𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖓'𝖘 𝕬𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖛𝖊

"What? I'm just saying." He takes a lazy sip of beer. "You're way too tense these days. You need to hook up with someone. Let off some steam."

She gasps, swatting at his leg. "I absolutely am not."

He grins, eyes glinting. "Yes you are. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem so restless lately. Like you're crawling out of your skin."

"It's just stress over work." She pulls the pillow tighter. "Writing for the New York Chronicles is a lot of work. Deadlines, interviews, fact-checking—"

"Uh-huh. And when's the last time you got properly fucked?"

"Ned!"

He laughs, full and unbothered. "I'm serious. Maybe some good dick will help you. Relax those shoulders, clear that head of yours. You're practically vibrating."

On the fire escape, Peter's hands tighten into fists.

She's mine.

The thought crashes through him, possessive and raw. His jaw aches from clenching. He watches her through the window—her flustered expression, the way she hides her face in the pillow, the way she doesn't deny it. She's restless. He knows. He's seen her pace her apartment at 2 a.m., seen her press her thighs together in the bathtub, heard the soft, frustrated moans she thinks no one can hear.

And he knows Ned is right. She needs release. But the idea of her finding that release in someone else—some stranger's hands, some stranger's mouth, some stranger's cock inside her—makes his stomach twist with something dark and violent.

"You're impossible," she mutters, throwing the pillow at Ned.

He catches it easily. "And you're in denial. But okay. Keep telling yourself it's deadlines."

She stands, smoothing her shirt. "I'm leaving before you say something even more embarrassing."

"Text me if you change your mind! I know a guy—"

"Goodnight, Ned!"

The door clicks shut. Ned chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

Peter stays frozen on the fire escape long after she's gone, her scent still lingering in the air, her laugh still ringing in his ears.

He knows what he has to do.

He has to reintroduce himself. Casually, carefully. Slide back into her life before she finds someone else to release those frustrations on. Before some other man touches what's his.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he watches her walk home from a rooftop three blocks away, her silhouette moving under the amber streetlights. He watches her pause at her door, glance over her shoulder like she feels something watching her. She hugs herself, shivers, and disappears inside.

Soon, he tells himself, pressing a hand over his chest where his heart used to belong to her. Soon I'll make you remember. Or I'll make you want me again.

But for now, he waits.

Peter stands outside the coffee shop, his reflection staring back at him from the glass door. He checks his hair three times—runs his fingers through it, smooths the front, tucks a stray strand behind his ear. The black shirt hugs his shoulders just right, and the glasses frame his face in a way that used to make Y/N bite her lip and look at him twice.

She loved these glasses, he thinks, adjusting them once more. She used to say I looked like a secret librarian. A hot one.

He takes a breath, pushes the door open, and walks in with a confidence he's been practicing for weeks.

The bell above the door chimes. Y/N looks up from the counter where she's been scribbling in a notebook—probably working on another article for the New York Chronicles. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing a simple apron over a cream sweater, and when she sees him, she smiles.

It's polite. Professional. The same smile she gives every customer working at her parent's cafe.

But it's still her smile, and his heart stumbles.

"Hi," she says, setting down her pen. "What can I get started for you?"

He steps up to the counter, leaning an elbow on the polished wood. "Hey. I'll take an iced americano and a chocolate donut."

She nods, writing it down. "Anything else?"

"No, thanks. That's perfect."

She turns to prepare the coffee, and he watches her movements—efficient, practiced. The way she scoops ice, pours the espresso, reaches for the donut with a tissue. When she turns back and hands him the cup, their fingers brush.

It's barely a second. Just a whisper of contact.

But she pauses, her eyes lifting to his face. A flicker of something—recognition? Curiosity?—passes through her gaze before she blinks it away.

"Here you go," she says softly.

He takes the cup, letting his fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks."

She smiles again, a little different this time—warmer, a hint of confusion. Then she turns back to the sink where a few dishes are waiting, rolling up her sleeves.

Peter takes a seat by the window, sipping his americano, watching her from behind his glasses. She's humming softly, something he doesn't recognize. From the back room, he hears Ned's voice, humming some pop song, the clatter of boxes being moved.

Over the next few weeks, he becomes a regular.

He comes in every other day, sometimes every day. Always orders the same thing—iced americano, chocolate donut. Sometimes he grabs a table and pretends to work on his laptop, but really he's watching her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear. The way she bites her lip while reading. The way she laughs at something Ned says, bright and easy.

Their interactions are casual. Limited.

"Morning Peter." She learns his name.

"The usual?" She asks.

"You know it."

A smile. A quick exchange. Then she's busy, and he's left with the ghost of her attention.

It's not enough.

So one afternoon, when the shop is empty and Ned is in the back, he makes his move.

He walks up to the counter, coffee in hand, and as he reaches to pay, he lets his wrist go slack. The cup tips. The lid pops off. Brown liquid splashes across the floor, a puddle spreading near his feet.

"Shit," he mutters, a little too loud.

Y/N spins around from the espresso machine. "Oh no! Don't worry, I'll get it—"

She grabs a roll of paper towels from under the counter and moves to crouch down, but he's already there. He takes the roll from her hands, his fingers closing over hers for a brief, deliberate second.

"It was my fault," he says, meeting her eyes. "Don't worry about it."

"Really, I can—"

"Nope. I got it." He kneels, wiping up the mess quickly, ignoring her protests. "You have enough to do. Let me take care of this."

She stands there, hands on her hips, watching him clean up her floor with an expression caught between amused and impressed.

"You're not going to let me help, are you?" she asks.

"Nope." He finishes, tosses the wet paper towels in the trash, and straightens up. "See? All good."

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're stubborn."

"I prefer determined."

"A determined mess-maker."

He laughs—a real laugh, not the careful one he's been using.

They stand there, the air between them easier now, the tension cracked open. She leans against the counter, crossing her arms, studying him with fresh eyes.

"You come here a lot," she says.

"I do. Good coffee. Good donuts." He pauses, letting his voice drop just a fraction. "Good company."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down, then back up, a spark in her gaze. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Born and raised. Just... been away for a while."

"Ah. A returning native."

"Something like that."

She tilts her head. "What do you do, Peter? Besides cleaning up your own messes?"

"I'm a freelance photographer. I take pictures of the city, the people. Try to capture moments that don't last."

Her eyes light up. "That sounds beautiful."

"It has its moments." He holds her gaze. "Maybe I could show you sometime. If you're interested."

The offer hangs in the air, soft and deliberate. She bites her lower lip, considering, and he feels his pulse quicken.

"I'd like that," she says quietly.

A bell rings from the back—Ned calling something about a shipment. The moment breaks, but it doesn't shatter. It settles into something warm, something potential.

"I should let you get back to work," Peter says, stepping back. "But I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

"Same time," she confirms, her smile lingering.

He walks out of the coffee shop, heart hammering, a grin threatening to break across his face. He doesn't look back, but he doesn't need to.

He knows he has her attention now.

Ned slides up beside Y/N the moment the door swings shut behind Peter. He nudges her shoulder with his, a knowing grin already spreading across his face.

"Okay, so that guy? Exactly your type."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she can feel the heat creeping up her neck. "Peter?"

"Obviously Peter." Ned leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "Like, I get it. He's attractive in that nonchalant way. The whole I just rolled out of bed but I'm still hotter than you vibe. And that confidence? It's practically dripping off him." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Makes you horny, doesn't it?"

"Ned!" She smacks his shoulder, but she's laughing. "Shut up. He's just a nice guy."

"A nice guy who you've been staring at for three weeks straight."

"I have not—"

"You literally watched him walk to the door just now. Like a sad puppy."

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. She did watch him. She always watches him.

Ned groans, shaking his head with mock exasperation. "When you two finally hook up, I'm going to be right there to say I told you so."

"He's just a customer, Injun."

"Mhmm. Sure." He pats her shoulder and heads toward the back room, already humming again, leaving her standing there with her thoughts.

She bites her lip.

He's just a customer, she tells herself. But her mind drifts anyway, unbidden.

His voice—low and warm, with a teasing edge that makes her stomach flip. The way he carries himself, relaxed but aware, like he knows exactly what he's doing at all times. His baggy clothes, the way they hang off his frame, hiding and revealing at the same time. The silver rings on his fingers. That little smirk he gives her sometimes, like he's in on a joke she hasn't heard yet.

Her exes were... fine. Nice. Respectful. Boring.

They held doors open and said please and thank you. They kissed her forehead and asked if she was comfortable. They never made her pulse race. They never made her wonder what it would feel like to be pushed against a wall and taken.

Peter does.

He gives her mystery. Maybe even a little danger. The way he looks at her sometimes, like he's holding something back—something intense.

She shakes her head, physically trying to dislodge the thought. Crazy. You don't even know him.

But the thought lingers, hot and stubborn, all the way through the rest of her shift. It follows her home, past the subway, up the stairs to her apartment. It settles in her bones the moment she closes her door.

---

She's restless.

The apartment is quiet, dark except for the lamp by her bed. She changes into a tank top and shorts, lies down, tosses, turns. Her body feels tight—a coil wound too tight, needing release.

She gives in.

From the nightstand drawer, she pulls out her vibrator—a sleek pink thing she's had for years. She lies back, spreads her legs, and lets the hum of the motor fill the silence.

Her mind drifts to him.

To Peter. To his hands. Those rings. What they'd feel like gripping her thighs. His voice, low in her ear, telling her exactly what he's going to do to her.

She presses the vibrator harder against her clit, her breath hitching. She thinks about his smirk, his confidence, the way he holds her gaze a second too long. She chases the image, lets it build—

And then she comes.

A sharp, quick release. A gasp. The tension snaps, but it doesn't dissolve. It just... scatters. Falls apart unsatisfyingly.

She sighs, letting the vibrator drop onto the mattress. Her body feels hollow. Empty. Like the orgasm barely scratched the surface of what she actually needs.

"Fuck," she whispers to the ceiling.

She lies there, staring at the dark, her skin still buzzing with unresolved heat. She wants more. She wants him. But he's a stranger. A customer. Nothing.

She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and tries to sleep.

---

Outside her window, perched on a fire escape three buildings over, Peter watches the dark shape of her bedroom through the gap in her curtains.

He didn't look. Not directly. He swung toward her building on instinct, drawn by the familiar pull of her presence, and he landed on the adjacent rooftop just in time to hear it.

The buzz of the vibrator. Her soft, breathy moans.

His name. She whispered his name—Peter—on a desperate exhale.

And then the sigh. That disappointed, hollow sigh at the end.

He heard it all.

His fingers curl into a fist against the brick wall beside him. A smirk spreads across his face, slow and predatory, mixing with the ache in his chest.

You're not satisfied, are you, baby?

He knows the feeling. He's been unsatisfied too—in a different way. Hungry for her touch, her voice, her warmth. But that hunger is about to be fed.

He pushes off the ledge, letting the night air rush past him as he swings into the darkness.

Soon. I'll take my rightful place soon.

Below him, the city blurs. Sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Another night of crime waits for him—thugs to stop, civilians to save. The usual.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, he feels something close to hope.

———

It starts slowly.

A whisper of warmth against her skin. The weight of a body behind her, pressed close, solid and familiar. She can't see his face, but she knows him—or rather, her body knows him. Her back arches into his chest instinctively, seeking more contact.

His hands. God, his hands. Calloused palms sliding up her thighs, fingers digging into her hips with just enough pressure to bruise. She feels the cool bite of metal rings against her overheated skin. A low chuckle rumbles against her ear.

"You've been so good for me, baby. But I'm gonna take what's mine now."

She opens her mouth to respond, but he's already rolling her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up, positioning her on her knees. The sheets are soft beneath her palms. She can feel his cock—thick, hard, pressing against her soaked entrance—and she whimpers, pushing back against him.

"Please," she breathes. "Please, I need—"

He cuts her off with a sharp thrust. He slams into her to the hilt, and she screams, her body clenching around him immediately. He doesn't stop. He fucks her like he owns her, like he's been waiting for this, each stroke deep and punishing, hitting a spot inside her that makes stars burst behind her eyelids.

"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."

His voice is low, rough, almost unrecognizable through the fog of lust. She can't think. She can only feel—the stretch, the burn, the relentless pounding. He wraps a hand around her throat, not choking, just holding, tilting her head back so he can whisper directly into her ear.

"You missed me, didn't you? Your tight little pussy missed me. Say it."

"I—yes—fuck—I missed you—"

He groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through her bones. His pace quickens, his grip on her hip bruising. She feels the coil building, tighter and tighter, her moans turning into desperate sobs—

And then she wakes up.

---

Gasping.

Y/N bolts upright in bed, her tank top soaked with sweat, her thighs sticky with arousal. The sheets are twisted around her legs. Her pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, so empty it almost hurts.

She blinks at the ceiling, panting.

What the fuck was that?

The dream is already fading, slipping through her fingers like water. She remembers heat. A deep voice. Being pinned down and fucked senseless. But the face—she can't remember the face. Just a blur of dark hair, broad shoulders, a cruel smirk.

She presses her palm against her cunt, gasping at the sensitivity. She's soaked. Her thighs are slick. Her hole flutters, desperate to be filled.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, flopping back onto the pillows.

It's been like this for almost a week now. Every night, another dream. Some nights she's on her knees, sucking a thick cock while a hand tangles in her hair. Some nights she's tied to a bed, spread open, being fucked so slowly she can feel every inch drag against her walls. Some nights it's just a voice—a low, possessive voice—calling her filthy, desperate, mine.

She always wakes up the same way: wet, aching, unsatisfied.

She reaches for her vibrator on the nightstand, but even as she presses it against her clit, she knows it won't be enough. It never is anymore. She comes—hard, fast, grinding into the plastic—but the release is hollow. An echo of what her body actually craves.

She doesn't know what that is.

Her exes were boring. They never made her feel claimed. They never made her scream.

But her body wants something more, something she's never experienced. Or so she thinks.

She sighs, tossing the vibrator aside. Her cunt still throbs, still clenches, still weeps for something she can't name.

Why does this feel like grief?

---

Across the city, perched on a water tower overlooking her block, Peter watches the distant glow of her window with a dark, hungry expression.

He knows.

He's been watching her sleep through the gap in her curtains. He's heard her moans, her whimpers, the desperate sounds she makes when she's lost in a dream he put there—not consciously, but through the lingering threads of the spell that binds them. She can't remember him, but her body can. Her body is a traitor, whispering his name in the language of her muscles, her slick, her trembling thighs.

He clenches his fists, his cock hardening painfully in his suit.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

I'll give you what you're craving soon.

He pushes off the water tower, swinging into the night, leaving his mark on the rooftops like a promise.

But he doesn't go far. He lands on the fire escape just outside her window—close enough to hear her frustrated sigh, the rustle of sheets as she rolls over, the quiet, desperate whisper she thinks no one hears:

"What do I need? What's wrong with me?"

He presses a hand to the glass, his rings glinting in the moonlight.

Nothing's wrong with you, love. You just need me.

————

The morning rush at the coffee shop had been mercifully slow, leaving Y/N and Ned with nothing better to do than wipe down the already-clean countertops in a lazy, synchronized rhythm. The TV mounted in the corner murmured in the background—some local news broadcast about a bank robbery in Midtown. The anchor's voice was tinny, almost an afterthought.

"...and witnesses report that Spider-Man intervened just moments after the robbers entered. No casualties reported. The web-slinger made a quick escape as usual—"

Y/N didn't look up. Neither did Ned. It was New York. Spider-Man stopping a robbery was as routine as a subway delay. They'd both heard the name so many times it barely registered anymore—a ghost in red and blue, flickering across screens, saving lives, disappearing.

Ned hummed a tune under his breath, rubbing a smudge off the granite with his thumb. Y/N's mind was elsewhere. Still half-lost in the hazy aftertaste of another dream from last night—the echo of a deep voice, the phantom weight of hands on her hips, the ache between her legs that hadn't fully faded even after she'd come twice this morning.

She bit her lip, grip tightening on the rag.

Focus. Work. Coffee. Normal stuff.

The little bell above the door jingled.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Peter stepped inside, and she felt the air shift. He was breathing hard, his black t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin, dark patches of sweat spreading across his chest and under his arms. His hair was damp, plastered to his forehead in messy waves, and a thin sheen of perspiration glistened over his neck and collarbones.

He looked exhausted. But also... good. Really good.

"Hey," Y/N said, her voice coming out a little too breathy. She cleared her throat. "You okay?"

He offered a tired smile, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Just tired. Killed it at the gym today." He let out a huff of laughter, rolling one shoulder like it ached. "Didn't realize I pushed myself that hard."

She nodded, already moving to make his usual ice americano. Her body went through the motions automatically while her eyes trailed down his frame. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, veins visible beneath the tanned skin. The sweat highlighted every contour—the arch of his biceps, the column of his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.

Shit. She felt heat creep up her cheeks.

Her gaze dropped lower, catching a glint of silver at his wrist. A bracelet—woven black cord with a small metallic charm, a roughly shaped star. It looked handmade, well-worn, the edges smooth like it had been touched a thousand times.

She slid the cup across the counter toward him. "That's pretty," she said, nodding at the bracelet.

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. A flash of emotion too fast to name—hope? Pain? He opened his mouth, and she could've sworn she saw him about to say something, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

Do you remember that you gave this to me?

But the words didn't come. He just watched her as she pulled away from the counter, already turning back to the rag in her hand.

Of course she didn't remember.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already distracted, moving toward the back to restock napkins.

Peter stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The star charm. She'd made it for him on their six-month anniversary, clumsily braiding the cord while sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing about how she'd never made jewelry before. "So you don't forget me," she'd said, pressing it into his palm. "Wear it even when you're being Spider-Man. I want to be with you, always."

He clenched his jaw, forcing the ache down his throat.

She doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't. You knew that.

Ned slid off his stool and walked over, holding out a napkin. "Hey," he said, his voice soft but pointed. "Your forehead's bleeding a bit."

Peter blinked, reaching up. His fingers came away with a smear of red. Shit. Must've caught a stray piece of debris during the takedown. He'd been too focused on getting there fast—on changing out of the suit in that alley, on making it to the shop before she closed—that he hadn't bothered to check for damage.

"Ah, that." He took the napkin with a casual shrug, pressing it to the cut. "Tripped on the way here. Almost ate pavement. Stupid, I know."

Ned's eyes lingered on him a moment too long, a quiet skepticism behind his gentle gaze. He didn't say anything, but Peter could feel the weight of his unspoken question.

That's a weird place to trip. And you're too banged up for just a fall. And you showed up right after Spider-Man was seen.

But Ned just nodded, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "Be careful," he said simply, and walked back to the counter.

Peter exhaled slowly, pressing the napkin harder against his temple. He watched Y/N move behind the counter, her hair tied in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She was beautiful. She was his. And she didn't even know it.

He took a long sip of the coffee she'd made him, letting the bitterness ground him.

He smiled against the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the curve of her back as she bent down to grab more cups from the low shelf.

The bracelet gleamed on his wrist like a promise.

The morning air in Manhattan carried the usual cocktail of exhaust fumes, pretzel cart steam, and distant sirens. Y/N walked with her messenger bag slung across her body, earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats keeping her grounded. The New York Chronicle skyscraper loomed ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the pale winter sun. She was running a little early today, which meant she could grab a decent coffee from the lobby cart before heading up to her desk.

She was two blocks away when the screaming started.

At first, it was distant—a ripple through the crowd ahead. Then it grew, a wave of panic rolling toward her. People began sprinting in her direction, faces twisted with fear, elbows knocking pamphlets and coffee cups out of the way. A woman clutching a toddler nearly collided with her.

"What—" Y/N pulled out her earbuds, heart lurching. "What's happening?"

No one stopped to answer. The tide of bodies pushed past her, and she stumbled sideways, grabbing a lamppost to steady herself. Then she saw it: a column of smoke rising from the base of the Chronicle building. Orange flames licked at a collapsed awning. Glass littered the street like crushed diamonds.

Oh god. That's the lobby.

Her feet started moving before her brain caught up. She had to get in there. Had to see if her coworkers—her editor, the layout team, Maria from HR who always gave her extra granola bars—were okay. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

"HEY!"

A blur of red and blue dropped from above, landing in front of her with a soft thud that cracked the asphalt. She yelped, skidding to a halt.

Spider-Man.

His lenses narrowed, body angled like he was about to grab her.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was modulated, sharp with urgency. "There's a gas leak—could blow again any second. Get back."

"I have to see if the people in that building are okay!" She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her, a wall of spandex and muscle.

"I'll check. You stay here." He pointed a gloved finger at the sidewalk behind her. "Don't move."

She barely registered that she'd just been ordered around by a superhero. Her heart was hammering. The smoke stung her nostrils. "I'm not just going to—"

He was already turning, preparing to leap. She took a step forward, following him.

A sharp thwip sliced through the air.

Something snapped around her right wrist—a rope of white webbing, sticky and warm, yanking her arm sideways. She stumbled, grunting, and found herself anchored to the handle of a police cruiser parked at the curb. The web held fast, elastic but unyielding.

"What the hell?!" She yanked at her wrist, but the webbing stretched and held. "Are you serious right now?!"

Spider-Man paused, tilting his head. She could almost hear the smirk behind the mask. "Nope. Wait here. I'll free you after I'm sure it's safe."

And then he was gone, a red streak disappearing into the smoke-filled doorway.

Y/N stood there, arm stretched awkwardly toward the cop car, jaw hanging open. People were still running past her, but the immediate panic was thinning. She looked at her wrist, at the white strands wrapped snugly around it, and felt a jolt—not of anger, but of something else.

The texture. The pressure. The slight give when she pulled.

Her breath caught.

She was in her bedroom. The lights were dim. Her wrist was bound to the bedpost with...not a rope...not a scarf...something else entirely. Her arms stretched above her head and a dark figure hovered over her. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his weight, his heat, the deep rumble of his voice against her ear.

"Stay still, baby. I'm not done with you yet."

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving her gasping on the sidewalk, knees weak.

What the fuck?

She shook her head violently, pressing her free hand to her flushed cheek. "I'm starting to feel like a fucking sex addict," she muttered under her breath. Of all the things to think about right now—tied to a car by Spider-Man—her brain was conjuring erotic flashbacks? With...Spider-Man? For all she knew, the guy was a forty-year-old accountant underneath that suit. He could be balding.

But he didn't move like a forty-year-old. And his voice, even through the modulator, had a certain quality—young, confident, teasing.

She shook her head again, harder. Stop it. Focus. The building.

A few minutes passed. The fire trucks arrived. EMTs started setting up a triage zone. Y/N strained her neck, trying to see if anyone was being carried out. She pulled at the web again, frustrated, but it held true.

Then Spider-Man emerged from the smoke, walking casually now, hands on his hips. He jogged over to her.

"Building's clear. No casualties. Gas leak was contained before it got worse. Minor injuries, but everyone's out." He reached for the web on her wrist and gave it a sharp tug setting her free.

She rubbed her wrist, red and slightly raw. "That wasn't cool. You could have just asked me to stay."

"I did. You didn't listen." He shrugged, the motion exaggerated by the suit's padding. "You should be more careful. People get hurt when they run toward explosions."

"I work there." She glared at him. "I was worried about my friends."

He was quiet for a second, his head tilted. She could feel his gaze through the white lenses, studying her. There was something familiar about the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

Then he straightened. "Bye."

And with a single leap, he was gone, swinging between buildings, disappearing into the Manhattan skyline before she could even respond.

Y/N stood there, mouth half-open, hand still rubbing her wrist. The phantom sensation of the web lingered—soft, taut, possessive. Her skin tingled where it had been wrapped.

Why does that feel like a memory I can't reach?

She stared up at the empty sky, the smoke still curling into the gray clouds.

And for some reason, her thighs pressed together.

Get a grip, Y/N. He's a stranger in a mask.

But her body didn't believe that. Not for a second.

The evening air did nothing to cool the heat lingering beneath Y/N's skin. After the chaos at the Chronicle building, after being webbed to a police car like some disobedient puppy, after the shredded remains of her dignity scattered across Sixth Avenue—she'd gone through the motions. Talked to her editor. Confirmed everyone was safe. Filed a preliminary report on the gas leak. Smiled at Maria's thanks.

But all the way home, her wrist tingled. The ghost of that webbing refused to fade.

Now she stood in her apartment, shoes kicked off, coat thrown over the armchair. The city lights bled through her window, painting amber stripes across her wooden floor. She should shower. Eat something. Answer the three texts Ned had sent asking if she was okay.

Instead, she grabbed her laptop and collapsed onto her bed, flipping it open.

YouTube.

Her fingers moved before she could talk herself out of it. She typed in the search bar: Spider-Man New York 2024.

The results flooded the screen. News clips. Fan edits. Compilations titled "Spider-Man's Top 10 Saves" and "Spider-Man Being a Menace for 12 Minutes Straight." She clicked the first one—a news report from two months ago, shaky cell phone footage of Spider-Man webbing a falling construction beam before it crushed a bus.

She watched it twice. Then a third time.

The comments section was a battlefield.

"whoever is under that suit is DEFINITELY packing i'm not taking questions"

"imagine getting railed by spider-man... the grip?? the stamina???"

"he literally fights crime every night and still has time to help old ladies cross the street... husband material"

"plot twist: he's actually a 50 year old dude with a beer belly and we're all just simping for spandex"

"even if he is 50 i'd still let him web me to the bed 🥴"

Y/N snorted despite herself, scrolling deeper. The thirst was real, embarrassingly real. These women were out there, posting paragraphs about what they'd let Spider-Man do to them. What they'd do to him. She felt a pang of something—not judgment, because who was she to judge—but recognition.

She'd felt that web around her wrist. She'd felt the possessiveness in that single thwip.

And God help her, she wanted to feel it again.

She clicked on another video. This one was different—a street interview, low-budget, filmed by someone's phone. The camera focused on Spider-Man, standing casually beside a hot dog cart, and standing next to him was a little boy—maybe eight years old, holding a notebook.

The interviewer says, "We've got a special guest today—this is Liam, and he wanted to ask Spider-Man a few questions."

Spider-Man crouched down to the boy's level. His lenses softened, tilted—the body language of someone genuinely engaged. He reached out and patted the kid's head, a casual, affectionate gesture.

"Go ahead, Liam. I'm all ears."

And he laughed—a low, warm chuckle that cut through the modulator like a blade through silk.

Y/N's breath hitched.

That laugh. She knew that laugh. It tickled something deep in her chest, a phantom sensation, like a voice calling from underwater. Her fingers tightened on the laptop. She replayed it. Once. Twice. Three times.

"I'm all ears."

The way he said it—teasing, gentle, familiar.

She shook her head, hard. You're projecting. Every guy laughs. It's not him. You don't even know who "him" is.

But her skin was prickling. Her thighs pressed together under the laptop.

She kept scrolling.

There was a Reddit link. r/SpiderManFantasies (NSFW). Her thumb hovered over it for a full ten seconds before she clicked.

The forum was a treasure trove of desperation. Women (and some men) posting photos they'd taken of Spider-Man mid-swing, or perched on a rooftop, or standing in the middle of a street after a rescue. The photos weren't explicit—they couldn't be, he was fully suited—but the captions were anything but.

"If I ever meet him I'm dropping to my knees immediately. That suit does NOT hide what he's working with."

"Imagine him pinning you down after a fight, all that adrenaline still pumping... you'd feel the bass in his chest."

"I don't even care what he looks like. I just want one night. ONE. NIGHT. With whoever is under that mask."

One post showed a blurry shot of Spider-Man crouched on a fire escape, his legs spread, the suit stretching taut across his thighs. The caption read: "I want to sit on his face and never get up."

Y/N closed the laptop so fast the screen clicked shut.

Her heart was hammering. Her cheeks burned. She pressed a hand to her forehead, groaning.

"I'm not above this," she whispered to the empty room. "I'm so far below this it's embarrassing."

She threw the laptop aside and flopped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The city hummed outside—distant sirens, a neighbor's TV, the low bass of a car passing by. Her skin felt too tight. Her cunt ached, a dull, persistent throb that had been living in her bones for weeks now.

The clock on her nightstand read 11:47 PM when Y/N finally collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her jeans and a thin camisole.

Sleep came heavy and reluctant.

---

She woke with a gasp, thighs pressed together, a dull throb between her legs.

The clock read 2:47 AM.

Her skin was damp with sweat. Her nipples were hard, rubbing against the cotton of her shirt. She'd been dreaming again—fragments of a body above her, weight pressing her into the mattress, a warm mouth trailing down her stomach. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel his hands. Strong, calloused, knowing exactly where to touch.

"I've got you, baby. I've always got you."

She threw an arm over her eyes, breathing hard. She was wet, aching, clenching around nothing. She slid a hand down her belly, into her underwear, her fingers finding her clit swollen and desperate.

She rubbed herself slowly, trying to chase a release that never came. She imagined the web wrapped around her wrist again. Spider-Man's lenses staring down at her. The low laugh from the video.

"Fuck," she whimpered, fingers moving faster. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. She could feel a shape just out of reach.

Her body remembered. Her mind didn't.

She pressed her palm harder, hips bucking, but the orgasm hovered like a mirage, untouchable. She let out a frustrated sob, pulling her hand away, her chest heaving.

Outside, on the fire escape, a shadow shifted.

Peter pressed his back against the brick wall, his own breathing uneven. He'd heard her whimper through the glass. Heard the wet sound of her fingers working. The whine of her frustration when she couldn't finish.

His cock was hard, straining against the suit. He'd come here to check on her after the explosion—to make sure she was safe, to watch her sleep like he did most nights. He hadn't expected this.

But he couldn't leave. Not while she was aching.

Not when he was the only one who could fix it.

He pressed a palm against the cold glass of her window, the mask hiding the anguish on his face. Soon, he told himself. Soon I'll find a way.

But for now, he just listened to her breathe, and hated the spell that kept them apart.

———

The knock that rattled Ned's door at 11 PM was frantic—three sharp, pounding hits, then a pause, then another. He barely had time to unlatch the lock before Y/N pushed past him into his apartment, her eyes wild, her hair a mess, her chest heaving like she'd run the whole way.

"Okay," she said, hands on her hips, pacing his narrow living room. "You were right. You were fucking right."

Ned closed the door slowly, crossing his arms. He was in sweatpants and an old band tee, clearly winding down for the night. "Right about what, exactly? Because I'm right about a lot of things."

She whirled on him, jaw tight. "The sex thing. The needing-to-get-laid thing. The I'm crawling out of my skin thing." She raked her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots. "It's not just being horny, Ned. It's like—" She stopped, struggling for words. "It's like my body is craving something specific. A specific touch. A specific rhythm. A specific person. But I don't know who or what. I don't remember. I just feel this ache that nothing fills."

Ned's teasing demeanor softened. He gestured to the couch, and she collapsed onto it, head in her hands.

He sat beside her, voice careful. "An ex? Someone you dated before? Maybe your brain locked away a breakup that hit you harder than you think."

She looked up, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost audible. "No. It's not an ex. I don't have any traumatic breakup memory. It's—" She groaned, frustrated. "I don't know. It feels like a ghost. A phantom limb."

Ned was quiet for a moment. Then he said, slowly, "Maybe you don't need to find that specific person. Maybe you just need to try someone new."

She blinked at him. The idea hung in the air, fresh and foreign.

"Someone new," she repeated, tasting the words.

"Someone who doesn't come with baggage or memories. Someone who can just—" He made a vague gesture. "Fuck you into forgetting whatever's haunting you. A clean slate. A hot body. A night of no strings."

She stared at him. Then, slowly, a nod. "Maybe you're right."

His grin spread wide. "I am right. And I know exactly how to start." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "There's that new nightclub in midtown. Opened last week. 'Velvet Underground.' It's got black lights, VIP booths, and supposedly a very attractive bartender who does body shots. I've been dying to go."

"A club," she said flatly.

"A club where you can find a guy—or girl, no judgment—who will take you home and fuck you until you forget your own name. That kind of club."

She chewed her lip. The idea terrified her. Thrilled her. She thought of her empty bed, the wet sheets, the incomplete orgasms. She thought of the phantom hands in her dreams.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Let's do it."

Ned clapped his hands together. "Yes. I'll text you the details. Wear something slutty. I'm talking a dress that says 'I'm here to get railed.'"

She laughed—a real laugh, shaky but genuine. "You're such a bad influence."

"Someone has to be."

They spent the next hour planning. What time to arrive. Which drinks to order. An exit strategy if the guy was a creep. Y/N felt lighter than she had in weeks, a fragile hope blooming in her chest.

---

Outside, pressed against the brick wall of the adjacent building, a figure in red and blue watched through the sliver of curtain left uncovered.

Peter's hands curled into fists.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Someone new.

The words echoed in his skull, each syllable a knife twist. She was going to let some stranger touch her. Some random guy from a club. He'd put his hands on her skin, his mouth on her throat...

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, muffled by the mask.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He pushed off the wall, landing silently on the fire escape below. His mind raced. He couldn't stop her—not directly. He couldn't reveal himself, couldn't break the spell. But he could intercept. He could follow. He could make sure that no one—no one—got close enough to touch what was his.

Even if she didn't remember it.

He swung into the night, a plan already forming. The club. He'd be there. Not as Spider-Man—too obvious. He'd ditch the suit, put on something tight, something that would make her look. He'd find her on the dance floor, buy her a drink, let the night unfold.

The hunt was on.

The strapless bodycon dress was a weapon, and Y/N knew it.

Black velvet hugged every curve from her collarbone to mid-thigh, the hem riding up just enough to make men's eyes glaze over. She'd paired it with strappy heels that made her legs look miles long and a thin silver necklace that caught the light. Her hair fell in loose waves, makeup smoky and deliberate.

Ned let out a low whistle when she stepped out of her bedroom. "Holy shit."

"Too much?" She tugged at the neckline nervously.

"Not enough. You're going to break necks tonight. Possibly some hearts too, but who's counting." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"

She took it, laughing. "Let's get me laid."

---

The Velvet Underground lived up to its name. The interior was all dark burgundy and dim gold lighting, with a massive dance floor pulsing under black lights that made white fabrics glow. Bodies moved together in a haze of sweat and bass, the air thick with perfume and alcohol.

They claimed a spot at the bar, and Ned ordered them both shots of tequila. "Warm-up," he shouted over the music.

Y/N downed hers, grimacing at the burn. A second followed. Then a third.

By the fourth, the edges of her anxiety had blurred into a pleasant haze. The bass thrummed through her bones, and she found herself swaying, scanning the crowd. Potential candidates everywhere—sharp jawlines, broad shoulders, confident grins.

None of them made her stomach flip.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Peter had planned this.

Tight black jeans that hugged his thighs and sat low on his hips. A simple white T-shirt, thin enough that the outline of his chest was visible when he moved. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms. He'd styled his hair messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and he wore that lazy half-smirk that had always made her knees weak.

Her favorite outfit.

He remembered the first time she'd seen him in it. They'd been dating for a few weeks, and he'd shown up at her door looking like this. She'd pulled him inside by his collar, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him so deep he'd seen stars. Her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling, while the other roamed down his stomach to palm him through the denim. She'd broken the kiss just to whisper against his lips, "You look so good it should be illegal. I want to ruin you."

And she had. For hours.

He carried that memory in his bones as he pushed open the club door, scanning the crowd with practiced casualness. His eyes landed on the bar.

There she was.

Strapless black dress. Hair loose. Cheeks flushed from alcohol. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—which was saying something, because he remembered every detail.

He pretended not to see her at first. Ordered a drink. Leaned against the bar, letting the black lights catch the contours of his arms.

Then Ned spotted him.

"Hey! Peter!"

Peter turned, feigning surprise. His eyes landed on Y/N, and he let them widen slightly—just enough. "Oh. Hey. Didn't expect to see you guys here."

Y/N's breath caught. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping. "Hi."

Just that. Hi. But the word came out breathy, almost involuntary.

Ned gestured him over. "Come join us. We're just warming up. Y/N's on a mission tonight."

"A mission?" Peter raised an eyebrow, sliding onto the stool beside her. Close enough that his knee brushed hers under the bar. "Sounds intriguing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words came out slurred. "M'sion... find someone... hot..."

Ned sighed. "I think the tequila hit faster than expected."

Peter smiled knowingly. She always did get tipsy fast. Three drinks and she'd be clinging to him, whispering dirty things in his ear. Four and she'd be begging to go home. Five and she'd be asleep before they hit the door.

"I can help you get her home," he offered, voice steady. "If you want."

Ned looked relieved. "God, yes. I was not looking forward to carrying her six blocks in those heels."

They helped her off the stool. Her legs wobbled, and she stumbled forward—

Right into Peter's arms.

Her palms landed flat on his chest. Her head tipped up, eyes glassy and unfocused. She blinked at him, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Wow. You're... strong."

His hands caught her waist, steadying her. The velvet of her dress was soft under his fingers, her skin warm beneath the fabric. He could feel the rapid flutter of her pulse.

He lowered his voice, letting it dip into that husky register she'd always loved. "Oh yea?"

She nodded, earnest and drunk. "Mmhm. Like... hero strong."

If only you knew.

Ned was already heading for the door, waving them along. Peter kept one arm around Y/N's waist, guiding her out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them, taxis honking, distant sirens, the buzz of neon signs.

The walk to her apartment was slow. She kept tripping on cracks, leaning into him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. At one point she looked up at him, squinting.

"You smell... familiar."

His chest tightened. "Good familiar or bad familiar?"

"Good." She nuzzled into his shoulder. "Really good."

Ned shot him a look—half curious, half amused. Peter just shrugged, playing it casual, though his heart was hammering.

They reached her building. Ned held the door while Peter helped her up the stairs. At her apartment door, she fumbled with her keys, nearly dropping them twice.

When she finally got it open, she turned around, throwing her arms around both of them in a messy group hug.

"Thank you," she mumbled into Ned's shoulder. "You're the best."

She pulled back, swaying slightly, and turned to Peter.

Her eyes met his.

The air between them thickened.

"You..." She reached up, touching his cheek with drunken clumsiness. Her thumb brushed his jawline. "You look so good tonight."

The words came out soft. Barely a whisper. Heavy with something she couldn't name.

Peter's throat tightened. He wanted to grab her, pull her inside, pin her against that door and remind her exactly what she was missing. He wanted to kiss that drunk confession off her lips and replace it with moans.

But not yet.

Not yet.

He smiled, gentle and aching. "Get some sleep, Y/N."

She blinked slowly, then ducked inside, closing the door with a soft click.

The lock turned.

Peter stood there for a long moment, hand pressed flat against the wood. He could hear her on the other side, shuffling, probably kicking off her heels.

"She say something?" Ned asked from behind.

"Just saying goodnight."

Ned hummed, unconvinced. "You know, for a guy who just met her, you're pretty invested."

Peter turned, keeping his face neutral. "She's a friend. I don't like seeing friends drunk and alone."

"Uh huh." Ned didn't push. "Well, thanks for the help. I'm gonna crash. See you around, Peter."

"Yeah. See you."

When Ned disappeared down the stairwell, Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He pressed his forehead to the door, listening. On the other side, he heard her humming—off-key, sleepy—as she padded toward her bedroom.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon she'll know.

But for tonight, he'd settle for knowing that even drunk and confused, she still thought he looked good.

That was enough.

For now.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of his apartment swallowed him whole.

Peter stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the wood, listening to the echo of her voice in his head. You look so good tonight. Drunk, slurred, honest. She'd meant it. Even without knowing who he was, her body remembered. Her eyes had traced the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, and something deep in her gut had stirred.

But she was inside, alone, probably already curled up in bed, dreaming of strangers.

And he was out here. Alone. Again.

He pushed off the door and walked to his kitchen, grabbing a glass of water he didn't want. The apartment was too quiet. Too empty. The walls seemed to press in on him, carrying the weight of every night he'd spent like this—restless, aching, watching the clock tick toward dawn while the city hummed outside.

It's hard when no one loves you and the ones you love can't remember you.

He set the glass down harder than intended. It cracked. Water spilled across the counter.

"Fuck."

He stood there, dripping, staring at his own reflection in the dark window. A stranger in his own life. Spider-Man saved people. Peter saved no one. Not even himself.

He loved being Spider-Man. Loved the rush of swinging between buildings, the wind in his face, the sound of sirens fading as he swooped in to help. Loved the gratitude in strangers' eyes when he pulled them from wrecks, the way kids pointed up at him with awe.

But Peter deserved his own life too. A job he didn't have to hide. Friends who called him by his real name. A girl who looked at him like he was the only man in the world.

He closed his eyes, and there she was. Y/N. Laughing. Touching his face. Whining his name in that breathless way she used to when he was inside her.

"You're so good, Peter. Fuck—don't stop—"

His hand curled into a fist.

Then his spider-sense flared.

Sharp. Urgent. Something wrong.

He sighed, heavy and resigned, and reached for the suit.

---

The city was cruel tonight.

He swung from rooftop to rooftop, the wind biting at the exposed skin of his face and hands. Below, the neon lights of Manhattan bled into puddles on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a woman screamed—he veered toward it, landing on a fire escape to find a mugger wrestling a purse from an elderly lady. He webbed the guy to a lamppost in seconds, returned the purse, and was gone before the woman could finish thanking him.

Two blocks over, a car crash. He helped pull a family out before the fuel line sparked.

A domestic disturbance. He talked a man down from a balcony ledge.

A break-in at a convenience store.

A fire on the Lower East Side.

He kept moving. Kept saving. Kept pretending that each life he touched filled the hole inside him.

But it didn't.

Because the whole time, in the back of his mind, he was thinking of her. Her safety. Her smile. The way she used to trace the scars on his shoulders after a bad fight, her voice soft with worry: "You can't keep doing this, Peter. One day you won't come back."

And he'd kissed her forehead and promised he'd always come back to her.

Now she didn't even know to wait.

---

He landed on a rooftop overlooking her building.

The lights were off in her apartment. She was asleep, probably still drunk, tangled in sheets that smelled like her perfume. He imagined her lips slightly parted, hair fanned across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He pulled out the photo he kept tucked inside his suit. Polaroid, edges worn from handling. Her smiling at the camera, hair messy, wearing his hoodie. She'd taken it one morning after they'd spent the whole night tangled together. He'd been making coffee, and she'd grabbed his phone, snapped the picture just as he turned around.

"So I can look at you even when you're gone," she'd said.

He didn't know she'd end up being the one gone.

He pressed his thumb to her face, tracing the curve of her smile.

Soon.

Soon, he'd find a way. Something drastic. Something that would break through the spell's hold and make her remember—or at least make her feel it, even if she couldn't name it.

Soon, he'd be inside her apartment. Inside her. Reminding her exactly what she was missing.

But for now, he tucked the photo back, turned toward the next siren, and launched himself into the night.

For her. Always for her.

The bell above the door chimed, and Peter walked in like he owned the place.

Y/N looked up from the register, head pounding, eyes barely open. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she was pretty sure she still smelled like last night's cheap perfume and regret. The hangover was a dull throb behind her eyes, a punishment for every shot Ned had convinced her to take.

She squinted at him. Him. The guy with the dangerous smile and the bracelet she didn't remember giving him.

"Morning," she grumbled, not even trying to sound pleasant.

He grinned. Actually grinned, like her misery was the highlight of his day. "Someone had fun last night."

"Someone regrets everything."

He laughed—that low, easy sound that did something annoying to her stomach—and walked past her to the counter. "Just the usual, please."

She turned to make it, moving slow, her head throbbing with every step. The espresso machine hissed, and she winced.

Behind her, she heard the door open again—a small commotion, a child's voice. She glanced over her shoulder.

A little boy, maybe seven or eight, had run in too fast, his backpack swinging. He collided with the table where Peter had set his bag, sending it toppling. But before it could hit the ground, Peter's hand shot out, catching it mid-air with reflexes too fast, too precise.

"Sorry, mister!" the boy said, eyes wide.

Peter just smiled, crouching down to the kid's level. "It's okay, buddy. No harm done." And he reached out, ruffling the boy's hair with an easy, affectionate motion.

Y/N froze.

The gesture. The way his fingers moved through the dark strands, the gentle mock-scolding in his tone. It was exactly how Spider-Man had ruffled that kid's hair in the interview she watched online. She'd watched the clip multiple times, her body heating each time—the way those gloved fingers had been so careful, so human, beneath the mask.

She blinked, shaking off the thought. No. That's ridiculous. Lots of people ruffle kids' hair.

But something nagged at her. The precision of the catch. The casual confidence. The way he moved.

Peter straightened, catching her stare. His eyebrow arched. "Something wrong?"

She realized she'd been staring. Heat crept up her neck. "No. Nothing. Your coffee."

She shoved the cup toward him, maybe a little too aggressively. He took it, amused, and leaned against the counter instead of leaving like a normal person.

She needed to get this over with.

"Listen," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "About last night. I was... a lot. I know I was all over you, and I'm sorry. I don't usually—I mean, I was drunk, and Ned was being an ass, and—"

"Cute."

She stopped. "What?"

"You were cute." He took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim. "Not 'a lot.' Cute."

Her face burned. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came out. Just a stupid, flustered silence.

He smiled—that knowing, crooked smile that made her knees weak—and pushed off from the counter. "See you around, Y/N."

He walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

She stood there, heart hammering, watching him disappear down the street.

Fuck.

She touched her cheek. It was hot. She was blushing like a teenager. And worst of all, she was thinking about him—the scent of his cologne, the strength in his hands when he'd caught that bag, the way his voice had dipped when he said "cute."

She shook her head, turning back to the register.

But as she wiped down the counter, her mind wandered. To Spider-Man. To Peter. To the way both of them made her feel seen in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe I have a crush on him.

She bit her lip.

Or maybe I'm just that desperate.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. There was something about him. Something familiar. Something that pulled at the edges of her memory, just out of reach.

And somewhere across the city, swinging between rooftops, Peter smiled to himself, her blush burned into his mind.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you'll remember.

The city was settling into dusk, streetlights flickering to life as Y/N walked home, her bag slung over one shoulder. The hangover had faded to a dull ache, replaced by the restless energy that had been gnawing at her all day. She was thinking about Peter—the way he'd laughed, the way his hand had caught that bag, the way he'd called her cute.

She was so lost in thought she almost missed the commotion.

A sharp cry. An old man's voice, cracked with panic. "Help! Someone help!"

Y/N's head snapped up. Across the street, a figure in a hoodie was sprinting away, an old leather bag clutched under his arm. Behind him, an elderly man stumbled, reaching out helplessly.

"Hey!" Y/N didn't think. She ran.

Three blocks. Her lungs burned, her legs pumping, the thief weaving through pedestrians. She was fast—she'd always been fast—but he was younger, more desperate. He ducked into a narrow alley, reeking of garbage and stale urine.

She followed without hesitation.

The alley was dark, shadows pooling like liquid. She could hear his footsteps echoing, slowing. He was cornered. She rounded a corner, ready to tackle him—

And then he was gone.

No. Not gone. Pinned.

A figure in red and blue dropped from above, landing silently. The thief was already webbed to a wall, the bag dangling from Spider-Man's hand. The hero turned to her, the white lenses of his mask catching the faint light.

"You really need to stop running into danger," he said, his voice modulated, teasing.

Y/N's heart pounded—not from the chase, but from him. From the way he stood, the way he moved.

She tried to step forward, to get a better look at the thief, to see where he'd gone into the darkness—

A thwip. A strand of web shot out, catching her wrist, yanking it to the brick wall beside her.

She stared at her hand, pinned by the familiar white silk. Again.

"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, yanking at the web. It held firm. "You can't just—"

"Watch and learn," Spider-Man said, and in two quick moves, he had the thief subdued, the bag retrieved, a police call tapped into his comm—all while she stood there, helpless, a memory flickering in the back of her mind.

Webs. Restraint. A voice whispering in the dark. Hands on her wrists, pinning her down. A body pressing against hers, the rough texture of a suit, the heat beneath it.

She blinked, the image dissolving like smoke.

He was in front of her now, the old man's bag tucked under one arm. He reached up and flicked the web on her wrist. It dissolved instantly, dropping her hand.

"You're free," he said. "Now go home. It's not safe."

She rubbed her wrist, glaring at him. "You can't just do that whenever you want! I was helping! I could have—"

She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at his chest plate. "You don't get to decide when I'm in danger! You don't get to just—"

She pushed him. Hard. He didn't move, but she kept going, frustration boiling over, her hands flat against his chest—

And then her foot caught on a loose piece of asphalt.

She stumbled forward, off-balance, straight into him.

Her body collided with his, her hands instinctively grabbing his arms to steady herself. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps, the fabric of his suit smooth and textured beneath her palms.

And something clicked.

The feel of it—the tight compression, the subtle ribbing, the exact way the material hugged the muscle underneath—sent a shiver through her. Her eyes widened. She didn't know why, but her hands began to move, sliding down his arms slowly, almost reverently. She felt the curve of his shoulders, the strength of his forearms, the way his muscles tensed under her touch.

She looked up.

The mask stared back at her, white lenses unreadable. But she could feel him watching her, feel the sudden stillness in his body.

Her breath caught. She could see him beneath the mask. Not his face, but something else. A feeling. A memory just out of reach.

I know you. I've felt you before.

She lifted a hand, reaching for his mask, her fingers trembling—

He stepped back.

Just one step, but it was enough to break her hold. Her hand hung in the air, empty.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tighter now, less playful. He set the bag down. "The police are on their way. Stay safe."

And before she could say another word, he was gone—a blur of red and blue vanishing into the night sky, leaving her alone in the dark alley, the old man's bag at her feet, her skin still tingling where she'd touched him.

She stood there, heart racing, frustration and confusion twisting in her chest.

Why does he feel so familiar?

She clenched her fists. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue, a name she couldn't remember, a face she couldn't see.

And yet, he's a stranger.

She bent down, picked up the bag, and walked out of the alley, her mind churning.

Who are you?

The question echoed in the empty space where Spider-Man had been. And somewhere, high above, hidden in the shadows, Peter watched her go, his hands shaking, his heart aching with the weight of everything she didn't remember.

——————————

The bell above the café door chimed, and Y/N's heart did a little flip she immediately suppressed.

Peter walked in, all easy confidence in a loose black t-shirt and those worn jeans that hung just right on his hips. He ran a hand through his hair—still slightly damp, like he'd just showered—and gave her a small smile as he approached the counter.

"Morning, Y/N."

She should have said something. She should have smiled back, asked for his usual order, made some casual remark about the weather. But her mind was still reeling from last night. The alley. The webs. The way her hands had traced the suit's texture like her fingers remembered what her brain couldn't.

Instead, she just nodded, her movements mechanical as she punched in his order. "Americano."

He blinked, clearly noticing her clipped tone. "Yeah. Thanks."

She turned to make the coffee, her back to him, feeling his gaze on her. She could sense the question in his silence—what's wrong?—but she couldn't bring herself to address it. She didn't know what to say. Hey, I think you might be the superhero who's been haunting my dreams and my subconscious sex life, but I can't be sure, so just pretend everything's normal.

She slid the cup across the counter. He took it, their fingers almost brushing. She pulled back too fast.

"Thanks," he said again, slower this time, searching her face.

She just nodded and turned to wipe down the counter, even though it was already clean.

The café was quiet—a lull between the morning rush and the lunch crowd. Ned was in the back, restocking cups, humming something under his breath. Y/N busied herself with meaningless tasks, acutely aware of Peter settling into his usual table by the window, pulling out his phone.

He didn't look at her again. Or maybe he did, in brief glances she pretended not to notice.

After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his shirt up just slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach. Y/N's eyes tracked it before she forced them away.

"Bathroom," he said, more to announce it than anything, and disappeared through the back hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut, Ned emerged from the stockroom, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Okay. Now's my chance."

Y/N frowned. "What chance?"

Ned didn't answer. He darted to Peter's table, where the worn leather messenger bag sat propped against the chair leg.

"Ned, what the hell—"

"Shh." He was already crouching, unzipping the bag with practiced ease. "He's so mysterious. I just want to snoop a little. See if he's hiding anything interesting."

Y/N's heart lurched. "Stop! Put that back." She hissed, crossing the café in three quick strides. "What are you doing? That's his private stuff—"

"Relax, I'm just looking." Ned's hands moved through the bag's contents—a wallet, a phone, a protein bar wrapper, a small notebook. "Boring, boring, boring. How does this guy have no personality in his bag?"

"Ned, I swear to God—"

He pulled out a crumpled piece of fabric. Dark red and blue, folded into a rough square.

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, he's a fan."

He unfolded it, and Y/N's breath caught in her throat.

It was a mask. A Spider-Man mask. The white lenses stared up at her, empty and familiar.

Ned held it up, smirking. "See? Fanboy. Probably wears it to bed or something." He scoffed, tossing it carelessly back into the bag. "Guess even mysterious guys have heroes."

But Y/N wasn't listening.

She reached down, her fingers trembling, and picked up the mask. The fabric was cool against her skin. She ran her thumb across the surface—the subtle ribbing, the tight weave, the exact texture that had pressed against her palms last night.

The same texture.

Her blood ran cold.

She remembered the alley. The way her hands had slid down Spider-Man's arms. The way the suit had felt beneath her fingers. The way her body had known it, even when her mind couldn't.

This was the same mask. The same fabric. The same—

She looked up. Ned was staring at her, his smirk fading into confusion. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She was holding Spider-Man's mask.

Peter's mask.

Peter is Spider-Man.

The realization hit her like a freight train, knocking the air from her lungs. She stood there, frozen, the fabric clutched in her hands, the truth burning through her.

He's the one who saved me. He's the one who webs me to walls. He's the one who watches me from the shadows.

He's the one I've been dreaming about.

She thought of the dreams—the vivid, explicit dreams where Spider-Man's voice had whispered filthy things in her ear, where his hands had pinned her down, where his body had moved inside hers like he knew every inch of her. The dreams where she had arched into him, moaning, pleading, coming undone.

Her face flushed, her thighs pressing together involuntarily.

Oh God.

She had been dreaming about him. About the man who had been coming into her café, smiling at her, teasing her, touching her—and she hadn't known.

But her body had.

Her body had remembered.

"Y/N?" Ned's voice was sharper now. "Put it back. He'll be out any second."

She forced her hands to move, folding the mask roughly and shoving it back into the bag. She zipped it closed just as the bathroom door creaked open.

Peter emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. He glanced at them—Ned standing awkwardly by the table, Y/N frozen behind the counter—and his brow furrowed.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" Ned said, too quickly. "Great. Just—telling Y/N about a thing. A thing I saw. Bye."

He scurried back to the stockroom, leaving Y/N alone with Peter.

He walked to the counter, picking up his coffee, his eyes studying her. "You sure you're okay? You seem... off today."

She couldn't look at him. She stared at the counter, at the espresso machine, at anything but his face.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "Just tired."

He didn't push. He just nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "Alright. I'll see you later, then."

He turned and walked out, the bell chiming behind him.

Y/N stood there, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

Peter is Spider-Man.

And she had been dreaming of him fucking her senseless.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid thrum of her pulse. A strange mix of fear, confusion, and something else—something hot and hungry—coiled in her stomach.

She had questions. So many questions.

But more than that, she had a need.

A need to find out if the dreams were somehow real.

----------

you roll your eyes, tutting loud and annoyed. “no ‘good morning baby.’ no, ‘you look so beautiful this morning. sorry for waking you up.’ you’re asking if i have panties on. i should kick you out on the street.”

bakugou’s smirk grows, he can deal with you pissy in the morning. in fact, this is exactly how he wants you. looking at him like he’s dirt on the bottom of your shoe, ready to slap him across his face for being crude.

he’s missed you. he wants you.

you eye his golden biceps. muscled and juicy in his tight thick tank. the bulletproof material hugs his pectorals, every ab and points his nipples. you ignore your name tattooed in cursive on his collarbone, the first and last letters peeking out of either side of his left strap. there’s leftover black eye makeup under his eyebrow and sweet sweat all over his body that makes him look similar to a glazed doughnut. he pull off his trousers last, leaving him in these black shorts he wears underneath. you can see his thighs tense as he lands back on both feet, his stupid thigh tattoo being revealed for a split second before hiding beneath the fabric.

bakugou should be exhausted after working for eighteen hours straight, he usually is. but fuck, if you don’t give him a new lease of life.

“good morning my sweet baby,” he coos, almost mockingly, just enough syrup laced in the words to keep you looking at him, albeit still frowning. he steps in closer to you, fingers gripping your chin, “been thinkin’ about you.”

you look up, head tilted in his grasp expectantly. he should be kissing you, right smack on your lips as a hello, maybe even an apology for waking you up.

instead, you follow his ruby pupils as they flicker over your face. lastly, staring at your lips. not kissing them. you hate how easily your body reacts to his proximity after how long he’s been yours, after him being so annoying.

your heart races when you can feel the heat of his body beaming onto your shorter one. you relax at the touch of his hand, any second now and you’re about to lean into his palm. you hate how even the sweaty smell of working on the streets, lingers loudly and warms you from the centre out. you’re one big reactive nerve for your boyfriend, ready to jump and rub up on him like a cat in heat.

“sorry for wakin’ you from your beauty sleep, princess,” he bends in closer to you, his pretty face right in yours. plucked eyebrows, shaven face, a streak of dirt on his cheek. then he smirks, slow and sexy, “is that enough for you?”

at that, you yank out of his grip, slapping his hand off your face. “why are you being so annoying?” you whine, spinning around to go back to your bedroom. “don’t follow me!”

bakugou’s always been good with following rules but he’s choosing not to today. he bounces after you, right on your tail as you push open the door to your bedroom.

your crumpled white bedsheets, one side lifted over from where you were laying before. there’s a box of condoms on the side of your bed he claimed, left from the last time he was around.

“nuh-uh, i meant it. sorry for wakin’ you. i know you hate mornin’s,” he brushes his lips against your ear when he speaks, his hands finding your waist and he’s not surprised by how you lean into him.

“you need to go shower, stinky,” you mumble with a pout.

despite everything, you’re a fool for his attention.

“i will, i will,” he mumbles, slowly pushing you back onto your bed.

you fall back with ease, head on your pillow and bakugou climbs over on top of you. he’s got one of his knees between yours, hands on either side of your shoulders.

you adjust your hips to wrap your legs around his waist and ignoring his own face on your tee, he looks between your legs.

“ah, so you do have panties on,” he grins, hooking his finger on the fabric at your hip and pinging it to your skin.

you slap his hand, still in a mood, “ouch, idiot. obviously, i do.”

your fiery glare serves as loving warmth and heat at bakugou’s crotch. your eyebrows are furrowed yet your legs tighten around his waist. your fingers fiddle with his clothes, adjusting his tank making sure the straps are equal. you’re fighting against him with that cute little pout. bakugou likes when you’re about to snap, he hardly gets you like this.

“y’gonna let me take ‘em off, beautiful?” he plays, rubbing his thumbs over the fabric of them, your pubic hair peeping out the top.

you pinch his bronzed side, “no. say sorry and greet me properly.”

bakugou grunts a laugh, both hands finding your hips and pulling you to his crotch. he notices how you inhale at the feel of his thickness, blink a few extra times.

“i’m not sorry for wakin’ you up. i wanted to see you,” bakugou knows the rules. happy life, happy wife. agree with everything your girlfriend says. but he’s in the mood to push, play with you a little.

you stifle a yawn beneath your palm at the same time birds chime outside. the morning sun is peeping out below your curtains and in this moment, you’re both levelled with how quiet it is.

“say sorry for forgetting your keys and making me climb out of bed to get you.”

“but then i wouldn’t have you and your little attitude lookin’ like you wanna bite me.”

you flick his forehead, your voice in need of some water this early, “so this is an attempt to seduce me? annoying me out of my panties?”

bakugou shakes his head with a grin, his hair thick with the grime of the day. “i don’t needa seduce you anymore. i bet i could slide right in. i bet you want me to.”

you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. you refuse to touch him but your legs stay put.

“not true. we aren’t kids in a playground. you don’t have to be mean because you have a crush on me.”

“more than a crush. i love you,” he breathes, ducking into your neck to lay a few kisses down. he kisses a trail up to your jaw, lightly biting down on your skin. the angle pushes his cock between your legs and you fight the urge to grind up into him.

“you haven’t even kissed me hello,” you whine, gritting your teeth. “you’ve been mean to me.”

he lays a kiss to the corner of your lips. “is that all my baby wants? just a kiss?”

he’s got you all softened, he knows it. your eyes turn down at the edges, your lips keep twitching every time his face gets closer, your arms wrap around his neck to keep him close.

you nod slowly, “i’ve been telling you.”

“yeah? sorry, baby. it’s been a long day, f’me,” bakugou grins against your lips before slotting his over yours.

he focuses on your bottom lip. sucking your flesh until it’s tender, feeling all your limbs tighten around him and your hips rub against his cock. you’re so reactive when you’re sleepy, like your body is just acting on need and instinct.

once he gets a long sweet moan out of you, complete with a cute, “kats,” bakugou tilts his head to slink his tongue into your mouth. it’s wet, messy and slow. he works you like you’re a puzzle to unwind, to get you as relaxed as possible so he can fuck you back to sleep. you let him take control, all the fight slowly spilling out of your body.

it’s you that’s needy now, his plan all coming together.

he licks around your mouth. sucks on your tongue in order to draw a few more moans from you. you twitch beneath him, fingers grabbing at his tank top.

“kats, please,” you whine, spit connecting your lips to his.

bakugou kisses it away. he rumbles against you, gives you a grind against your core in return. it gets your back arching, a gasp pulled out of your throat.

“what, baby?” he grunts, so sure his arousal has taken over his face. “say it to me.”

“take off my panties. let me feel you,” you say loud and clear, never shy about your needs. bakugou’s always loved that about you, especially in the early days when he could never spit the words out.

bakugou works quickly, lifting your hips to grab your comfy floral panties. he pulls them up off your legs and he wants to stare at you, needy and ready for him but he’s distracted by something, “might need you to take off the tee too. don’t wanna be lookin’ at my face when i’m lovin’ you.”

you look down at his crumpled face, mid cursing in his hero uniform on your tee. “don’t wanna. it’s cold.” you pull up the fabric, resting it all on your breasts to reveal your stomach. “there.”

bakugou grunts, shoving the fabric under your chin. your breasts rise and fall with every breath and he doesn’t miss the goosebumps that prickle around your nipples, “there we go. i’ll keep you warm.”

you roll your eyes, a smile about to break, “get naked, hero. then i can go back to sleep.”

bakugou chuckles under his breath, unable to take his eyes off your face. the curve of a smile appearing and the squint of your eyes. he’s gonna treat you good, now and forever after.

bakugou pulls off his tank with the skill of a model in a perfume advertisement, sexy and purposeful, giving you enough time to skim down his body.

immediately, your hand flies to a spot just below his armpit, “you have a bruise! where were your sidekicks? did you take them?”

bakugou is quick to shush you, “wasn’t from patrol. was sparrin’ with them.”

“oh,” you whisper, resting your hand over the purplish spot, bakugou adjusts to shuffle out of his shorts and underwear in one go. “they need to go easier on you.”

then you look between his legs. you hope he doesn’t go easy on you.

“no the fuck they don’t. i let them have this one. they didn’t get ninety nine percent of their shots.” he replies, taking his cock in his hand before you can.

bakugou has a gorgeous cock, one you speak about when you’ve had too many cocktails and beg for when he walks out the shower with a towel low on his waist. you’re about to start, pulling him to you by your legs at the sight of his scarred hand looking somewhat small when he gives himself a few pumps.

“okay, honourable senpai. you’re so kind letting your protégés hit you for a confidence boost.”

bakugou smirks, just like he knows how to rile you up, you know how to him. “you sure you wanna talk like this now?”

you smile, ignoring him, “get a condom, you’re already leaking.”

you brush your thumb over his head, swiping his pre and sticking it in your mouth.

“fuck,” bakugou gulps, stretching to grab one from his bedside table. “you win, whatever.”

“yay me.”

it’s exactly what you both wanted. bakugou stuffs a pillow under your back, grips your hips and slides completely into you.

you’re a little tight this morning with no foreplay but it’s a stretch you welcome. bakugou’s already panting, stumbles of swears and even a “get it to-fuckin’-gether,” to himself when you accidentally clench around him.

“h-hold on, baby,” you say, eyes closed as you find the best spot.

he feels so good inside you, thick and hugging, so close to prodding your favourite parts.

“you good?” he flicks his gaze away from where you join to your face, lips parted.

“hm, yeah. there we go,” you only needed a few seconds. “move. move, kats.”

bakugou begins his thrusts short and controlled, testing the waters before he can really go how he wants. you feel incredible, amazing, wet and warm and like the love of his life.

he’s already given you his soul, but during sex is when he offers you more and more.

“i love you. fuckin’ love you so much,” he stutters through pants. every thrust louder with a pat pat pat. “been thinkin’ about you all day. comin’ to you. seein’ your lil face.”

you’re listening to every word but you can’t manage to reply to each comment. “faster, baby. harder.”

you can really smell him now. the smell of the day now becoming sweaty sex. your eyes roll back into your head, your clit pulses in need.

bakugou listens like you’re his north star guiding him home. he plants his knees into your mattress and thrusts. harder, controlled yet always careful of you.

“oh fuck,” you moan, slapping your hands onto his back to pull him in closer to you. his thrusts are strong, every single one sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “fuck, fuck, fuck, kats. oh, i love you. love this so much.”

you’re rambling, unable to think straight and the harder bakugou goes, your headboard begins to rattle against the wall.

you both couldn’t care less.

it’s a bundle of moans, body parts that have no beginning or end. your bonnet is falling off your head, some of bakugou’s left over eye makeup has smudged into a sweaty substance by his eyebrow. it gets too much when he pushes your knees by your temples, getting you into a mating press.

you sneak your pointer and middle fingers between your legs to rub on your clit. you do swift circles, already lubricated by your own come.

every thrust has you inching further up the bed to the point, bakugou stops thrusting for a second to pull you to the centre of the bed.

“pillow. under your head baby,” he reminds you and as soon as you move to grab it, he’s back to those sweet skilful thrusts.

one hand on your clit, another flat on his clenched abdomen.

“you’re so—,” you start, losing yourself as a spark of electricity shakes down your legs. your dam is about to break any second now. “so beautiful.”

bakugou huffs, sweat beads bumbling on his forehead. your breasts jiggle with every motion, your hand falling on his chest with every shake.

“thank you, baby. you’re everythin’ to me. you know that.”

you nod, eyes lazed, “i do. i know.” then your mouth gapes open and you release a long mewl. you grab at his side, back arching as your hand speeds up on your clit. “i’m gonna come. i’m gonna come, baby.”

bakugou keeps up his pace, ignoring the tightness of his lower stomach. you’re always first. “i’ll look after you. come on, baby.”

you fall apart loudly. incoherent mumbles where bakugou can only make out wisps of his name and a screech from the back of your throat that makes him grin. your body jolts up and down your bed throughout it all, your toes going numb as your legs stiffen in the air. the pleasure is immense, a stream of rushing waves slapping against rocks. you want to tell him to slow down but he knows without you saying.

bakugou does slow down and the second he does, he spills into the condom with a grunt deep enough to make you come again. it comes from the pit of his stomach, all the exhaustion and stress of the day falling off his shoulders and into this bed with you.

bakugou pulls the condom off, ties it and throws it in your bin across the room. then does he finally, lay beside you in bed.

“thanks for that. needed it,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder.

both of you lay with your eyes closed, too sweaty to touch the other so you just brush your fingertips against his.

“you’re welcome,” you giggle before turning into a downturned smile, “we need to shower—.”

bakugou pulls up the duvet over your bodies, mentally resigned, “no, we can do that when we wake up and change the sheets.”

“but—,”

“you’re about to fall asleep. let yourself,” he whispers, adjusting your tee down your body and spooning you from behind. he kisses the top of your head, “goodnight, baby.”

“it’s the morning.”

“i said goodnight.”

bakugou looks for your snappy reply back but you’re already gone, fast asleep with a palm under your head.

however, the grin drops from the blonde’s face and his eyes turn to the shape of saucers. his gun clatters to the floor as your eyes sweep over the room, his bloody attire, the silver glock and lastly the inhuman looking man everybody is celebrating. every negative emotion crosses through your face in a split second, though the strongest were disgust and fear on top of the pure shock. there was no mistake in it all, the gunshot came from your boyfriend and the bullet is between the eyes of the dead man on the ground.

you weren’t meant to see that.

so you ran. you ran out of katsuki’s office, with his calls of your name following behind you, slamming your hand on the button of the elevator and getting a glimpse of him before the door closes. he looked even crazier out of the dark room, now with the piercing white light from the hallway, the blood on his shirt was brighter, deeper. it was fresh. you needed to go now.

the lift was faster than bakugou’s journey down the stairs and whilst he had to find somebody to get his car keys, you just hopped in your car and drove with so many buzzing thoughts in your head, it just became silent.

but bakugou was too fast for you. his body, his car, his mind, so as soon as you thought you were safely in your apartment, the large 6’5 figure comes pushing himself through the door you were shaking to lock. the same man, the man that was here this morning, arms wrapped around your waist with kisses down your neck, basked in the golden sunlight doesn’t look… the same. he looks filled to the peak with adrenaline, hair sticking up in haphazard angles, chest heaving from the chase and you realise there are even splatters of blood on his leather shoes.

at first, he’s borderline attacking you for feeling so shaken up. he’s never been one on the defensive, bakugou katsuki attacks and fights until people believe what he wants, till he gets what he wants. but it’s only making things worse.

“you fuckin’ knew i do this shit! you knew when you got with me that this is a part of my life!” he’s pointing a finger at you accusatively, stomping over like a lion coming after its prey. you’re shrinking in your apartment under his gaze, nothing like the blissful morning you both had together. like you both would have had tomorrow if you just stayed home.

you’re crying, your nose is running, you have a hand on your forehead, a telltale sign that your brain is pounding against your skull from everything.

your eyes squeeze shut like if you squeeze any tighter he might disappear. “i know! i know! this doesn’t mean i wanted to see a dead man beaten bloody and shot between the eyes, katsuki!”

the last syllable of his name cracks on your tongue at the same time the memory of how your boyfriend looked at the scene played in your head again. eyes glazed over in something you could only call insanity, pupils were blown wide with the craziest grin you’ve seen. his fists were swollen like rocks and the gun in his hand almost looked at home.

honestly, he looked the same now, minus the grin. his lip is curled in a cruel snarl as he fights with himself as to how to approach this situation. how do you convince somebody you’re not who they just saw you to be? but then he is that person, same way he’s the same person you wake up beside and softly kiss when you see him for the first time in a day.

katsuki pauses in his steps towards you like you’ve put up a forcefield to protect yourself. you’re scared, scared of him. “please leave katsuki. leave now.” you tremble, one arm wrapped around your stomach as your other hand still rests on your forehead.

he softens, ruby eyes playing ping pong to every part of your body. it’s like someone’s pulled the plug to a bathtub, all the high emotions raging through his blood before, gone down the drain. he lifts an arm to you before dropping it almost immediately. “but… but i can run you a bath or make you a tea for your head or…” he pleads. he pleads like he’s nothing without you. someways he is.

“n—no, you gotta go. now.”

now, bakugou sits behind the wheel of his car, still outside your apartment. he tries to convince himself that this overwhelming sense of loss doesn’t exist. he got rid of that emotion years ago, he’s never had any need for it in a life where people go every day just for disrespecting him. he could drink his thoughts away, punch a wall to get his anger out or get so high he forgets about you.

instead, he becomes another man on earth that lost the love of his life. he lets himself cry, these violent wails that shake through his body and make his throat dry. he dwells on how fucking stupid he was to let you in his life knowing it was inevitable you’d leave, how he wants to murder whoever let you through to see him but he never thinks anything negative about you. he gets it. not everybody is meant to see that shit.

so after a while, he thrusts his car keys into the slot. the familiar rumble of his car isn’t comforting to his ears, knowing he’s driving away from you with no clue as to when he’ll see you again. but he sits up nevertheless, runs a hand through his hair and starts driving. though he doesn’t wipe his cheeks. there’s no point when the tears keep falling.

when bakugou wakes up the next day, sprawled out in only his underwear on his sofa with a sharp pain in his neck, he takes to texting you. yes, he knows it’s a stupid idea, he needs to be giving you space. letting you choose whether to come back to him.

katsuki 7:21am: I’m sorry

katsuki 7:21am: I love you

then he sits up and tugs his hair for being so fucking careless and idiotic the day before. why the fuck did he start shouting at you? with a loud groan, he rubs his face and scrolls through his contacts to find a guy that can shadow you during this break you’re taking from him. if he can even call it a break.

yn 8:16am: i love you too

that’s been the only thing keeping him going through the week. but even with that he can’t help but think, is love enough to keep a relationship going?

after his outburst in your apartment, bakugou’s got no clue how to approach you now. so he buries himself ocean deep in work to keep his mind off it all. he figures you can come to him when you’re ready to prevent him from making everything worse. but the excited energy from his brothers about taking down the head of the rival mafia family is pissing him the fuck off. what’s there to be happy about if he lost you in the process?

it also doesn’t help that when bakugou swears he’ll give you space and leave you alone, kaminari, one of his right hand men calls him. he’s the one bakugou’s put to shadow you to make sure you’re still safe and alive since he can’t check himself.

“hi, boss! it’s about yn!”

already the upbeat tone of kaminari’s voice makes bakugou pinch his nose bridge.

“alright. what’s wrong with her? is she in danger?”

“i know you only wanted me to call for emergencies but i feel like i should let you know anyway ‘cause apart from this everything’s been pretty normal with school, work, drinking overpriced coffee—,”

“fuckin’ spit it out or god so help me when i see you next—,”

an awkward laugh comes from the other end, “fuck, okay, well she’s currently sitting on the bench in the park crying. like really crying.”

bakugou blanks, “what park is it?”

“central.”

“okay.”

he hates when you cry. the last time he saw you, you cried. is it because of him? somebody else? is it his place to come find you and comfort you?

“ah, i guess that was useless to share then. sorry for the call boss, won’t happen again!”

bakugou sighs, rubbing a hand across his face, “no, no it’s fine. tell me this shit.”

it’s been seven days, fifteen hours and seventeen seconds since bakugou katsuki has seen you last. if you ask, he hasn’t been counting.

“boss, there’s this woman that wants to see you. she says her name is honey.”

bakugou blinks like he can’t believe his ears. you came back to him. you came back. or well so he hopes. this might be your last goodbye.

“send her up.”

when you step into his office, you look like yourself. you look pretty… beautiful, so familiar it makes him want to stand up and tuck you into his chest. your dress is cute, one he’s never seen before so he knows it’s from the shop kaminari mentioned in passing. you’re nothing like his last memory of you, tearful and pained. you look calm though he can tell with how your hand clenches your bag that you’re a little nervous. you don’t have to be.

“i didn’t think you were listenin’ when i said to always use a fake name with people that look dangerous.”

a breathy laugh leaves your lungs as you seat yourself in the guest chair before his desk. your fingers fiddle with your bag strap. “you shoulda told me that before i met you.”

it was supposed to be a joke, but the tension in the room makes it come out half-heartedly. bakugou’s eyes widen, mouth agape like he doesn’t know what to say to that. you settle your hands between your thighs in your lap. you attempt to backtrack, “honey’s my favourite nickname you give me.”

it feels like he’s in purgatory. stationary between both heaven and hell, so close to you that your perfume is almost making him roll his eyes to the back of his head but mentally you seem so far. like there’s a brick wall you haven’t permitted him to knock down.

“i thought it was pretty girl. you always kiss me when i say that.”

you take your time to analyse him, you can tell he’s not up to par like he usually is. sure anybody else would think so, the changes aren’t blatant but they’re still there in your eyes. the lack of his tiny gold hoops in his ears, the crease of his black shirt by the pocket which is unnoticeable behind his blazer and his unplucked eyebrows. that was your job, his head laying on your lap at home while you pulled out stray hairs.

“it woulda been a bit weird if i said that was my name to the guys downstairs. they probably wouldn’t have called up to you.”

a tiny smile crosses bakugou’s lips, “true. you’d sound like an amateur cam girl with first pick of usernames.”

you look down at your lap to fight a smile, the atmosphere getting too comfortable too quickly. when you look up again bakugou’s just blinking at you, waiting for you to make the next move. he looks tired but gorgeous. bright red irises, rough stubbled cheeks with a hint of a blush.

“anyway, do you have anything to say about what happened that day?” you say softly and bakugou feels like he’s at a business deal. you are on the other side of his desk whilst he scrambles for papers with all his bullet points he needs to make sure he mentions. he guesses a relationship is a deal of sorts.

he nods quickly, feeling the urge to grab your hands to hold but you keep them between your thighs. “‘m really fuckin’ sorry. sorry, you had to see that, sorry i was a fuckin’ idiot scarin’ you and shoutin’ at you in your apartment. i—i was just scared that you’d leave me for good after that and i don’t… i don’t wanna imagine life without you.”

you lock eyes through it all and you can feel the regret. it almost feels so much that you dart your eyes away a moment, looking out to the city skyline.

“why did you kill him?”

you’ve been good so far, not focusing on the fact that right behind you the dead man laid. there was even a new carpet on the ground. you assume they wrapped him up in the old one if the movies were anything to go by.

bakugou wasn’t expecting that question, but he’d give you the answer if you wanted. “he was the head of another mafia family, the one a few cities across. we’ve always been at war with each other, a battle to who dies first. since i killed him, i get his family, his city and his resources.”

the silence is long between you both. you look distractedly out the window but he can tell you’re just coming to terms with what he said. he never told you much about ‘work’ anyway. probably the most he ever has while you’ve been together.

“i am sorry you saw that shit. i know what it’s like the first time you see a dead body and i get if you don’t wanna… be with me because of that. that wasn’t my first and won’t be my last.”

you flick back over to katsuki, who stares down at his palms almost shakespearean like they still carry the blood of all the men he’s ever lost and ever killed.

he keeps talking to fill the silence because power can get him anything but they can’t buy your thoughts.

“i do love you though. since i’ve met you i’ve felt somethin’ other than rage and desire for more. you’ve given me purpose, something that will come with me in death. none of this shit will.” then he exhales so deeply, you can see the vibration of his chest, “but if you don’t wanna stay, i get it. i don’t fuckin’ think i would either. so thank you for showin’ me love and lettin’ me love you.”

katsuki’s fresh out of tears, he’s cried this past week more than he’s cried his whole life so he looks at you with pure honesty with the hope his sincerity comes across in his words. he was always one for giving demands and shouting threats. but laying his heart on the table, bleeding and raw for you was probably the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

you, on the other hand, don’t want to cry. you want to see katsuki’s face with clear eyes, not blurry with a film of tears.

“you need to promise me something, okay?”

“anythin’.”

you take the tone of a military sergeant, listing ultimatums whilst katsuki listens as if his life depends on it, “you never shout at me again. ever. or i’m gone. i know that if i’m with you, your life comes with it but i don’t ever want to see that again. if you can help it.”

bakugou nods like a bobblehead, “i promise baby, i promise. what does this mean? what are you sayin’ t’me?” he looks as if he’s about to jump over his desk to wrap you in his arms and never let you go.

“it means i love you too but love isn’t enough to keep me around if you make me go through that again.”

he feels like he’s signed a contract to let him through the gates of heaven. one with terms that are expected and easy, ones he should have been doing anyway before it got to this point. he feels almost delusional that you’ve given him another chance, so much so he can’t stop mumbling, “i won’t, i promise. i promise i won’t.”

you then get up from your seat and he thinks you’re going to leave him again but you’re dropping your bag and walking around the desk towards him. instinctively, bakugou opens his arms to give you enough space to plop down on his lap.

the weight of you makes him hum, the scent of your shampoo makes his chest burn and the sight of your hand linking with his honestly just makes him feel relieved. like taking another hit of drugs after insane withdrawals. you’re with him.

“i missed you ‘ki. missed you so much.” you murmur, “every day i woke up like i couldn’t breathe.” head on his shoulder, your forehead pressed to his jaw. your legs swing off his lap sideways and his arms circle your body tightly intending to never let go.

“i missed you too baby. more than i ever thought i could. started fuckin’ usin’ those colourin’ books you left at mine.”

he can hear the smile in your voice when you lift your head to face him, “really? you any better now at keeping between the lines?”

he huffs in a breathy laugh, his hot breath hitting your mouth. you let your eyes drift to where they want, his fluffy eyebrows, the cute tip of his nose and his plump pink bottom lip. you pay special attention to his lips, especially the shiny gold tooth revealed when he smiles at you.

“nah not really. at the beginning i was like an angry baby scribblin’ over the pages thinkin’ about how you shoulda been there with me if i wasn’t so fuckin’ stupid.” he almost whispers, following how your attention has shifted to his mouth. he entertains you, licking a stripe across the flesh leaving it shiny with his spit.

you remember to reply to what he said, “don’t do stupid shit then ‘ki. we’ve both missed out on a lot here.”

your palms slide under his blazer to rest on his chest, the thin material of his shirt doing nothing to prevent the warmth of your hands.

he hums, “true shit. what did y’miss the most?”

you roll your eyes at the switch of the subject but you can’t blame him when you went off-topic first. “your lips.” you punctuate your comment with a hard peck to them, one that only lasts a couple of seconds but has him fisting your dress in his hands tightly. the kiss does nothing to satisfy you both so as soon as you pull away, meeting the starved blown out gaze in each other’s eyes, you go in again, mouths open and tongues slotting between each other. katsuki moans first, deep and gravelly, his head noisy with thoughts that he can’t believe you’re back. that the angels must have seen a fucking sorry sight of a man if they thought he deserved you again. you taste as sweet as you did before, maybe overdosingly so from your one week break because he cannot get enough.

he’s touchy and needy, cock getting harder and stiffer in his slacks from a wet kiss with tongue. so much so he slides his palms under your skirt to rest on your ass, panties being the only layer of fabric in between. you sharply inhale when he squeezes.

the kiss is messy, loud and desperate. you nip at his bottom lip, fingers raking up into his blonde locks and you yank at the strands to pull his head away from you. the pain in his scalp makes him grin and the grin makes your panties damp. the strong length of his neck is revealed to you as you take a breather from the assault on your mouth.

“you tryna punish me baby?” his eyes are half lidded as you let go of his hair, his head back to facing you again. he loves how you look in his lap before he fucks you. one dress strap falls off your shoulder to reveal more breast than before, your lips puffy, kiss bruised and your chest rising and falling to catch your breath.

“i should be but i feel like that would cause me more pain in the long run, right?”

you know your boyfriend that if you tease him enough, rough him up a little, he’ll just do it to you harder later. stunting your orgasm and would definitely make you beg.

his grin widens, all white teeth and pink gums. boldly he pulls your hips down to sit directly on top of him. his cock now resting between your folds. you gasp at the contact, willing yourself to not start rubbing on him yet, no matter how much you desire to.

“not true. i’ll let you bully me this time, i deserve it. then i’ll let you come as many fuckin’ times as you want. anythin’ you ask.”

you tug his earlobe causing a tiny laugh to spill out of him, “you promise?”

“i promise, pretty girl.”

you peck his lips, meeting his pout halfway and begin to rock your hips on top of him. the hard curve of his cock brushing against your clit every time. you sink your teeth into your lip, wrapping your arms around his neck, your faces barely an inch apart.

“did you ever think of me when we were apart ‘ki?”

he scoffs, helping assist you with his hands on your hips to move faster, “y’know i fuckin’ did. couldn’t fuckin’ sleep without you.”

your head falls back for a second as pleasure shoots up and warms your lower stomach. “why didn’t you call then? why did you only text me once?” you ramble, pausing your ministrations to unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers. katsuki can’t keep up, your desperate tone, your hands moving a million miles. so close to relief on his cock.

“huh? what?” is all he can offer, focused on your hand so close to him. he honestly thought this wouldn’t happen again.

you feel saliva pool in your mouth from just the sight of him through the black fabric of his underwear so when you finally take him out, his pretty pink tip, thick with veins you almost whine.

you spit on your hand and katsuki feels his chest burn, thumbs rubbing circles into your waist. then you take his cock in your hand, beginning to yank at him and the beast of a man rumbles in pleasure. you hit at his jaw for him to pay attention, his eyes widen at the act and tries to focus on the frown on your face.

“what baby?”

“why didn’t you say anything? why did you have one of your men follow me around but you couldn’t ever come, huh?” you repeat, voice heightening in pitch, drowning in emotion. your hand begins to work him faster, vigorously like his orgasm is up to you. all of him is in your hands.

katsuki uncharacteristically splutters over his words, precum beading at his slit. he hisses as you brush your thumb over his most sensitive part to spread it over him. “i was givin’… i was fuckin’ givin’ you space. to think… to work it all out!” he groans, voice raising by the end as he grips your ass cheeks harder. “needed to make sure you were safe!” he’s almost there, he’s sure he’s about to come. eyes squeezing shut and his chest heaving.

“what did i say about raising your voice at me?” you spit, ripping your hand away from his cock to leave it an angry red standing tall against his chest. the room becomes silent, only katsuki’s stuttered heaving breaths breaking it. even his balls looked so painfully heavy, that you almost felt bad for dragging him away from orgasm. not bad enough to do something about it though.

“i didn’t... i wasn’t…” he mumbles, teeth gritted and face flushed. this is what he deserves. “i’m sorry, princess.”

you hum in acceptance and just as he leans in to start kissing your neck, you push him back to his chair and waft a hand in his face. “start unbuttoning your shirt. you’re easier to look at naked.”

katsuki feels if he gets any harder he’ll end up coming untouched and with the way you’re going now, you probably won’t even touch him after that. there’s something about you, so lovely, so sweet being mean to him. it’s not even half of what he deserves, he knows you’d find it hard to be meaner than you are now so he won’t lie to himself, he loves it.

as his fingers dance across the buttons of his shirt, you lift yourself off his lap to sit on his desk. your legs swing back and forth, hands gripping the side of glazed wood as you lock eyes with katsuki. it’s quiet aside from him pulling off his shirt and blazer at the same time and then you flick your eyes over the pure eye candy bakugou katsuki is. he stays seated in his office chair, like an overgrown puppy looking to you for his next command. his cock is still twitching against his bare chest, with abs mimicking freshly baked bread rolls and muscles so defined he almost comes across sculpted. the things that show how human he is are the ones you find most beautiful. the scars that litter his chest are the ones you want to trace beneath your fingers. the tiny knife scratches to the massive slash against his left pectoral. the sight of him, combined with his masculine woody with a hint of caramel scent makes you feel your heartbeat in your panties.

“where d’you want me?” he whispers, careful to not drag you too far out of your daydream over his body. he wants you to touch him, needs you to but he’s not in control here.

you part your thighs, lifting the skirt of your dress to reveal the darkened patch of fabric between your legs. katsuki groans, scooting his chair closer to you but put your foot on the leather cushion of the chair to stop him.

“oh, baby.”

“i wanna fuck you but i haven’t been fucked in a while so i might be a lil tight. need you to stretch me out ‘ki.” your voice is cashmere soft yet full of authority. it drips in seduction, in controlled arousal that katsuki admires. a week ago you would have been jumping at him before you were half as wet as this.

“of course, my love,” he slides a hand on your thigh to which you accept, kneading the flesh slowly as you rest on your hands behind you. “fingers or my tongue?”

ruby-red eyes jump between your centre to your eyes, and if he was an animal in the wild, you’re sure his mouth would have been salivating over you. eager to start like you’re his last meal.

“both,” you state, “and on your knees. get rid of the chair.”

obediently, katsuki nods, getting down to kneel before you. for all the people that katsuki rules over; orders and owns, this is the only time he’ll ever be seen in this position. nobody but you is worthy of his respect like this. nobody but you.

he’s obsessed with how you don’t look at him, you simply lean back nonchalantly, pussy on the edge of his desk as you close your eyes, head hanging back. both your dress straps have fallen now and the urge to yank the fabric down to reveal more of your tits is one of the hardest mental fights he’s ever had to face.

he can’t help to ask, “lemme see your tits baby. please.”

your head whips up to glare at him on the ground, massive calloused hands playing with the band of your underwear as he glances up to your face then to your cleavage, the black of his pupil almost consuming the red of his iris.

you scoff at him, “what do you think this is? do what i say or the only place you’ll be coming is your bathroom.”

to your amusement, the mafia boss pouts with a childish grunt. even mumbles a “fine. ‘least i get to see your pussy.”

you let him get away with that as right after he pulls down your panties and moans at your glistening lips. the shine makes his cock ache between his legs but he wills himself to forget about it and focus on the task at hand, making you come so hard you never want to leave him again.

he lightly brushes two fingers up your slit, collecting as much of your juices as he can to start rubbing your puffy bud. “you’re so beautiful, baby. my pretty girl. all mine, all—,”

your hand snakes to the back of his head as you push his face right in between your legs. “shut up ‘ki.”

a high pitched moan rumbles through katsuki’s lungs at the scent of your pussy. oh, how he missed you. he uses his finger to circle your hole as his lips lock onto your clit and he sucks. harshly.

it feels as if somebody is dragging your soul out of your physical body at the sensation, heat bursting up into your stomach and tickling the tips of your fingers and toes. “finally putting some good use to your mouth.” you whine, brushing your hand through his hair as your eyes slide shut and you look to the ceiling, electricity shaking through your body.

you feel his grunt vibrate through you and you jump at the pinch you feel on your thigh. he pulls away, lips shiny from you as he starts to kitten lick at your clit. “mean.” he mumbles between licks and you shrug, “deserved.”

he rolls his eyes, sliding his two fingers into your warm hole, curving them up and easily reaching your softest point. you begin to rock your hips onto his fingers, your hand trailing from his hair to his bare shoulder and back to his hair like you’re trying to find some bearing.

“right there ‘ki. oh fuck,” you mewl, the squelch of your soaked insides sound pornographic throughout his office. you hope he thinks about you every time he does business in here. that is if he doesn’t already.

you finally end up gripping his hand that was just on your thigh, linking it with yours and love… what bakugou feels right now is more than love. he wants to give you everything you want, everything you desire. he wants you to use him but does it even count if he’s getting something out of it too?

he picks up the pace with his fingers, knowing the burning hot spark in you is about to snap, “so pretty baby. i love you, y’know. love you so much.” he slurs, wanting to get it out in case you tell him to shut up again. his mouth finds your clit again, rolling his tongue, licking and sucking the exact ways you love.

“i’m gonna come, ‘ki. i’m gonna—,” and it’s like a slingshot, the elastic getting pulled back as far as it can go and finally released through the air. he continues pumping his fingers, licking you through it all, feeling your legs clench and lock behind his head. he couldn’t breathe for shit, but he doesn’t mind. dying in your pussy would be a memorable way to go.

your brain numbs to a fuzz, only katsuki on your mind as white-hot pleasure radiates through every muscle and katsuki keeps going until you yank his head back by his hair.

he looks feral, glossy lips sucking his glossy fingers. his hair is all over the place and his neck and cheeks are red from the lack of air between your thighs. a moan rips through you at him licking your wetness off him, even as he takes it the extra mile to wipe his face with the back of his hand and lick that too.

you lean back fully on the table behind you, not caring for the paperwork you’re messing up. katsuki doesn’t care either. not when you look so fucked out, eyes almost closing and chest heaving from an orgasm he just gave you.

“did y’like that?” he asks smugly, but since he’s still kneeling on the floor, eyes zoned in on your pussy clenching around nothing, you push his head with your calf.

“you talk too much,” your stern glare is back on your face and katsuki can’t help but grin, laying pecks across your thighs and knees.

“sorry baby. what d’you want now?”

you think for a moment, sitting up and raising your arms in the air. “take my dress off.”

katsuki gets up to his feet with a speed like no other, humming at the prospect of seeing you completely. the new height on his feet has you directly in front of his bare chest, one you want to kiss and lick and feel. he still has his trousers on and cock out, one that’s painfully hard, blooming reds and purples by the head. you almost bring your arms down to touch him but katsuki’s quicker.

he begins bunching all the fabric from under your ass and sides, then under your breasts and slowly pulls it up and over your arms.

he feels like a nerdy kid, like it’s his first time seeing a girl's tits. but it feels different, you so soft and pretty on his desk in his office. so beautifully naked, eager-eyed but a little slow from your orgasm. for all the wrongdoings that take place in here, you’re the purest thing that’s ever come by. his hands find your waist with a careful press, ogling your hardened nipples, “thank you.”

this time you actually laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. your hands brush across his chest, feeling him up however you please. “are you thanking me for letting you see my tits?”

katsuki frowns, the cutest pout on his lips. not completely but also yes, yes he was. “i thought you weren’t gonna let me today. y’know i’m always thankful for what you give me.”

you flick his nipple for that, forcing yourself not to smile for him but it slips through the cracks anyhow, “it’s not thanksgiving today ‘ki. and i took it off because i was hot. not for you.”

he just shrugs, leaning into you to kiss your neck. you tilt your head to the side to give him more space, your eyes fluttering shut at the little nibbles and sucks. “d’you want me to fuck you now, princess? however you want i can do it.” he whispers, so raspy that you’re agreeing before he’s finished his sentence.

“i want your cock now. i want you now. but under one condition.” katsuki flicks his head up to you, positioning himself with one hand on his hard cock and another palm on your lower back. he levels you with a desperate frown, his lips pouting like he’s about to start whining.

“what baby?”

“i’m coming twice before you do,” you state, both your hands flat on his abs before sliding up slowly to his pectorals, then collarbones to land on his shoulders. you tilt your head as his breath hitches at your smooth touch.

“yeah, ‘course,” he gulps, fist tightening on his cock as he’s mentally begging you for some relief, “i always let you come before me.”

you give a short laugh, your hands sliding to circle his neck, your thumbs pressing down at his windpipe. katsuki’s eyes flutter shut with a rumbling grunt, the weight of his body leaning forward into yours as he takes his hand from your back to steady himself on the edge of his desk. you stare with pride at how this man falls apart under your touch, how you know he’s been falling apart since you’ve been separated. his little speeches about how he loves you, how he needs you back in his life. to letting you choose how to have him in his office, his domain. you wonder how he’d feel if one of his subordinates walked in right now, all dopey and lightheaded with your hands around his neck.

then you release the pressure, katsuki’s eyes snapping open with one big spluttering inhale. you pay no mind to him, the left corner of your lip twitching as you lightly pat his cheek, “good to know, big boy. now hurry up.”

he doesn’t even give himself time to recover, lips pressing into your cheek as he pushes you back down onto his desk. “anythin’ for you, baby.”

he swipes the head of his cock up and down your slit, collecting all your juices over his length. he holds you steady, more for himself to not bust all over you but also to stop your hips from trying to grind up into him every time he brushes over your clit.

“katsuki, why are you playing? shove it in me before i find another man in this goddamn building who will!”

with that comment, katsuki grits his teeth and shoves his cock into you all in one go. you’re full to the brim of him, your mouth opening with the tightness and you swear it feels like he’s in your lungs. your back arches and your hand grabs at his bicep, fingernails leaving tiny crescent moons in his skin. “holy fuck, ‘ki.”

katsuki’s in the same place, a whining grunt as he can’t help but lean his whole body over yours, the new position making him go even further up inside of you. your walls are warm and tight, literally a perfect fit for him as you contract and squeeze around his length. tears spring to the corner of his eyes but he blinks them away before you notice. but once he hears another bubbling laugh from you he knows you’ve seen them, you notice everything about him.

he speaks up before you do, “you can say what you want, i don’t care. but don’t mention other men when you’re fuckin’ me.”

your smile makes you look like sunshine. the bright daylight casting over your face and chest, your eyes twinkling with arousal and he loves the feeling of your thighs pressed to his side as your ankles link around his back.

“to be fair, you weren’t fucking me yet. you put your fat cock in me after i said that. but fine, i don’t want a crybaby on my hands.” and you dare to pout at him, thumbs brushing the thin skin under his eyes and he’s a fool to fall for it even when you’re mocking him.

“i’m gonna make you come so fuckin’ hard you’ll be out of shit to say, princess.” once he’s deemed you’ve settled with his size inside of you, he rests his forearms beside your head, both your nipples brushing against each other. you bite your lip at the feeling and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“twice, ‘ki. once you make me come twice.”

katsuki huffs at your smartass, pulling out of your pussy till only his tip is inside before ramming in again and again. you squeal, quivering as his veiny cock rubs against your walls, every thrust prodding against your sweet spot.

katsuki tries to bite back his moan, but it slips through his lips. he jerks his hips again before starting a steady rhythm. his cock is shiny from your pleasure, your thighs and his balls coated in it. “actually three times. i’ve already fuckin’ made you come once with my tongue.”

your jolted moans, his loud groans, the sound of your skin slapping against each other and the wet soppy sounds of your pussy makes you wrap his arms around his neck to drag him closer like you can’t get enough. katsuki lets you. he welcomes the intimacy of it all, the pressure of your arms at his neck, your hot breaths on his cheek.

“d’you like that, my pretty girl? you’re so beautiful—.”

you grip the bottom of his chin to pull his lips to yours. your teeth click together at first, arousal high with coordination low. then katsuki sucks your bottom lip, staring down at you as your eyes reflexively shut. your body rocks up into his, and he feels you clench around him, swallowing him up when he lets go of your lip.

“i’m gonna come ‘ki. i really wanna… come,” you rasp, your hand, so small compared to his reaches down between you both to play at your clit. a layer of sweat covers your forehead and chest, as you work yourself to completion. katsuki keeps his hips swirling into you, pecking your cheek and jaw, “c’mon baby, c’mon lemme see you fall apart.”

and you do. it feels like a cord inside you has been cut, shocks spilling inside your body. your hand speeds up and katsuki, ever so sweetly, brushes your hair out of your face as your lips open to let out a high pitched moan.

“there we go princess,” katsuki grins, ignoring the way his cock is painfully hard inside of you, “let’s get another one outta you now.”

you’re still trying to recover, eyes droopy with lethargy as your move your hand away from your clit. “no… no more ‘ki that was e—enough,” you whisper, your head lolling to the side as you try to catch your breath.

but katsuki doesn’t accept it yet, he rubs his thumb slowly over your clit, feeling your body tremble in overstimulation so he begins a slower pace with his hips. “you wanted two, didn’t you? i can go slower for you. ‘can make this one sweet.”

and it is sweet, so… romantic. you’re putty in his hands, hips too tired to roll back into his but every time he wants you to mewl, you do with a flick of his thumb. katsuki gazes at the jiggle of your breasts at every thrust, tries to numb his brain from your fluttering walls and when he reaches your eyes the hard mask your wore before has disappeared. he guesses two orgasms can do that to you.

“you okay, huh?” he asks tenderly and you nod, shaky breaths falling from your lip.

then suddenly, but expected, your third orgasm comes right after your last. this time it feels intense, sparks flying to the tips of your body, heat spreading to every limb. you spasm under him, barely coherent with tears bubbling on your waterline as you whine, “love you ‘ki… love you s’much…”

his voice is strained, his cock trembling for release, “i know y’do baby. i know.” he kisses your lips, your cheeks, before brushing his lips over your ear, “y’gonna let me come now, princess? i needa come so bad.”

if you weren’t so fucked out you would have laughed at his desperate tone, but you can only give a tiny nod, “yes.”

katsuki feels like he’s found old batteries that have a little bit of energy left. he still lays close to you, giving two strong thrusts till he releases. a bear-like groan comes from the man as his hips jolt and stutters to coat your walls white. it feels like he’s coming for ages, so much needing to come out of him but he assumes this is at least a week's worth of come he saves for you. the feeling of the spurt makes you sigh, feeling it drip out of your pussy and onto the table and your asscheeks.

after it all, you both lay connected on top of katsuki’s desk. he has his arms wrapped around your waist as he rests his forehead on the table beside your head. he’s so large he completely covers you in this position.

“i love you,” katsuki murmurs, so softly you’re unsure it came from the man, “and i am sorry.”

you rub your palm up and down his back, “it’s okay now and i’m sorry for being mean to you. guess i got caught up in it.” your laugh feels like fresh air and makes his chest rumble too.

“don’t apologise. i really fuckin’ liked it. saw a new side of you there.”

“you’ll be sorry you said that because i can have her return in the future.”

“happily.”

with the feeling of being sticky being too much to bear, you shifted your attention to the door in his office, “is that your bathroom? do you have a shower in there?”

katsuki lifts his head, rising to his full height slowly. his hair was a crazy mess and he looks like he could do with a quick nap. he takes your hand in his pulling you up too. “who has a shower in their office?” he scoffs though his cheeks flush with a laugh about to bubble up.

you roll your eyes, “you do katsuki,” you push him back a little so you can jump off the table. both your faces scrunch up when he slides out of you. “to scrub the blood of enemies off or something.”

you begin to strut to his en-suite bathroom, stark naked with his release dripping down your thigh. katsuki wills his cock not to get hard again because he knows you can’t handle another round in the shower. “wow. already makin’ jokes are we?”

one of his strides takes up about two and a half of yours so he moves with stealth, wrapping his arms around your waist again as you giggle a squeal.

“how about we shower and go home after?”

you glance up to the mirror to find him already staring back at you. scarlet eyes easy and honest, a cute smile on his face too as he rocks you from side to side. you almost sigh leaning back into his chest, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek.

“what about work?”

“would rather spend my time with you. every day and after.”