If you wouldn't, you swear Matt would go until he would drop from suffocation.

With weak knees you managed to make your escape. This time.

Matt is an intense lover in the sense of his emotions towards you. And you love it.

He would bend you over every surface. Even just to tease but you know it will end in sex with him getting too excited. He always blames it on how beautiful his girl is.

Hands travelling your body. Grabbing your ass and giving it a good squeeze. Teasing your nipples with his teeth.

In public, you hold hands. His hand always rests on your thigh. He is a respectful man(most def). In the beginning of your relationship, he was more reluctant towards pda but as you both grew closer, he can’t keep his hands off you. Shameless makeouts that mostly end with Foggy telling you perverts to get a room.

Even when you're just going to the bathroom at the bar you're at. When you pull apart, you already forgot where you're going.

Matt showers you with love every day and night. Hugs from the back while one of you is cooking. Showering together, to save water of course! Kisses, always holding hands, cuddles.

Matt is a loverboy day in and day out. And he loooves a good makeout.

the first time, it was sugar.

he heard her in the hallway before she knocked, the particular rhythm of someone who hasn't decided yet whether to go through with it. three steps toward his door, the soft drag of a hesitation, two steps back. he'd lived in this building long enough to know every sound the corridor made, the groan of the third floorboard from the lift, the way voices carried differently depending on whether the window at the end was open or shut. he knew the difference between someone walking past and someone stopping outside his door. she stopped. and then the knock came anyway, soft, like she was hoping he might not be home.

he opened the door and she brought the hallway in with her. cold air, the faint chemical sweetness of the laundry room two floors down, and underneath it something else. flour. something warm and yeasty and domestic that didn't belong to the corridor at all, that came from her, from wherever she'd just been standing in her own kitchen. he catalogued it the way he catalogued everything, automatically, the way other people might clock a face.

"hi," she said. "i live next door. i'm really sorry to bother you, i just." a small sound escaped her, half laugh, not quite embarrassed but close. "i'm making tea and i've run completely out of sugar. i was wondering if i could borrow some. not borrow, actually, i won't bring it back, that's not how sugar works."

her voice sat in the middle of the doorway. medium height, he thought, or near enough. no particular accent but something in the vowels suggested she hadn't always lived here.

"yeah," he said. "come in."

he moved through the kitchen without thinking about it, years of muscle memory making the route effortless, and found the sugar canister by feel; the smooth ceramic gone slightly rough where the glaze had crazed around the base, the chip on the lid that he'd never bothered replacing because he knew it by touch now. he lifted the lid and held it out in her direction and she took it from him carefully, her fingers closing around the side of the canister without making contact with his hand. he noticed that. the deliberateness of it, the care of it, like she'd spent the walk down the hall thinking about how not to make it strange for him.

"thank you," she said. "you're—"

"matt."

"i know," she said, and then quickly, like she didn't want it to sound odd: "i've heard your neighbour say it. through the wall. she shouts a bit."

"yeah," he said. "she does."

she came back with the canister the next day, which he hadn't expected. she knocked at the same time in the evening, and when he opened the door she smelled different. no flour this time, something sharper like paint or white spirit, faint under soap like she'd scrubbed her hands before coming over. she pressed the canister into his hands and said thank you again, properly this time, like she'd been holding onto it. and then three days after that she was back again with a small wax paper bag that crinkled when she pressed it into his palm, the paper still warm from wherever she'd been carrying it. "i made too many," she said. "shortbread. you don't have to—"

"i like shortbread."

"okay," she said, and he could hear the smile in it, pleased in a way she didn't try to hide or make smaller.

they were good. properly good, the butter so heavy in them they almost crumbled when he lifted one from the bag, the sugar crystallised on top with that particular grittiness that meant it had been put on before baking rather than after. the edges were uneven. he could tell they were homemade from the way they broke, not the clean snap of a factory biscuit but something softer, more particular. he ate them slowly, standing at the kitchen counter, listening to the building settle around him.

she started leaving things. not always in person, not always with the knock and the brief exchange at the doorway. sometimes he'd open his door in the morning and there'd be a small parcel on the mat, done up in paper that rustled differently each time; tissue paper, light and whispery; brown kraft that was stiffer, more deliberate; once something that felt like fabric, soft and slightly nubbled, tied with what turned out to be kitchen twine when he worked at the knot. sweets, usually. a twist of mint humbugs, the cellophane tight and hard to open, the sweets themselves heavy and cool against his palm before they warmed. a paper bag of pear drops with that sharp chemical sweetness that hit the back of the throat, which he ate slowly, one every few days, because they lasted longer that way and he found he wanted them to. once, a bar of dark chocolate, expensive by the weight and the particular snap of it when he broke a square off, with a note fixed to the wrapping that he had to ask his phone to read him: found this at the market. thought of you.

he knew the sound of her moving around on the other side of the wall. he knew she was up late, later than him usually, and that she listened to the radio while she cooked; he couldn't always make out the station, but sometimes voices came through in the quiet after midnight, the tinny shape of a discussion programme, music with the bass frequencies swallowed by the plaster. he knew she had a habit of pacing while she was on the phone, that her laugh arrived before she meant it to, sudden and unguarded, and that she dropped things more than most people he'd lived near. not clumsily, or not only clumsily, it seemed to happen when she was distracted, when she was thinking hard about something else. a pan lid. a book, once, by the particular apartment thud of it. something ceramic that bounced without breaking and rolled until it hit the skirting board.

he knew the temperature of her hands in winter, the cold that was still in her fingers when she passed something across the doorway. he knew she wore something with a low heel on weekdays and nothing on her feet at the weekend by the different weight of her step in the corridor. he knew the specific knock she used on his door, three knocks, the middle one slightly harder than the others, and he knew it from every other knock the building produced before she'd even lifted her hand away.

at christmas she gave him a card. he knew it was handmade from the first touch of it, the card stock heavier than shop-bought, the surface slightly raised in places where she'd done something with paint or ink or both. he ran his thumb across it slowly, mapping the texture, there were small raised areas that might have been stars, or flowers, or abstract shapes, he couldn't tell, but the craft of it was evident in every millimetre, the care of someone who had sat down and made something rather than picked something up. he held it for a long time before asking his phone what it said, just feeling the surface of it, the particular irregularities of a thing made by hand. it felt like looking at something.

she'd written inside in a hand he couldn't read directly, but the pen had pressed hard enough that he could feel the shapes of the letters under his fingertip, the particular slant of her handwriting, the way certain letters looped back on themselves. he traced it without knowing what it said and thought about the fact that she'd pressed down deliberately, that she'd understood without being told or had worked it out herself. he put the card on the shelf above the radiator where he kept things he wanted to be able to find easily.

for his birthday in february she knocked at seven in the evening when the wind was coming off the river and finding every gap in the window frames, and she said "i wasn't sure what to get you" in a voice that suggested she'd thought about it for longer than she was admitting to. she put something in his hands; small, fitting in one palm, the weight of solid wood, smooth in a way that meant it had been sanded rather than varnished, warm from being held in her coat pocket. he turned it over and felt it carefully, running his thumb along the contours. a rounded body, small tucked limbs, a pointed snout.

"a hedgehog," she said. "i carved it. you don't have to keep it, it's a bit —"

"i'm keeping it," he said.

she was quiet for a moment. a particular kind of quiet, the kind that has something in it. "okay," she said.

he put it on the shelf next to the christmas card. he found he reached for it sometimes when he was passing, the way you reach for something familiar, not thinking about it until his hand had already closed around it.

after the fight of the night, he didn't go straight home.

he walked for a long time in the rain, which he didn't mind. he knew this part of the city by the sound of it. the way the acoustics changed and compressed between the high buildings on the main road, the smell of the chicken shop on the corner that hit you half a block before you reached it, hot fat and spiced salt, the particular give of the paving stones outside the old post office where the ground had subsided slightly and never been properly fixed. he knew where the dropped kerbs were, where the road noise shifted when he crossed from tarmac to cobble on the back streets. he'd walked this route enough times angry, enough times calm, that his body knew where it was even when his head was somewhere else entirely, still inside the fight, still replaying it.

he came home wet through and still in the suit, which was its own problem. the kevlar held water differently from regular fabric, heavier across the shoulders, and the mask was cold against the lower half of his face where the rain had soaked into the edges of it. he'd meant to change before coming back through the neighbourhood. he usually did. tonight he hadn't managed it.

he went up the fire escape because it was faster and because he couldn't face the lobby, couldn't face the possibility of someone in the lift asking him something ordinary while he was still like this. the steps were metal, familiar under his gloved hands, the railing cold even through the material, and he went up counting automatically; twelve steps to the first landing, the slight vibration of the structure underfoot, twelve more, and when he reached the top he found the window by feel and tried it.

it opened.

he swung a leg over and was halfway through before something stopped him. the smell. it reached him the moment he broke the plane of the window and it was completely, entirely not his. his apartment smelled like coffee and old wood and books and the mineral dryness of old radiators. this smelled like butter cooling in a tin, like paint half-dry on something, like warm paper. like the parcels left outside his door. like pear drops and shortbread and the particular soap she used that he'd never been able to identify exactly, something clean and faintly sweet that lingered on everything she handed him.

it smelled like her.

he stopped with one leg in and one out, one gloved hand still on the wet window frame, rain still falling across his shoulders. he'd gone up the wrong flight. twelve steps and twelve more and he was in entirely the wrong apartment, and he knew it before his brain had finished forming the thought because his body already knew her, had catalogued her so thoroughly over months of doorways and parcels and brief cold-fingered exchanges that he'd walked straight into the shape of her without realising.

he should go back out.

he was calculating the logistics of that, the least disruptive way to extract himself from her window sill in a black kevlar suit at whatever hour this was, when she made a small sound from across the room. not a scream. not quite. the sharp intake of someone who has registered that something is in their apartment and is deciding in real time how afraid to be.

her heartbeat spiked. he heard it; the sudden jump of it, the way it kicked up fast and hard, and then the deliberate effort she made to slow it back down. he could hear her breathing through that, measured, in and out, someone who was frightened and was choosing not to stay that way. her heart was still going quickly but it was coming down. steadying. the rate of someone scared but thinking.

"i'm going to ask you something," she said, from the direction of the sofa, her voice remarkably level, "and i'd really appreciate an honest answer."

he stayed very still. "alright," he said.

"are you here to hurt me?"

he felt the question land, the particular weight of it, not hysterical, just direct. her heartbeat in his ears, still elevated, the quick flutter of it.

"no," he said.

a pause. he heard her shift on the sofa, the quiet sound of her exhaling through her nose. her heart was still going fast but it didn't spike again. she was listening to something in his voice, he realised. making a calculation of her own.

"wrong apartment?" she said.

"wrong fire escape," he said. "wrong floor."

another pause. longer this time. her heartbeat ticked along, still fast but no longer climbing, and he could smell the shift in her; the first flush of adrenaline beginning to metabolise, not gone, but changing. underneath it, underneath all of it, the butter and the paint and the soap, he could still smell the shortbread she must have made earlier in the evening. it was so familiar it was almost disorienting, standing here in the dark in forty pounds of wet kevlar.

"okay," she said carefully. "do you— do you want to go back out, or.."

he should. he absolutely should. he was wet and he was still vibrating with the dregs of the fight and he was sitting in the window of the woman who left pear drops outside his door and pressed her handwriting hard enough into christmas cards that he could feel the shapes of the letters, and she had no idea, she was sitting in the dark with a stranger in a mask and her heart was still going too fast and he should go back out the window and up one flight and pretend this hadn't happened.

"are you okay?" he said instead.

a beat. he heard something shift in her breathing, surprise maybe, a small recalibration. "am i—" she stopped. started again. "i'm alright, yeah. i've had stranger nights." her heartbeat said something slightly different, still quick but no longer spiking, and underneath the adrenaline something else had crept in that he couldn't quite name. "are you okay?" she asked, and it came out genuine, not performative, not someone making conversation with a masked man in her window to manage the situation. actually asking.

he didn't say anything for a moment.

"not particularly," he said.

she made a small sound he couldn't interpret. he heard her get up from the sofa, slowly, not trying to startle him and move toward the kitchen. she moved through her apartment the way he moved through his, every piece of furniture where she expected it, no hesitation. he tracked her entirely by sound and smell, the soft fall of her feet on the rug, the shift of her warmth through the room, the creak of the kitchen floorboard he'd heard through the wall a hundred times.

the tap ran. the kettle filled.

"you can come in properly if you want," she said from the kitchen, her voice carefully ordinary. "or you can go back out. i'm making tea either way."

her heartbeat had come down further. not calm exactly, but no longer afraid, or not primarily afraid. something more complicated than that, layered, and he stood in her window in the rain tracking the sound of it and thought about the wooden hedgehog on his shelf, the one he reached for without thinking. thought about how many times he'd heard her laugh through the wall, sudden and unguarded.

he took his leg off the sill. came in properly. found a chair by the brush of his knee against it and sat down, pulling the mask up off his face and folding it in his hands because he was dripping on her floor and it seemed like the least he could do.

she didn't turn a light on. he noticed that, the darkness staying darkness. he didn't know if it was for him or for her but either way he was grateful for it in a way he couldn't have explained.

the kettle came to the boil. she moved around the kitchen in the dark and he listened to the sound of it; the second mug finding the counter, the particular small clink of the spoon, the way she opened a cupboard and reached and he heard the soft rustle of something, a biscuit packet maybe, set down beside the mugs. doing ordinary things in the dark with a stranger in her apartment, her heartbeat still quicker than normal but evening out, breath by breath, settling into something that wasn't quite calm but was choosing to move in that direction.

he sat in her chair and dripped on her floor and breathed in the smell of her kitchen, butter and warm paper and that soap he'd never been able to name, and the fight sat somewhere further away than it had all evening.

"milk?" she said.

"please," he said.

the ordinary sound of it. the complete mundane ordinary sound of it, in the dark, in her kitchen, rain still coming down outside.

"two sugars?" she said.

he went very still.

he heard her heartbeat continue its steady recovery across the kitchen, heard the spoon against the ceramic, and she didn't say anything else, just set the mug on the table in front of him by sound, close enough that the warmth of it reached his hand before he'd even moved toward it, and went back to make her own.

he sat with the mug between his palms and let the heat come through the gloves and tried to remember the last time he'd sat in someone's kitchen at this hour without an agenda. the tea was good. strong, the way he liked it, and he hadn't said that.

he hadn't said a lot of things that she'd somehow already known.

she sat across from him; he could tell by the direction of her breathing, the particular quality of her stillness, someone sitting with their legs tucked up maybe, comfortable in their own space even with him in it. her heartbeat had come down to something close to normal. not entirely. there was still an elevation in it, something that wasn't fear, that he was increasingly certain wasn't fear at all, and he kept his attention carefully away from that conclusion.

"you're favouring your left side," she said.

he hadn't thought he was. he'd thought he was sitting normally. "i'm fine," he said.

"you said that in a way that means you're not."

he didn't answer. he took another sip of tea and listened to the rain on the window and felt, now that he was sitting still in the warmth of her apartment, the specific gathering heat of the wound under his right arm where the kevlar didn't quite cover the way it should. it had been manageable when he was moving. sitting still was a different question.

she was quiet for a moment. he heard her put her mug down on something hard, the coffee table probably. heard her shift her weight.

"how bad is it?" she said.

"it's fine."

"you keep using that word."

he said nothing. the heat under his arm was becoming more specific, more insistent, the kind of pain that had been waiting patiently for him to stop moving and was now making itself known in full. he'd had worse. that was technically true. it was also true that he was bleeding into her sofa and had been for the last several minutes.

"i have a kit," she said. not offering exactly, just putting it in the room between them. "if it's not fine. which it isn't."

"you don't have to—"

"i know i don't have to." her voice was even. not annoyed, not performing patience either. just certain. her heartbeat steady in his ears, that slightly elevated quality to it that he wasn't thinking about. "i'm going to get it anyway. you can decide what you want to do with that information."

he heard her get up and move down the hall. a cupboard opened and closed. she came back smelling faintly of antiseptic, the sharp clean edge of it cutting through everything else, and set something down on the coffee table.

"the jacket's going to have to come off," she said. "and whatever's under it."

a pause.

"okay," he said.

he worked the suit off slowly, which took longer than it should have, his right arm not cooperating the way he needed it to, and he heard her breathe in very carefully when the extent of it became apparent. she didn't say anything. that was something he noted, that she didn't make a sound beyond that single controlled intake, didn't fill the silence with anything he'd have had to manage.

"sit forward a bit," she said.

he did. and then her hands were on him.

she was warm. that was the thing that hit him first, the warmth of her fingers against his skin, which was cold from the rain and the night and the blood loss, colder than he'd realised until there was something to measure it against. she found the wound by careful touch and he felt her assessing it, methodical, not squeamish, and her heartbeat in his ears was still that complicated elevated thing and her hands were very steady.

"this is going to need a few stitches," she said.

"i know."

"does it hurt?"

"yes."

"good," she said, which surprised a sound out of him that was almost a laugh, and he felt her pause. "i just mean," she said, and there was something in her voice he couldn't quite read, "that it's supposed to."

she worked quietly. he sat in the dark and let her, feeling the small specific pain of each stitch as something manageable, something with edges, easier than the diffuse wreckage of the earlier part of the night. her fingers moved against his skin with a sureness that he hadn't expected. she'd done this before, or something like it. not someone who learned to do this in a first aid class. someone who'd practised.

"how do you know how to do this?" he said.

"youtube videos." she said, without looking up. he could tell she wasn't looking up by the angle of her voice, the way it was directed downward, at what she was doing.

"and how do you know i take tea with two sugars."

"i've heard you," she said. "coming and going. for months. the fire escape. the particular way you move." her hands didn't pause. "i didn't know it was you until about forty minutes ago when you spoke. but i'd already worked out that it was someone from this building." a small silence. the pull of another stitch. "you have a very distinctive voice, matt."

he let that sit for a moment. the rain outside. her hands warm against the cooling skin of his side.

"and you let me in anyway?" he said.

"you brought me shortbread at christmas," she said, very simply, as though that settled it. her heartbeat, steady in his ears. the warmth of her.

"that was—" he stopped. "you knew it was from me?" he'd spent weeks looking for an appropriate gift, and had found a fancy box of shortbread with a pretty tin that he figured you'd like. he didnt leave a note and was gone before you opened the door.

"you knock with the middle knock harder than the others," she said. "and you smell like—" she paused, just briefly, her hands continuing their work. "you always smell like bergamot and rain."

he didn't have anything to say to that. to the fact that she'd been cataloguing him too, in her own way, building him from the details available to her, the knock and the voice and the smell of him, the same way he'd built her from flour and paint and the particular rhythm of her moving through rooms.

"there!" she said.

he felt the work of it, the pulled skin, the neat row of what she'd done. her hands didn't move away immediately. they stayed against his side for a moment, warm and still, and he could feel her heartbeat as clearly as his own.

then she leaned in and he felt the press of her lips, light, against one of the stitches. then another. moving along them slowly, each one, and his whole body went very quiet.

"my mother used to do that," she said, against his skin. he could feel the movement of the words. "she said love is the oldest medicine."

"does it work?" he said. his voice came out lower than he intended.

"i think so," she said. "you'll have to let me know."

she sat back. he could hear the smile in it, the warmth of it, that laugh that always arrived before she meant it to.

he turned toward her. he could feel the distance between them, the specific measure of it, close in the dark. her heartbeat in his ears, quick now, no longer the adrenaline spike of earlier, something else entirely, something that had been building for months through wax paper and handmade cards and wooden hedgehogs and the weight of her pressing the right words into paper in the dark.

he found her face with one hand. she went still but not away, her heartbeat loud and fast and certain.

the mask was still on. he kissed her with it on, the edge of the fabric against her cheek, his mouth finding hers in the dark the same way he found everything; by feel, by instinct, by the accumulated knowledge of her that lived in him without his having chosen it.

she kissed him back as her hands came up and found his arms, careful, instinctively careful of his side, and she kissed him back in the dark while the rain came down heavier outside, almost drowning out the metronome of your heartbeat in his ears.

he tasted the sugar on her lips first, faint and sweet from whatever she had been baking earlier, and then deeper, the wet slide of her tongue against his. his hands found her waist, sliding under the hem of her shirt to feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when his fingers traced the dip of her spine. he pressed closer, the damp leather of the suit sticking to him, the scent of her soap and the rain and the faint metallic edge of blood from his own wounds mixing together until everything narrowed to her.

she pulled back just enough to breathe and her fingers found the edge of the mask. she didn't ask, she just waited and he nodded once, small, and she peeled it up and off, slow, careful not to catch his hair. the air hit his face cool and clean. her hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, and then she kissed him again without anything between them.

he walked her backward until her thighs hit the edge of the kitchen table. the wood creaked under her weight when she sat. he stayed standing between her knees, hands sliding up her thighs, feeling the way her muscles shifted under his palms. she was warm there, the fabric of her sleep shorts thin and soft. he hooked his fingers in the waistband and she lifted her hips without being told, letting him tug them down and off one leg at a time. the scent of her hit him full and heavy, arousal and skin and that same clean soap, and his mouth watered.

he went to his knees slow, one hand braced on the table edge, the other finding her calf and guiding her leg over his shoulder. she was already breathing faster. he could hear it, the quick catch in her throat, the way her pulse jumped when his breath ghosted over the inside of her thigh. he pressed his mouth there first, open and wet, tasting salt and heat. his tongue dragged slow, leaving a trail, and she shivered.

when he finally reached her cunt he didn't rush. he licked broad and apartment from bottom to top, gathering the slick on his tongue, savoring the way she tasted. she was already wet, soft and swollen, and he took his time exploring every fold with the apartmen of his tongue before circling her clit in slow, lazy strokes. her hand found his hair, fingers threading through it, not pulling, just holding. he hummed low against her and felt her thighs twitch around his head.

he kept it soft. kept it slow. he sucked gently at her clit, letting his lips drag, letting spit mix with her wetness until everything was slippery and messy. his tongue pushed inside her in shallow thrusts, fucking her with it, feeling the way her walls fluttered around the intrusion. he pulled back to lick again, long and thorough, chin getting wet, the sound of it obscene in the quiet kitchen. rain hammered the window. her breathing was the only other thing he could hear clearly, ragged and sweet.

she made a sound when he sealed his mouth over her again and sucked harder, just for a moment, before easing off into those same slow, sloppy licks. his nose pressed against her, breathing her in, the scent of her cunt thick and heady. one hand stayed on her thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, the other slid up to rest over her stomach, feeling it rise and fall with every shaky breath. he could feel her getting closer, the way her muscles tensed, the way her hips started to rock against his mouth in small, helpless movements.

he didn't speed up. he let her ride it out against his tongue, kept licking through it, kept sucking soft and wet until she came with a broken little sound, thighs clamping around his head, fingers tightening in his hair. he stayed there through it, licking her through the aftershocks, gentler now, cleaning her up with his tongue until she was trembling and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his shoulder.

he rested his forehead against her thigh, breathing hard, mouth and chin slick. her fingers stroked through his hair, slow and gentle. the rain kept falling. the kitchen smelled like her and sex and rain. he stayed on his knees a little longer, listening to her heartbeat settle, feeling the warmth of her skin under his hands.

the couch gave under their weight when he eased her down onto it, the worn fabric warm from the afternoon sun that had come through the window earlier. he followed her there slow, one knee between her thighs, the other braced on the floor so he could keep most of his weight off her. his hands found her face first, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, feeling the heat there, the way her breath came quicker now that they were horizontal and close.

he kissed her again, softer this time, just the press of his mouth, tasting the way her lips parted for him. she made a small sound when his tongue slid against hers, wet and unhurried. his hand moved down her side, feeling the rise of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the way her shirt had ridden up. he pushed it higher until he could feel bare skin, warm and smooth under his palm.

she reached up and found his hair, fingers threading through it gentle, not tugging yet, just holding. he hummed against her mouth and felt her smile into the kiss. when he rocked his hips forward she met him, her thighs parting wider so he could settle between them. the heat of her cunt pressed against the front of his pants, still damp from earlier, and he felt his own cock twitch in answer.

he took his time getting them both bare. her shirt first, then his, the leather of the suit already gone and forgotten somewhere on the floor. her hands helped, careful around his side where the stitches pulled, but she didn't stop touching him. when he finally pushed his pants down and kicked them off, she reached between them and wrapped her fingers around his cock, stroking slow, feeling the weight of it. he groaned low into her neck and pressed his forehead there, breathing her in.

he lined himself up by feel, the head of his cock sliding through her slick, catching on her entrance. she was still wet from his mouth, soft and open, and when he pushed in it was steady, inch by inch, giving her time to adjust. her legs came up around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. he went until he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, and stayed there a moment, feeling the way her cunt fluttered around him, hot and tight as she mewled into his ear, a soft moan of his name escaping her.

she pulled his hair then, not hard, just enough to tilt his head back so she could kiss him again. the sound she made when he started to move was a moan that went straight into his mouth, low and sweet. he kept it slow, rolling his hips in long, deep strokes, grinding against her clit on every push. one hand braced beside her head, the other slid under her ass to tilt her up so he could get even deeper. the couch creaked with every thrust, the rain still tapping against the window, but all he could focus on was the wet sound of him fucking into her, the way her breath hitched every time he bottomed out.

he kissed down her neck slow, open mouthed, tasting salt and skin. when he found the spot just below her ear he sucked there, gentle at first, then a little harder, feeling the way her pulse jumped under his tongue. she moaned again, louder, and her fingers tightened in his hair. he moved lower, teeth grazing, leaving small marks that would darken later, little bruises she could feel tomorrow. each bite was followed by his tongue soothing over it, wet and warm, and she shivered under him.

she was making those mewling sounds now, soft and broken, every time he thrust in deep. her legs tightened around him, heels digging into his back, urging him closer. between one kiss and the next she managed words, voice shaky and breathless.

"i always thought you were pretty," she said, the words tumbling out between moans. "and charming. that's why i kept asking you for help with things. just so you'd come over."

he grinned against her throat, couldn't help it, the word pretty landing somewhere warm in his chest. he pulled back just enough to find her mouth again, kissing her slow and deep while he kept moving inside her, hips rolling steady.

"i think you're pretty too," he said against her lips, voice low and rough. "been thinking it since the first time you knocked on my door."

she made another sound, half laugh half moan, and pulled his hair again, guiding him back down to her neck. he obliged, sucking another mark just above her collarbone, feeling the way her cunt clenched around him when he did. he kept the pace slow, deliberate, making sure every stroke dragged against that spot inside her that made her thighs shake. his hand on her ass squeezed, feeling the muscle flex as she rocked up to meet him. sweat slicked between them, the scent of her arousal and his skin and the rain all mixing together until it filled his head.

he could hear her heartbeat racing, feel the way her breath came shorter, the little tremors starting in her legs. he didn't speed up. he stayed right there, buried deep, grinding slow circles against her clit with every roll of his hips, letting her feel every inch of him. her hands stayed in his hair, tugging soft, guiding his mouth wherever she wanted it, and he followed, leaving more kisses, more bites, more wet marks down the column of her throat.

when she came it was quiet at first, a long drawn out moan into his mouth, her cunt pulsing tight around his cock. he kept moving through it, slow and steady, fucking her through the clench and flutter until she was trembling and oversensitive, legs loosening around his waist. he stayed inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard, listening to the way her pulse settled. the couch felt too small and perfect at the same time, her body warm and soft beneath him, the rain still falling outside like it had nowhere else to be.

"does this mean you're my boyfriend now?"