The Catalogue

Instead, he liked to whisper in incriminating detail about the things he wanted to do to his pretty little assistant. Nasty images that flashed across his mind in the middle of the day that he didn't think were possible. The Hulk has never spoken to him, especially not in his conscious mind that way. But recently, new developments have been growing and he wonders if the gamma radiation was seeping further into his brain.

You were Bruce's assistant.

Not the Hulk's.

The Hulk didn't hire you. He didn't sit and read over your resume and found that you had a very big brain for someone so young. Perfect GPA, incredible research papers in college, the type of person any dedicated researcher would want on their team. He couldn't forget to mention your unique ability to keep him calm in the face of annoying coffee machines and stressful situations.

But the Hulk was Bruce, no matter how many times he liked to separate the two, and by extension— a terrible extension created by his own hand— you belonged to the Hulk too.

There are days when he'll be going over documents, trying to understand the scientific facts he mapped out from sources he found hidden in libraries and old research papers. Statistics, diagrams, old walks of life— and then he would feel pressure erupt in his pants when you leaned too close, reaching over him to grab a document hidden underneath his.

The smell of you alone already made his nerves spike. Vanilla, coconut, and the occasional mixture of florals that bloomed under the warmth of a fresh summer's day. He wasn't trying to remember the scent of your perfumes, his nose was too sensitive for it, but the other guy had a deep liking for it, so he kept it memorized just for Bruce.

Like today, you were wearing something new, something that made Bruce's mouth water the moment you came through the double door.

You placed a coffee cup beside him, looking over his shoulder to skim over his papers. Some project Tony asked him to check over because he desperately needed a spa day and knew Bruce was the perfect person to pass his workload over to. He didn't mind, it gave him a chance to focus on other things instead of what The Hulk wanted to do.

Which involved things that could put him on the no-fly list surely.

"You know he's taking advantage of you?" you commented, finding a seat beside him. You scooted closer, shoulders almost touching his. "He gives you a place to stay in exchange for you to do his remodeling?"

"Sounds like a nice deal," Bruce chuckled, highlighting a few numbers with a neon pink marker.

"Sounds like free labor."

"Labor that grants me a place to stay."

You reached over, taking a folder that was filled to the brim with documents. Too heavy to pick up with one hand so you used two, brushing up against Bruce's shoulder where he felt the very obvious pressure of the other guy getting excited.

He had to keep calm.

For his sake and yours.

"What is he trying to do? Add an indoor pool?"

"Seems like it."

"You're a scientist, not an architect."

"My portfolio expands further than gamma radiation. Here, look at this." He held up a concept sketch, a pool in the shape of a capital A for the team's name, a tacky display of a brand name and wealth that Tony had an abundance of.

"Looks ugly."

"It's supposed to be."

You snickered, shaking your head at his sense of humor. "I like you better when you draw molecules and the periodic table, not Pools."

He knew you were being friendly— the relationship should be nothing but friendly and platonic, but the other guy had a claim that you were his. Not Bruce's. something you were unaware of and he'd prefer to keep it that way. And yet it didn't stop the rush of images from flashing in his head at the thought of you in Tony's ugly concept pool. A bathing suit that didn't leave much to the imagination. Skin glistening from the water, hair soaking wet, your body curved and the strings of the suit tight into the fat of your hips—

Stop that.

"You should be doing what you love, not studying pools," you huffed.

"What? You think I don't like studying Chlorine levels? You know, the chemical element on the periodic table that's often used in pool water. 17 protons, 17 electrons—"

" Tony is rubbing off on you. All of his smart-mouth disease is making you sick," You teased, shoving him playfully.

Although there wasn't any weight in your push, the knowledge that you touched him made his pants tighten before he realized it.

"Fine. Sit here and design pools." You shrugged. "While you do that, I'm going to see if Tony Stark has a plus one for his spa day."

"You're going to leave me here by myself?"

"That's the plan."

"What if I need an extra hand?"

"Designing pools?"

"Figuring out the measurements, pool color, chlorine levels, the exterior designs— everything."

"Awww, you want me to stay?"

He wanted you to do more than stay. He wanted you in ways that would make the team look sideways at him that weren't because he was growing green under his skin. He wondered what you smelled like when you didn't douse yourself in sweet-smelling perfumes. What you smelled like when you got active— how warm your skin bled when you were pushed to the limit.

He got mental images of Hulk's favorite outfit you wore four months ago, a black pencil skirt with knee-high socks and black heels that clicked against the floor in rhythmic taps that made his nerves cool. You wore heavier makeup that day, your first introduction after he called and said you got the job. You shook his hand, smiled, said you've always wanted to work for someone as smart as him, someone who was strong— which you were definitely referring to the other guy for— and dependable and he's been locked in since.

You got closer again, resting your hand under your chin, the points of your heel touching his ankle. You grinned, using a ridiculous baby-talking tone that definitely didn't get things stirred up. "Want me to model in the pool too? We all know none of you guys will use it, but I can sell the idea by swimming in it— flash a few photos to pin on Tony's mood-board."

"P-Photos?"

You hummed. "You think he would prefer a black bathing suit or should I be nude?"

A wave of heat crashed over him. "N-Nude?"

He felt a rush of silent anger wash over him, not his doing. The other guy didn't like the idea that anybody could see you nude that wasn't him. That wasn't how things worked around here. You belonged to the Hulk, not Bruce, and definitely not Tony.

"What do men like Tony think about when he builds a pool? Surely not his teammates… unless he thinks about that at night."

Bruce thought about you at night, not his doing. But at this rate, he wasn't sure if he should keep telling himself that. He couldn't admit that the other day, when you dropped your stack of research papers, cursed to the gods, and bent down to stuff them back into the weak folder. He caught a glimpse of your ass, the shade of panties you were wearing— black with lace trimmings by the way— and the other guy got so excited he had to rush to the bathroom and relieve the pressure with a hand that kept vibrating green.

He said he was coming down with a fever when he rushed back to his room after. He didn't. He had a wet stain at the front of his pants that he couldn't clean off properly.

"Doctor?"

He looked up at you, unaware that he'd been staring without saying a word in the middle of your great strategic plan.

"Huh?"

"Your face is turning red." You pointed out, pressing a hand to his forehead. "That means something right? Green means bad, red means good?" Your hand felt cold against his, his skin burning up from the other guy trying to push through. He was holding himself together with very little support.

He wanted to do terrible things to you.

Worse things than demolishing buildings and fighting off alien civilization.

He wanted to bend you over his desk, shove your skirt up to your hips, and bully his way into your cunt. Feel you struggle to take him while he cooed that you were doing incredibly well. The Hulk wanted to have a hand in it too, wanted to see you cry out that he was the biggest thing you've ever taken, wanted to see if your mouth would do a better job or worse—

"I-I gotta— um… use the bathroom."

He got up abruptly, pushing his glasses up to his face. He didn't wait for you to ask, he just left. Power walking to the bathrooms at the end of the hallway. He found an empty stall at the end, locked it, and couldn't stop his hands from pulling open the strap of his pants to free himself.

Was that citrus? Gourmand? You smelled so good he wanted to lick it off you. He pumped his cock, forehead pressed against the cold stall door, warmth blooming in his stomach like a stomach ache he couldn't get rid of.

He wondered if you'd pose modestly, giving a good girl image or would the pose be done up, perched over the edge with your body twisted in a way that gave the audience a nice view of your ass.

The other guy was going to kill Tony if you did either.

You were for his eyes only.

"S-She doesn't— belong to you—" he groaned, talking out loud, hoping the other guy could hear him. He knows he can, that's why he jerked himself harder. "She— w-works for me—"

Works for you.

Works for us.

Belongs to us.

There's always going to be an us as long as the Hulk was present.

And what they both wanted was you.

He came to the mental image of The Hulk's shameful wet dream. You, taking cock that was twice the size of your cunt, the tip impossible to fit but they were going to make it fit. Bruce felt incredibly disgusted with himself, that he allowed himself to come to detailed pictures of that, and yet it never stopped his cock from twitching back to life again.

He felt his phone vibrate.

He took it from his pocket, using the hand that wasn't dripping with white, and saw a text sent from you, saying you were going to find where Tony was for that spa day you talked about earlier.

Bruce was glad you decided to preoccupy yourself for the day. He wasn't in the mood to talk about pools anymore.

He tried to calm down, regulating his breathing so he could be normal again. But then another text went through and it was a picture of you, towel wrapped around your chest, what looked like white cream on your face, and Tony Stark. Posing for the camera with a message that said, "He said he wanted me to model for the pool <3 Me being nude would be his lifelong dream to see he said. What a pervert!”

His hand moved, thumb rubbing over the tip, the veins in his hands turning green. He squeezed himself as punishment, groaning heavily when it only made him excited, thinking about how tight you would feel around his cock all over again.

He was going to be stuck here for a while, and the Hulk was going to kill Tony Stark.

There’s really only one place for one Jacob in the world. He’s not about to share it with some offspring. Even just the thought of it sends a shiver down his spine.

But despite everything, Jacob is kind enough to lend an ear to his peers who always seem to have a new complaint about their chosen families every time they meet. It’s exhausting, and he knows he’s probably not even giving out the right advice—because what does he know about families, really—but he prevails. 

Jacob forces himself to view it as a source of entertainment. And again, also a reminder why he should never fuck raw no matter how good it feels. It’s just not worth it.

There’s a new guy in the circle tonight.

Jacob knows him as the recently hired in the IT department. He tries to be friendly with his employees as much as he can. He would occasionally treat them for a night out disguised as “team building” that’ll end with women dancing their asses on their laps, because that’s the only way Jacob knows to get along with them. 

But tonight, they’re taking the calm journey. Instead of the strip club, Jacob brings them to a chill bar that he’s been frequenting in for years. He learns quickly that it was a bad idea when the new guy—Lee, if he remembers correctly—starts drunkenly rambling about his tiresome family not even halfway through their whiskey bottle.

“Having a daughter is literal hell. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

Jacob prides himself as a good conversationalist. But during times like this, he can’t find the right words to say other than a good, “Oh yeah?”

He’s not trying to be mean or come off as an asshole. And it’s not like he’s the only man around to give better advice or a better comment to the situation. But when he brought them here, Jacob expected something good would come out of it. Like maybe bring a girl or two over their booth and have fun before the night ends.

Not… whatever this is.

“Thank god I had a son, genuinely,” Ian chimes in as he takes a sip of his drink. “All I have to do to make him happy is to give him the newest edition of Nintendo or whatever the fuck you call it. Not high maintenance at all. I rarely even see him these days.”

“That’s because you’re a bad father,” Joel replies, the most mature out of all of them. Jacob finds him good company but Joel would never fail to scold him about his lifestyle and how he’s definitely going to get herpes one day. “Your children will grow to hate you two one day.”

“I forgot we have a present father here at the table,” Jacob snickers as he signals someone at the bar for another round of drinks. “Can’t say the same about you being a good husband though.”

“The downfall of my marriage wasn’t my fault. We just wanted different things in life.”

“Right. Because you weren’t the one sticking your dick into other girls shamelessly while still wearing your wedding ring,” Ian raises a brow at him.

“Well,” Joel sighs. “Like I said, we wanted different things in life. But you can’t call me a bad father. I’m as present as a father can get.”

“That’s why young girls love you so much, Joel. You give them something to look forward to,” Jacob pats him on the shoulder. Then in the corner of his eyes, he sees a pretty waiter approaching with their round of drinks. He’s kind enough to clear the table by nudging the empty glasses with his arm. Her tight dress pulls up slightly when she bends to place the drinks on the table. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You could learn a thing or two from me,” Joel shrugs.

He scrunches his nose. “No, thanks. Young girls aren’t for me. Too immature for my liking.”

“Wow,” Lee says, surprised. “I would’ve never expected that from you, boss.”

“A normal boss would get you fired for that, but since they call me Jacob the Generous, I will take that as a compliment,” Jacob smirks. “What’s your type, Lee? And don’t say it’s your wife because I swear to god.”

“I guess you can say it’s the same as Joel. I’ve never been brave enough to actually sleep with any, though. But there have been a handful of interns back in my previous job who have caught my eyes,” Lee replies. He reaches for his drink and takes a sip. “But I gotta say, your firm has a whole fucking lot of them.”

Jacob laughs loudly. “I know right? Bunch of eye-candies everywhere you look. But I never indulge myself with my dear employees. If you want any advice for that, please approach either Ian or Joel for that matter. Every woman in my firm has had their dicks in their mouths at least once. Or at least seen it before.”

They’re petty jokes. It’s up to Lee if he actually wants to do it or not. Jacob had merely tempted Ian and Joel a few years ago to get on with the women in the office even if they were married, but he never forced them. The choices are theirs. Jacob is simply sharing his wisdom about the joys of living like a young bachelor even if you aren’t.

“What about you?” Lee asks him. “What’s your type?”

Jacob immediately points at the waitress from earlier on the other side of the room. 

“Look at that. Look at how full and plump her ass looks in that tight dress—it’s perfect. It looks so fucking round. Just imagine what that’ll look like while she’s bouncing on it,” Jacob sighs dreamily as he shakes his head. “And her legs… I love long legged women, Lee. I love tall women so much, when they wrap their tall legs around my waist. Or my head. I don’t really mind—I never complain.”

He whistles lowly when the woman in question reaches a hand to pull her dress down slightly as a pitiful attempt to cover her exposed thighs. 

“And look how confident she looks. She’s walking with a sway on her steps because she knows she’s hot shit. And that red lipstick on her mouth? You bet your ass I’d have it smeared all over my dick before the night ends.”

“Oh yeah?”

Jacob looks at Lee now. He understands why Lee would feel a little uncertain about the whole cheating on his wife thing. It’s probably his first time being around men like them. It’s his first time getting tempted by the words of wisdom. So Jacob understands.

He was planning to share her with the three of them—maybe even have a friend of hers in the play. But again, Jacob doesn’t expect Lee to be onboard for something as advanced as that as a newly hired IT who somehow got himself involved with the executive chairman of the company and his goons.

From what he’s gathered the past two hours they’ve been here, despite Lee’s perverted fantasies and wandering eyes, he’s a family man through and through. Jacob never expected him to drop everything on their first night out together—but maybe next time they do, he will.

“Yes, Lee. Now watch as I successfully convince that woman to leave work early and come home with me. And learn something if you wanna pursue the young interns at work.”

*

Contrary to popular beliefs, Jacob really enjoys attending social gatherings.

He’s not the one to pretend he’s happy to be there. Meeting new people means getting to expand his connections—not that it has any need to expand at all, but still.

However, tonight, it’s not one of those social gatherings.

There’s no need to dress pretty or have a pretty woman hanging off his arm as a plus one—nor acquire one by the end of the night. He is bringing an expensive bottle of wine, though. As a housewarming gift.

He supposes it’s the least he could do for Lee’s wife after he had successfully tempted her husband to fuck half of the interns at work. But at least Lee works hard. He worked hard enough and proved that he wasn’t just showing up to work for pussies. He worked hard enough that it got him a promotion and gave him a chance to purchase a new home for his family.

So clearly, Jacob is doing the right thing. And he even made a new friend.

Joel and Ian are already there. They send a picture in the group chat together with Lee’s wife in front of the large Christmas tree. No signs of his children, though. Maybe they’re out somewhere? No, can’t be. Lee did tell them that it’s going to be dinner with his family.

Now Jacob is just arriving and knocking on his front door. It’s a nice house. Not the modern type like he has. It’s very homey even from the outside and Jacob can hear the soft tunes of Christmas songs playing in the living room.

Ridiculous. 

When the door opens, Jacob immediately readies his mouth for the joke he came up with in the car to greet Lee.

Assuming Lee’s the one who opens the door.

“I bought wine to celebrate the promotion you screwed your way—” Jacob shuts his mouth and clears his throat. 

It’s not Lee.

But thank god it’s not his wife.

“... Good evening,” he greets with a smile.

Lee has never shared a picture of his children before, but Jacob knows two out of three are sons and he complains a lot about his youngest. 

He assumes this is the youngest in front of him now.

You’re not what he was expecting. From the stories his dear friend told, you are hellbent on milking his wallet dry and have no sense of direction in life. Jacob was expecting a slutty-tight-red-dress-hoe-daughter charade who hops from one dick to another. 

He was not expecting… textbook nerd.

Thick rimmed glasses and a stature that doesn’t even reach his chest. A virginal floral dress and no doubt a teacher’s pet in class from the vibes alone. 

“You’re my dad’s boss?” You raised a brow, eyeing him up and down without missing a beat. “I thought he’d be cooler.”

And I thought you’d be sluttier. Not that I have any plans to slut it out with you at all.

“Well, he did say not to dress too fancy. I’m sorry for crushing your expectations.” Jacob merely sends a fake smile. “I brought wine.”

You don’t say anything else. You open the door wider to let him in, and before he can have the chance to admire the foyer, you’re quick to help him take off his jacket. He slips out his arms from the sleeves as you pull the jacket away, and he watches with curious eyes as you hang it on the coat rack like you’re trained to do it.

“They’re in the living room waiting for you,” you say as you snatch away the wine bottle from his hand. “Food will be served in a little bit.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jacob smiles. He can tell you’re trying your best to be polite. But it’s better than someone with no manners at all, right? “Are you the one cooking dinner?”

“No, I’m just helping mom out,” you shrug and signal him to follow him inside the house. 

Jacob follows closely behind. When the two of you reach the living room, he sees his friends lounging on the couch in front of an unusually large Christmas tree. The TV’s on but they’re all talking among themselves. Lee immediately sees Jacob and waves a hand at him to come closer.

“There he is! We’ve been waiting for like 3 hours for you, man. Where have you been?” Lee asks loudly, clearly a bit tipsy. Dinner hasn’t even started yet. But then his eyes land on you, and his face instantly sours. “You’ve met my daughter. Did you introduce yourself?”

“Do I have to?”

“Where’s your manners?”

You turn around again to face him, but this time, you’re not meeting his eyes. You’re looking down at his eyes with the bottle of wine behind your back, and you’re swinging lightly on your feet.

You say your name quietly, quiet enough that he almost doesn’t hear it through the volume of the TV, but Jacob does.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Palmer,” you mutter again. 

Jacob merely raises a brow. He’s not sure what to feel about the way Lee talked to you. He senses bad blood. But for the record, Jacob knows all about Lee’s grievances about you. But it’s his first time witnessing it first hand. Daddy issues, perhaps? He can’t really relate so it’s hard to assume. Jacob’s father gave him the love and attention he needed.

But on the other hand, you’re quick to go from the indifferent girl earlier to a kicked little puppy just from your father’s words alone. You flinched like a horse at the crack of a whip.

“No need to be so shy around me now, sweetheart,” Jacob smirks, then he reaches a hand to pet your hair. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Your head might be down, but he swears he can see your mouth curling into a snarl ever so slightly.

Then, you don’t say anything back. You walk away and head into the kitchen where the savory aroma is coming from. Jacob can see another woman by the counter, but he’ll introduce himself later. You two seem busy.

“Sorry she was the one who opened the door for you. Was trying to get one of the boys to do it but they’re both nose deep in their video games,” Lee says as Jacob sinks into the couch. “Always have to be reminded of her manners. She doesn’t know how to act properly no matter how many times I whip her into place.”

Jacob cocks his head slightly. That’s interesting.

“She seems like a good girl to me. Have you considered that maybe she needs a gentler hand instead?”

*

During dinner, Jacob can’t take his eyes off of you.

He’s curious.

So far, you’re not being a “thorn in the side” as your father always described you were. You’re also not without any manners either. Indifferent, sure. But you’re definitely polite. As polite as a girl like you is going to get.

But Jacob can say that because he met women who are way worse. And they’re also way older than you.

He watches with curious eyes as you round the table to put the plates down. Obedient and barely making a sound. The perfect youngest daughter of the family. And when one of your brothers mentions something about your dress being hideous, your face twists into a snarl immediately. 

“You’re hideous but you don’t hear me pointing that out.”

“Hey,” your mother says and you instantly shrink. But not without feigning a blow to your brother who flinches like a pussy.

You’re back to assembling dinner on the table. And when it’s time to pour wine in their glasses, Jacob notices you’re the only one who doesn’t have one.

“You’re not drinking?” he asks, getting a whiff of your gentle cologne when you lean closer to pour his drink.

“Not old enough,” you simply say, and that makes Jacob raise his brow higher, as if demanding an elaboration. “I just turned 18. And alcohol is gross.”

Oh. Well.

That’s something Jacob really should’ve seen coming.

* 

It’s not long until Jacob meets you again, but it is somewhere he never would’ve imagined.

You’re standing outside your father’s office with a paper bag in hand. Through the glass pane, the view is painfully public for anyone to see. Your father is pressed against his desk making out with an intern.

Before Jacob can open his mouth, you turn to him with a face he can’t exactly read.

“What?” you blink curiously at him. “Were you going to see my dad too?”

“Uh—” Jacob scratches the back of his head. He’s not sure how he’s going to explain the situation to you. It’s not really his fucking job. Sure, he was technically the one who encouraged your dad to cheat. But this wasn’t in the job description. “I was—that’s… very unprofessional of him. I’m sorry you have to see this—”

Your dad is still seemingly aware of the situation outside his office. So much so that he even brings a hand to grope the woman’s ass through her tight skirt.

Jacob stands between you and the window so you won’t have to see it. But even then, you look… uninterested.

“... I’ll talk to him about this. About uh—professionalism. In work spaces.”

“You don’t have to,” you shrug. “Everyone knows he’s cheating.”

Jacob blinks, “Really?”

“Yes. Except my mom. Funny how it only happened when he got the job here,” you tilt your head. “I’m sure you’re not any better.”

“Your dad and I are very different.”

“Sure. Because he has a family and you don’t,” you sigh. “Whatever. Just give this to him.”

You push the paper bag in his chest and you walk away without another word. Jacob peers inside to see it’s a lunch box with a note from… his wife?

What a weird family.

* 

Jacob ends up taking the note out.

He tells Lee it’s from the utility staff. And Jacob doesn’t say anything when he says the sauce tastes very familiar.

* 

The third time is downtown.

By downtown, he means in a high-end bar you shouldn’t even be in. 

Jacob is happily in the middle of a lovely conversation with a beautiful woman he has every plan to take home and ravish, when he feels a tug on his suit jacket from behind. He turns around expecting… well, he’s not sure what he’s expecting. But it’s definitely not this.

You’re dressed in a rather modest dress. It shows the least skin he’s ever seen in his life, so much so that it looks like you’re going to the church and not a bar like this—in fact, he has no fucking idea what you’re even doing here in the first place.

“Are you busy? Can you take me home?”

Jacob blinks. He abandons his conversation with the woman and fully turns his attention to you, mouth slightly agape. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you say quietly, eyes briefly looking around the room before looking back at him. “You’re not busy, right? I’m sure you can spare a night without wetting your dick and do something kind for once.”

Jacob’s eye twitches. He turns to look at Cindy—if he remembers correctly, he wasn’t exactly being a good listener earlier when she’s got the most beautiful pair of racks he’s ever seen in his life in front of his face—and he gives her a tight smile. “Give me a moment. She’s a friend from… church.”

“She’s a sister?”

“Sorta,” he murmurs, then whirls around to grab you by your arm and pull you out of the conversation. Jacob drags you near the restrooms before eventually letting you go and putting his hands on his hips. “What are you doing here?”

“Promise you’re not going to tell my dad.”

“Depends. You’re not even allowed in here—how the hell did you get in?”

“Really? You don’t know the concept of a fake ID?” you deadpan. “I was about to meet somebody—well, I did meet him already. But he’s just… creepy. I clocked it when we were talking on the app but I was really desperate. He told me he’ll buy me the—”

You cut yourself off, meets his eyes briefly, and looks away in shame.

“What? Buy you what?”

“It’s stupid—”

“So you met up with a stranger you met where, online? Because he promised he’s going to buy you something? Didn’t your parents ever fucking teach you stranger danger 101?”

“It was the lego set my dad wouldn’t let me get,” you snap at him, and Jacob’s jaw completely goes slack. “Listen, I’ve been asking him for it for months. But even when he got the promotion he still wouldn’t get it.”

Jacob laughs in disbelief. “God, that is the most childish thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Well, you kinda are. Childish. A child. Sort of.

Jacob is even more aware of that as he looks at you again. You clearly don’t belong in a place like this. He’s surprised the bouncer at the door didn’t suspect when you entered looking like you’re about to share the gospel of the fucking Lord—the point is, literally anyone who sees you can tell you’re young.

Except the fucking bouncer, apparently.

“Where is he?” Jacob sighs.

“He’s outside making a call.”

Okay.

Jacob’s not an asshole. And at the end of the day, you’re the daughter of his friend. He’s sure Lee wouldn’t be happy if he finds out about this—not that he has any plans to tell on you, he’s also not a snitch, but still. Any gentleman such as himself would take you home and get you away from that creep.

“Alright, come on. My car’s parked out the back.”

Jacob says goodbye to Cindy by pressing a kiss on her cheek and tells her he needs to go. Luckily, she understands and tells him he’s doing the right thing and sends you a smile too.

“Don’t worry, sister. I’m also a catholic.”

Before you can reply to that, Jacob grabs you by your wrist and pulls you to the back door. When the two of you reach his car, he opens the door for you and urges you to hurry up so you can go.

“Your car doesn’t have a back seat?”

“It’s a sports car.”

The first five minutes of the drive is silent until Jacob decides to speak. 

“Okay, I’m just going to ask,” he starts. “You didn’t happen to send him any pictures now, did you?”

“Selfies? I did. A lot.”

“No, I mean—” Jacob sighs. “Nudes. Naked photos. All that stuff.”

“Oh. Surprisingly no. But he did ask me for feet pictures—”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I didn’t send him any!” you snap, clearly annoyed now. You just have the nerve to be annoyed when you’re the one who kept him from getting laid tonight because of your own stupidity. “I knew he was a creep but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. And he wasn’t bad looking.”

“Because you wanted a fucking lego set.”

“You don’t understand,” you shake your head. “It’s so expensive but I deserve it. I’ve been keeping my grades up for it but my dad still won’t let me get it.”

“You sound like a really spoiled brat right now—”

“No, I’m not, this is the only thing I ask from him!”

Jacob closes his eyes to breathe out when he stops at a red light. He tells himself that he’s an asshole, and you actually did leave a good first impression on him when the two of you met during dinner, so he’s going to hear you out.

“I was half-tempted to just out his cheating ass to my mom but I wouldn’t trade my family for a freaking lego set. But I know my mom wouldn’t believe me either so it’s not worth it.”

Well.

Right, that’s another thing.

Jacob doesn’t say anything else as he goes back to driving. He’s deep in thought. Because deep inside him he knows that you mean well. That you’re just like any other teenager out there with actual hobbies and, from what he gathers, is actually good at school. Which is unfortunate because you also happened to have a really shitty pair of parents. At least that’s what he knows from his very little knowledge about your family—and from being buddies with your father of all people. 

But then again, Jacob is not an asshole. He’s a gentleman. And he understands that a poor girl like you just needs a helping hand. 

So he stops the car just a few blocks away from your home because he didn’t want Lee to see and freak out. He lays out his hand in front of you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You look at him weirdly, half-way through unbuckling your belt. “Why?”

“I’m going to give you my number. You can call me when you’re in trouble or something.”

“Trust me, what happened tonight will not happen again. And nothing bad enough will happen that will make me call you instead of someone else.”

“Really?” Jacob deadpans.

You look at him blankly for a few seconds, before you eventually pull your phone out of your bag and place it in his hand.

Jacob really expected more hesitance, but he supposes it’s probably his charm. He quickly taps in his number and sends himself a church emoji so he knows it’s you later, then he hands the phone back to you.

“Only call me when it’s important.”

“Hopefully I won’t. Thanks for the ride.”

Just when you’re about to exit the car, Jacob grabs your arm again and pulls you back on your seat.

“Wait. What was the lego set that you wanted again?”

“Oh,” you blink. “That massive Millennium Falcon set from Star Wars. Why?”

“Nothing,” Jacob sighs. “Go on. Be careful—and don’t do this shit again.”

He watches as you get out of the vehicle and wave him goodbye through the window. Jacob doesn’t leave even when you start walking away, clutching your sling bag close to your front.

Good.

At least you’re not dumb enough to have your guards low when you’re walking alone at night.

When Jacob sees your small figure in the distance standing in front of your gate, that’s when he finally takes his leave and goes home himself. Though, he doesn’t immediately go to sleep. And while he does have half the heart to go back to the bar and continue his business with Cindy, his mood has been ruined.

Instead, Jacob starts looking for a certain lego set online.

*

It’s two days later when he receives a text.

Church Girl: 

that was really nice of you actually.

i did almost get a foot whipping but it was worth it.

Jacob:

What the hell are you talking about?

Church Girl:

the lego set 

i mean i knew it was you

so thank you for that

Jacob:

No, what foot whipping are you talking about?

Church Girl:

it was an exaggeration

mostly 

dad thought i used his credit card to buy it but thankfully i managed to convince him it was all my savings

so thank you

Jacob:

Please do not tell me your dad actually beats you.

Church Girl

occasionally? depends on the crime

Jacob:

I’ll talk to him.

Church Girl:

or maybe not bc he’s going to ask why you know that in the first place

are we ever going to talk about this good thing you just did and let me thank you properly

how do i thank you properly this is very nice of you

i may have misjudged you on our first meeting 

but to be honest i still do judge you a little bit

Jacob:

Just a thank you is enough.

Church Girl:

okay!

thank you again you didn’t have to

Jacob:

Also, block that guy.

Church Girl:

already did

Jacob:

And stop reaching out to strangers online from now on.

Church Girl:

ALRIGHT DAD

Jacob smiles at that. It gives him a peace of mind how easy it was to talk some senses into you. Or in his instance, he managed to do it by simply getting you something.

You didn’t strike him as the materialistic type. You didn’t even smell like a spoiled kid as far as he’s aware. Even now that he bought you that oddly expensive lego set. But it’s not as expensive as you made it out to be, though. Certainly not expensive enough to give feet pics to strange old men online. 

For him, it was merely a pocket change. 

He can spare a few for you. If that’s going to get you away from those stupid online dating apps.

*

For the next few days, you’re kind enough to send pictures of your progress, and Jacob will make small talks here and there when he’s not busy with work—which he rarely is. But still, there are times when it needs his full attention and he can’t just give all the work to his assistant.

His conclusion is that you have no friends and you don’t know how to make any.

Church Girl:

actually thats really offensive

i have a friend

Jacob:

Friend as in singular.

Church Girl:

yes she’s the only friend i need 

but she’s not into star wars tho which sucks

Jacob:

I don’t like Star Wars too but somehow you keep telling me all about it.

Church Girl:

well you did buy me this lego set

i figured youd want some progress considering this costs like an arm and leg

Jacob:

Not really. It was a pretty fair price.

Church Girl:

wow i wish i can hear that from my own dad

Jacob:

You have a severe case of daddy issues.

Which makes sense considering I know how Lee talks about you.

Church Girl:

ew dont say it like that

i dont have daddy issues i just dont like him bc hes a cheater

he changed a lot when he got the job in your firm

Jacob:

Is that my problem?

Church Girl:

i have a feeling it is

but i dont care about what he does anymore as long as he stay outta my way

which he does most of the time

but worry not the hate is not one sided

Jacob: 

I like how most of our conversations are just about your dad.

Church Girl:

id talk about star wars but you said you dont like em so

Jacob:

Has he ever been a good dad to you?

Church Girl:

wow i thought you dont want to talk about him

and to answer your question no

hes been a dick and this is known

Jacob:

You’re right. I just wanted to hear it from you.

He complains about you all the time.

Church Girl:

gee no need to rub it in

Jacob:

Sorry.

Church Girl:

if u’re sorry u’d get me a new dad

Jacob:

Damn.

That’s actually something I can’t buy.

Church Girl:

that’s ok

u can buy me this fushiguro toji action figure instead

You continue to send him a screenshot of this action figure from Amazon, and Jacob doesn’t waste a second pulling up the website on his laptop.

*

It becomes a… thing.

Jacob doesn’t even realize it. It comes as easily to him as breathing does. All he knows is that when you mention something, he’ll immediately buy it without a second thought. And you’re never once ungrateful for it, but you’re also not one of those girls who are humble and play hard to get about it.

You’re not actively telling him to take it back or that he shouldn’t have bought it. Instead, you’re just saying thank you, and you’ll send him pictures where you’re putting whatever he bought you on your shelves, and that’s it.

So much for “don’t contact this number unless it’s important.”

But Jacob doesn’t mind it. You’re good company, albeit childish. Surprisingly.

Again, as long as it keeps you away from sending weird men your feet pictures.

Jacob tells himself he’s doing it to at least take your dad’s simmering heat off of you even just a little bit, but he’s not really sure how that’s working out. He thought that if you would stop asking him stuff, maybe Lee would also stop venting out his family affair every time they hang out?

So far, though, nothing’s really changed. 

When Lee mentions something about you finally moving out soon for college, it makes him think.

* 

“Hey.”

“Um… hello?”

“Surprised?”

“What happened to only calling when it’s important? Sorry, dude, I don’t have any bail money on me.”

Jacob snorts. “I heard from your dad that you’re moving out soon.” 

“Not for another 2 months. Is he really that eager to get rid of me that he’s already telling you about it?”

“Unfortunately. You haven’t told me anything about school or university.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure what stage we are in.”

“Which university?”

“NYU. It’s pretty near, actually. I initially had no plans to move out just to see how much longer I can get on the old man’s nerves. But I don’t want to push it.”

Jacob is silent for a moment.

Surely it won’t be weird, right? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s getting you something.

“Any luck on finding your new home then?”

“Not yet. We’re in New York. You know how prices are around here—”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“Excuse me?” comes your sharp, confused voice. “What was that?”

“I’ll pay for your apartment,” Jacob continues. It’s not weird. You’re his friend’s daughter, and his friend isn’t taking good care of his own daughter. And Jacob feels partly guilty for the whole thing. Especially in tempting your father to be a dirty little cheater. “It’s really fine. Pick whatever you like and I’ll pay for it.”

Silence on the other line stretches longer than necessary. And Jacob feels oddly nervous about it. Because now, the sudden realization of how bizarre and insanely inappropriate that offer was just hits him like a truck. But it’s already been said. Jacob’s never been the kind of man who takes something back.

“Okay. I don’t want things to be weird between us but I just want to ask… you’re not giving me all of this because you expect something back from me, are you?”

Jacob gulps.

He hasn’t even thought of that. When he gave you all those stupid anime toys you asked for, he never once thought of getting anything back from you. Just seeing your thank you through texts was enough for him. And giving you stuff made him feel like a cool uncle during Christmas. Because it’s just—

He’s not sure how to put it without sounding like a fucking asshole.

But Jacob would’ve expected something in return if you were anywhere near his type. Because he is kind of an asshole like that. 

But you’re not. His type, that is. So what’s the deal? 

“Of course not. I just don’t like how your dad is treating you. And I somehow feel responsible for it. So it’s really the least I can do.”

“Huh,” you say in an unsure voice. “Well. Alright. If you’re offering. Not about to pass on free rent.”

Again, you don’t even bother hesitating more. Or make him feel like the whole thing’s weird by not accepting the offer. Which is probably why you wind up meeting that feet pics guy the last time, you’re just so easy to fucking convince. 

“Alright. Just send the details of your chosen place. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Wow. Thanks, Dad. I’ll make sure to send you a father’s day card next year.”

Jacob doesn’t say anything else.

But the word sticks to him all week.

*

Jacob tells himself there’s nothing weird when he accepts your invite to look for new couches in the mall.

You have successfully dragged him in three different stores, and yet none has anything that even piqued your interest. 

“I really like this one but the staff told me the color I wanted was sold out.”

Jacob doesn’t get up from the couch. He cares not for the sign that says “thank you for not sitting”—and clearly, neither do you, because you’re the one that’s been practically ordering him to sit down so you can see what it would look like if someone is using it. 

“The color you want wouldn’t fit with the rest of the furniture anyway. Just get this one,” Jacob says as he waves at the couch.

You frown. “Why do you say that?”

“You suck at interior designs. Clearly,” he deadpans. “Trust my judgement. For once.”

“Eh,” you shrug. “I suppose you’re paying for it. Seems odd of me to say no now.”

You were technically saying no to him for the past two hours. Still, Jacob wouldn’t hold it against you. Because you’re great company. And he doesn’t feel like he’s wasting his time with you at all because you’re entertaining him just fine.

“Alright, fine. This is the one. But we also need to eat soon because it’s been ten hours since I last ate.”

The two of you ate in a fast food’s parking lot two hours ago, also. You somehow made him consume a disgustingly greasy burger that’s going to set his diet back for weeks. But Jacob doesn’t point it out. Instead, he fishes out his wallet from his suit and stands up from the couch to head to the cashier.

“Stay here and don’t go wandering around.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Jacob tries not to wince.

It’s not his intention to be your dad. Or give you the impression he’s trying to be like him. Because Jacob knows he’s better than Lee in every way—it’s not even a fucking competition. But he’s not sure if the word is pissing him or it’s doing something else.

He can’t nail it down. Yet.

Jacob is deep in thoughts in the diner you brought him to an hour later.

He observes the way you chew over his cup of black coffee—because frankly, the coffee was the only appetizing and edible thing on the menu—and comes up with more hypotheses than real answers. 

You have the sexual appeal of a 1950s mannequin. You chew like a toddler. And you speak even when your mouth is full. So there’s just no way Jacob finds you attractive. 

His type aren’t bordering jailbait and whose hobbies are arguing with people online about which superhero movies are actually “comic accurate.” His initial interest in you during that dinner was mostly because of the impression Lee left on him about you.

The stuff that he has given you is really just coming from the goodness in his heart. Because he wants to look out for you, and he knows how neglected you have been because of your own father. That’s what Jacob tells himself because there’s really nothing else to it.

Right?

But then you drop the bomb of the century.

“Hey. You know you can ask something from me, right?”

Jacob blinks. “What?”

You stare at him seriously now that he feels nervous about it. “You can ask something from me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” you snort as you give him a look. “A guy like you can’t be helping out a girl like me without expecting anything in return.”

“I told you the reason,” Jacob says too quickly. “I don’t expect anything in return.”

“Well, I don’t believe it,” you shrug. “I feel like you’re doing too much for me just because you feel bad about my relationship with my dad. There’s gotta be a catch.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying it’s fine with me,” you roll your eyes. “If you want something back. If you want me to keep my grades up for it. If you want me to behave for it. Or if you want… sexual favors—”

“Please,” Jacob scoffs.

“I’m just saying! I’m okay with it.”

“No offense, but you’re not my type.” Again, you give him an odd look. Like you don’t believe him at all. And Jacob isn’t sure how he likes it. 

“None taken,” you shrug again. “But I’m just saying. It’s totally cool with me. It’s worth it since you’re paying for the whole place. Also the bills. And you are paying the bills, right?”

Jacob wets his lips. 

He’s used to women throwing themselves at him. He’s so used to it that it’s basically his second nature to undress them and ravish them on the nearest flat surface. But it’s different this time. Because you’re really not his type.

You’re really not.

You’re fucking jailbait. Not only that, you’re the youngest child of his close friend—and you’re barely in fucking college. And he’s not even attracted to you.

He’s not.

Except that’s not what his mouth ends up saying.

“Do you find me attractive?” Jacob asks, and he tries not to look nervous by raising a brow and fidgeting the handle of the cup. 

“I do,” you answer sincerely. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re paying for everything. Though, that I also find attractive.” 

Jacob stares at you and thinks. 

Your thick-rimmed glasses are sliding off your nose as you take another big bite of your greasy burger. A messy eater, you’re getting it all over your face. You also never take any small bites, so your mouth is full as you wipe the back of your hand on your greasy lips. And seriously, Jacob can’t find that attractive.

“Listen, Jake—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You’re a very good looking man. And I’m lucky that you’re my dad’s boss and also a friend that I am able to enjoy your money like this. Are you also my type? Actually, you might be, I can’t even lie to you. I find you very attractive, but I just act like I don’t because—” you gulp down the burger, “I also think you’re a bit of an asshole. Do you find me attractive?”

Jacob grimaces. “No.”

No. He really doesn’t. Because you’re childish and you’re messy and you’re too immature for his own good. And you’re too fucking short. 

“Then that sucks. But you are still paying for my rent and bills though, right?” 

*

He finds it rather impressive that you’re able to act like nothing happened after confessing you’re attracted to him.

Jacob wishes he can do the same.

For the record, he’d like to point out that objectively, you are pretty attractive. You’re the picture perfect nerdy little brat that many men fantasize about. You’re beautiful, you’re youthful, you have a mouth on you, you’re very fucking short, and you’re very cute with your stupid little glasses and smile beams akin to the sun. 

His point is you’re attractive, but he’s not attracted to you. Because you’re not his type.

But at this point, Jacob feels like he’s already said it too much. And he has a feeling he’s only repeating it to convince himself that he is not, in fact, attracted to you.

He said it again.

Last night, you were blowing up his phone with pictures of your new PlayStation games that your brother bought you as a graduation gift while Jacob was trying to enjoy getting his dick sucked. 

The woman had pulled her mouth away from his cock and asked what was wrong with his phone. She asked if he had any girlfriend she should worry about. But Jacob didn’t have the time to answer stupid questions, so he pushed her head down without a word so she could continue her work.

It’s been weeks since the last time he got laid. All because he found himself too wrapped up in your business to even get his dick wet. And when he was getting his dick wet, you just won’t stop wriggling in like some kind of annoying little rat.

For the first time in his life, Jacob could admit that he fucked a beautiful woman into his bed without fully putting his heart in it.

Truly a blow to his ego. But he’s confident it wouldn’t put a dent in his reputation considering he still made her come several times. It’s just him who didn’t reach the sweet release. Unfortunately.

Now, he’s struggling to face Lee every day in the office, because how exactly can you explain to a father that he’s been secretly sponsoring his daughter behind his back?

This is the fourth time he rainchecks on their weekly night out because Jacob can’t trust himself that he won’t say anything when he’s got a few drinks in him. Thankfully none of them thinks of it as weird or suspicious. Just as long as Jacob lends them the company card and they’re free to get whatever they want, they won’t question it.

Church Girl:

lol look at this awesome shirt i scored at the thrift shop (* ^ ω ^)

Jacob opens the message to see a picture of you standing in front of a mirror, wearing a shirt with a badly edited print of Batman and Superman kissing. He doesn’t even want to acknowledge it for a second longer, so instead, he turns his attention to what little the picture captures of your room behind you.

There are what seems to be stacks of books and comics on the floor, and behind you are shelves of more books, completed lego sets, as well as action figurines from god knows how many cartoons or shows that you love watching.

Jacob can’t help but compare you to the other women he’s been with and how drastically different you are compared to them. But he supposes your age is a big factor.

Jacob:

You have a lot of books.

And legos.

Church Girl:

yea bc im not like any other girls

im unique 

god my whole body just cringed at that

it’s awful

Jacob:

What do you mean?

You are kind of unique. 

Church Girl: 

it’s a joke u wouldn’t get it

also awe you think im unique

in wattpad this is where the ceo takes interest in the poor girl and kisses her back

Jacob:

What are you talking about right now?

Church Girl:

ugh 

girl u r hopeless (￢_￢;)

anyway what’s ur deal today

have any plans?

Jacob:

No. It’s 11 pm. I’m getting ready for bed.

Church Girl:

awesome me too

You send a photo of yourself lying on your bed now, but you still made sure to show him your stupid fucking shirt that makes him roll his eyes. But Jacob takes a moment to observe your pretty face.

You’re still wearing your glasses, bare-faced, and hair undone. Behind you are also stuffed toys of different animals and weird creatures that he doesn’t even question, and you have that smile on your face that shows all of your teeth.

Shockingly, Jacob smiles. 

Jacob:

You’re cute.

Church Girl:

i thought u dont find me attractive huh (^_<)

Jacob wets his lips and presses the call button without thinking straight.

“Oh wow, I didn’t know we’re already in the late night call stage.”

“I’m… thinking about it,” Jacob sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Uh about what?”

“You being attractive,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile playing on his face. “I’m very surprised at how nonchalant you’re being after bravely confessing to me the other day that you find me attractive.”

“I’m not really good at flirting. Actually that was my first attempt,” you giggle on the other side. “Besides, I’m sure that wasn’t your first time hearing it. I thought being nonchalant and just straight up saying it to your face would be better than beating around the bush.”

“You’re young. And you see how this looks right?”

“What, so does that mean you do find me attractive?” you ask, and Jacob can fucking hear the grin in your voice. “You’re already acting like my sugar daddy. We might as well maximize it.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” Jacob says. “But I guess it only… dawned on me when I offered to pay for your apartment for college. That what I was doing was inappropriate. Am doing.”

“It’s not inappropriate.”

“Your dad is my friend.”

“Well, besides that,” you cut in. “I’m a perfectly legal adult.”

“Barely,” Jacob scoffs. “You don’t even act like one.”

“But do you find me attractive?”

He sighs and closes his eyes.

“I don’t find you not attractive.”

“Okaaay…” you trail off. “So you find me attractive.”

“In a way. Kinda. Not really.”

“Is this the reason why you called? You want to tell me that you actually do find me attractive? Then what, should we have phone sex? You have to guide me though, I haven’t actually done any sex before.”

Jacob feels heat creeping up to his face. Not really because he’s embarrassed or shy—that’s fucking stupid. But mostly because he wasn’t expecting that.

“Alright. I’ll bite,” he hums. “You’re way too fucking brave for a virgin.”

“Only because you’re not here with me. I guarantee you that I wouldn’t be this brave in real life. I gave myself a pep talk in my own head the time I confessed. I was sweating buckets but I had to act nonchalantly to save myself.”

Jacob laughs. He fucking knew it. “Yeah. Girls like you are all bark and no bite.”

He’s aware of how quickly the conversation turned from 0 to 100. But at the same time, you don’t really seem to mind. He hears you giggling on the other line and the soft rustle of fabric underneath it all.

Jacob raises a brow.

“What’s the farthest you’ve gone with someone, sweetheart?”

He hears a sharp intake of breath. He assumes it’s probably from the nickname. Or maybe it’s from the question itself. Either way, the sound is cute, and Jacob wants to know.

“... I’ve never done anything with anyone before.”

He closes his eyes and wills himself to calm down.

“So you’re like—”

“A virgin, yes, as we’ve established,” you laugh nervously. Jacob can hear it. And he’s just as nervous as you are. Because he’s threading on territory he would never would’ve thought he would be walking on.

“I assumed you’ve done anything else other than the whole fucking part,” Jacob murmurs. “Clearly not.”

“Is it a bad thing?”

“No, no,” he sighs. “But it does explain why you have the nerve to talk to me the way you do. You’re so careless about the topic of sex because you yourself don’t know what it’s like.”

“I’ve watched porn,” you argue. Jacob can practically hear the pout in your voice. “I know the process.”

“You think porn is real?”

“It’s not?”

“See,” he laughs. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. And it’s cute. I’m going to be honest, I’m a bit charmed.”

“But isn’t that the thing, though? You’re the older one. You should teach me.”

Then suddenly, Jacob feels like there are thorns wrapping around his throat. 

That came unexpectedly. But then he reminds himself: virgins, this is how they talk. Always so careless with their words.

“Maybe,” Jacob says as he gulps. “I’m not a very good teacher, though. I don’t have the patience for it. And I reckon you’re the same. You’re quite the insolent child.”

“I’m not insolent,” you snarl. “I’m just naturally curious. Is it so wrong of me to shoot my shot with the man I find attractive and also paying for everything?”

“I thought you think I’m an asshole.”

“You are,” you deadpan. “You’re being one now. Stop mocking me because I’m a virgin.”

“I’m not mocking you. I’m just making sure you’re aware of the weight of your words.”

“I’m aware. Stop acting like I’m a child or something, geez. I’ve heard enough from the old man. I don’t need to hear more from you as well.”

For some reason, the comparison makes his eye twitch. Jacob isn’t sure if it’s from annoyance. But he finds it offensive that he’s getting compared to Lee out of all people.

“I’m not telling you this again, sweetheart. I am not like your father.”

“Then stop acting like him!” You snap. “God, you ruined it! We were having a good moment, I thought we were about to have a phone sex or something, but you just had to ruin it by acting just like him. God, I can never escape the presence of that man. Lord, free me.”

Jacob sighs. Clearly he said the wrong words. Or maybe you took them out of proportion—but the point is, this is why the whole thing is confusing to him. 

Your comparison shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have made him have that kind of reaction. But it did.

And most importantly, Jacob shouldn’t have said “maybe” when you asked him to teach you.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. But for what it’s worth, he means it. Because he’s aware that despite all the jokes about your dad, his negligence is still not something to be taken lightly. “Listen, we’ll continue this conversation next time, alright? Feel like I’ve already said too much. You should go to sleep.”

Jacob hears a sad sigh on the other line.

“Okay, fine.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Night, Dad.”

Jacob tries not to say anything else. He just ends the call and drops his phone on the bed without a word.

*

Jacob:

I’ll send someone to pick you up later.

Let’s go shopping.

“Is this you trying to make it up for the other night?”

Jacob ignores your question as he continues eyeing the beautiful dresses displayed on the wall.

When he said shopping earlier, he obviously meant giving you the freedom to choose whatever you like, be it clothes or food or those lego sets that you love so dearly. But then again, it’s Jacob’s money. He feels like he should at least pick something out for you because he honestly doesn’t know what to feel about your poorly printed goofy t-shirts that you always wear whenever you’re with him.

“What about this one?” Jacob pulls out a beautiful red dress off the rack and shows it to you. “You like dresses, right? I’ve seen you in a dress before. I wish that’s all you wear everyday.”

“Telling a woman what she should wear is certainly a choice,” you squint your eyes, but you snatch the dress from his hand either way. “I’ll try it out.”

“Please do.”

Jacob waits while sitting on the couch in front of the dressing room, sipping his wine and tapping his foot to the beat of the jazz music patiently. He had specifically requested a bottle as well as a slice of cake for you because he knows it’s going to take awhile. He has no plans to leave this store empty handed. But he knows that won’t be a problem since you have no qualms spending his money like you personally contribute to his wealth.

You exit the dressing room a few minutes later, and Jacob's hand pauses halfway through another sip.

It hugs your body perfectly. He has the perfect view of your collarbones and the dip between your breasts, the way it shows off the curve of your hips, and when you give him a twirl, it perfectly shows the swell of your ass. It’s the most PG looking red dress Jacob has ever seen, and somehow you make it look even more so by having a posture of a fucking shrimp.

“Are we going to play dress up all day? Do you like it?” you ask, sliding your hands down over your figure and down to the ruffles of your dress.

Jacob licks his lips.

Does he like it?

Aside from that white dress you wore when he first met you, this is the first time he’s seen you in one again. It’s clear that you don’t know how to carry the outfit. He can practically feel the slight insecurity oozing out of your demeanor despite acting otherwise.

But at the same time, it’s better than seeing you in shirts with Batman and Superman kissing right on your tits.

Jacob stands up to approach you, and he places a hand on your shoulder blades and uses his other one to guide your neck into a better posture. He ignores the way your skin feels hot underneath his touch, and you straighten your back without meeting his eyes.

“There we go,” Jacob murmurs, then he places his fingers on your chin. “Look at me.”

You crank your neck up to face him, and even now that you’re standing straight, you’re still barely reaching his chest. Jacob fixes your askew glasses and tucks an astray hair behind your ear.

“I like it very much,” he says. “What do you say about retiring all your goofy shirts and replacing them with designer brands instead?”

Then, your face scrunches in that way he’s more familiar with. Still shy but no longer self-conscious. Jacob finally smiles.

There’s his silly girl.

“Over my dead body. You can dress me up like a princess all you want, but you can’t touch my shirts.”

Jacob shrugs. Because you do have a point.

As pretty as you look now in this perfect dress, he can’t deny the fact that your silly shirts are part of your charm.

However.

“Fine. But that doesn’t mean I can’t buy you nice clothes now.”

You turn your heels to head back to the dressing room once more, but you halt your steps to turn back around and stare at him. When Jacob goes to raise his brow and ask, you simply go on your tiptoes to press a quick peck on his cheek, placing your hands on his chest for support.

Then finally, you leave him standing there like a deer in headlights.

*

Jacob is a fucking creep and he is going to rot in hell.

It’s something that’s been keeping him awake at night, and only recently, it’s something he finally comes to terms with.

The whole thing is a fucking bust.

You are not his type, but he is very much attracted to you. 

You’re childish, you’re immature, you’re full of shit—and that makes him weak in the fucking knees. He can’t say no to you, he can’t stop giving you everything, because you’re the cutest little shit he’s ever laid his eyes on, and he just needs to fucking accept it.

There’s no use beating around the bush. There’s no use trying to justify everything that he does. There’s no use trying to dodge the fact that he’s trying to be the better father for you. There’s no use trying to be a morally responsible adult in this situation, because everything circles back to you.

Jacob has found you fucking attractive ever since he first met you.

And how lucky is he knowing you feel the same.

Very fucking lucky.

Jacob came to terms with it one Friday night after work, when he stooped low enough to let a woman suck him off in a bathroom stall. He came to terms with it when he saw your face looking up at him with big doe eyes instead, and he cums all over the woman’s face without missing a beat.

“Is my mouth that good?” she teased, but all Jacob could hear is that annoying little voice of yours. “Do you want to fuck it some more?”

He closed his eyes and banged the back of his head on the wall.

You would never say that.

But there was no harm in pretending for a little while.

Now, he’s bound to meet you in the new apartment you’re going to move into a month from now. The two of you decided not to tell your father yet that you already found a place so he wouldn’t question where you got the money from.

Jacob is waiting for your arrival with his legs crossed on the newly bought couch from a few weeks ago. He sent a driver to pick you up without giving it much thought, so now he’s contemplating whether it was a good idea or not, considering he still has no idea how to approach you about opening up the topic of sex.

But knowing you, who’s been trying to get in his pants ever since the whole “relationship” happened, maybe he should just get it over with.

Jacob’s ears perk up when he hears the door finally opening and your greeting rambles already pour into the apartment. You’re saying something about the traffic, there was an accident nearby, and you asked the driver to stop by at a pizza place for dinner but he declined. 

“He said you told him to only drive me here, now I’m here empty handed,” you say by the door as you kick your shoes off. Jacob looks down to see he’s still wearing his. “Oh wow, you’re right. That couch definitely matches the rest of the furniture.”

When he hears your footsteps approaching, only then he looks up and meets your eyes.

“So, what’s the deal here?” you ask, crossing your arms and standing in front of him like you own the place. “Am I going to move in early?”

“No, I just didn’t want to bother reserving a hotel room.”

You blink at him, clearly dumbfounded. Jacob smirks because that’s the exact reaction he’s been looking for. And of course, a girl like you wouldn’t have a clue on how to respond to it, because you’re all bark and no bite.

“For what?” you ask quietly.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Jacob tilts his head. “People don’t really book hotel rooms to hash out business.”

“What, are we going to—” you immediately cut yourself off and look away. The arms on your chest fall on your front, and Jacob raises a brow at the way you start fiddling with your fingers. “... You know.”

“I want to discuss it with you first,” Jacob says, then gestures on the spot beside him. “Come sit.”

Without a word, you sink next to him and scootch a little closer so the two of you are extra close, your thigh touching his. Jacob throws an arm on the back of the couch, smirking when he sees you visibly shrinking down.

“I want to know if this is something you really want.”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“Then why are you getting so shy now?”

You look up to snarl at him and Jacob can’t help but snort. “It’s all just sudden. You said I wasn’t your type.”

“I lied,” Jacob admits, too fast for his own liking. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Not really,” you shrug. “Are we… gonna? I don’t know how to—like, do it. Or how to start it.”

He only grins. Because finding you awkward and weird but also sexy and cute can co-exist. And now he’s man enough to admit that you being absolutely clueless and alike the virgin mary is doing something to his dick. You’re really only brave when you’re the one initiating anything. It’s cute.

“I wish you’d stop talking,” Jacob murmurs. “But I know you won’t. So I’m not going to waste my breath telling you to. So we’re going to have some ground rules first, okay?”

You nod obediently, eyes all big and excited that Jacob feels like a sick, sick man. But it doesn’t matter anymore. He nutted all the guilt and conscience he had on a woman’s face when he saw yours on her stead. 

“It doesn’t matter to me if you want it slow and gentle,” he says, bringing a hand to nudge your chin and tilt your head up. “I don’t care for what you want when I’m fucking you. You’re not the one to call the shots, I do. I’m the one in charge, and all you need to do is be pretty and listen to what I say. You following so far?”

“Yes.” 

“Good,” he smiles. “But even then, I’m not an asshole. If you really want me to stop, you’ll have a safeword. What do you want it to be?”

You go silent for a moment as you think. “Wolverine.”

“Okay,” Jacob sighs. A weird word is always better to catch him off guard. He never liked using the traffic light system. “So you understand that I won’t answer to ‘stops’ and ‘don’ts’ right? Only your safeword.”

“I understand,” you nod again, clearly excited. He can see the light smile playing on your face. And Jacob knows just how fast he can wipe that shit when he’s splitting you in half on the bed. “Do I get to call you anything? Like—I know men like to be called stuff in bed. Do you?”

Jacob’s eye twitches.

He knows what you’re talking about. And he never really thought about it. As far as he’s concerned, he really loves hearing women only scream his name because it boosts his ego. But it’s different with you, right? Everything is.

Then his mind flashes that one word you’ve been calling him the past month you’ve been together. And he’s not sure if he should feel disgusted with himself when it made his dick throb harder than it ever has in his life.

Dad.

Again, that’s weird. He’s sure you wouldn’t like him calling him that, considering your relationship with your father. That’s one thing Jacob has been actively working on since this whole arrangement happened—to get your mind off your dad, that is. So now it’s really weird if he would ask you to call him anything that even resembles—

“Do you like being called ‘daddy’ too?”

Jackpot.

Jacob doesn’t say anything else as he stands up and sweeps you off the couch in bridal style and heads for the bedroom.

*

Aside from the furniture in the room, it’s still relatively empty. There’s not even a proper blanket and covers for the mattress, but Jacob doesn’t care.

He lets the two of you fall on the bed, his mouth still on yours, hungrily swallowing all the pretty noises you’re making while he begins feeling you up underneath your obnoxiously thick sweater. 

Jacob squeezes the plump flesh of your belly in his hand, and he smiles on your lips when you pull away to giggle.

“Stop squeezing my belly rolls.”

“They’re sexy,” he murmurs. “Makes me feel good that I’m the reason for it. I’ve been feeding you too much.”

“Yeah, but I’m partly at fault.”

You chase his mouth again, your fingers finding their way in his hair and pulling him down closer to you. Jacob finally slips his tongue inside your mouth as his hand goes higher inside your sweater. When his hand reaches your bra, he wastes no time groping one of them hard.

You whine in his mouth, your own hands grabbing the end of your clothing to pull it up and show him what he’s been shamelessly holding. Jacob’s eyes twinkle as he pulls away from the wet kiss, a string of saliva connecting both of your lips.

“Well, aren’t you a quick little learner? You’re already presenting yourself for me, huh?” Jacob hums. Then he takes off your sweater completely, the next is your bra to completely bare yourself in front of him. He eyes your bouncing tits hungrily, and he wastes no time latching his mouth on your left nipple while pinching the other.

He can already feel his own cock stirring in his pants. But he’ll give you attention first. His needs can come later. So he sucks until he’s certain your nipple is bruised, because he feels your fingers pulling his hair and whining as you try and scootch away from his mouth.

“Sorry, baby,” he says, making one more lick at your perking nipple. “I got carried away.”

“Is okay,” you murmur. “I wanna see you too, Daddy.”

Goddamnit. 

It makes his ears want to bleed. It makes his dick want to fucking explode. It makes him want to do nothing but split your cunt up and bloody up his cock with your virginal walls. It makes him want to stand in front of Lee and give him a big “fuck you” fingers, because here he is, being the better dad between the two of them that he gets to call you that.

Jacob quickly slides your pants along with your underwear off and throws it somewhere behind him, and he refrains from drooling like a hungry mutt when he gets a whiff of your cunt. 

There’s a thatch of thick hair nestled on your mound, and he runs his fingers through it gently, smirking when he hears you panting and hips slightly twitching from the contact. 

“Have you ever touched yourself before?” he whispers. “Tell me honestly.”

“I have but—” you keen. “But it’s not the same. This feels so much better—”

“Does it?” Jacob teases, now letting his fingers slide down until he’s hovering just above your clit. He gives you an experimental nudge with his fingertips, and he smiles wider when you jolt in surprise. “Keep your legs wide open. I need to loosen you up first before I fuck you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to fit anywhere near this cunt of yours.”

You lean on your elbows to look at him with furrowed brows. “Is it… big?”

“Hm,” Jacob hums, then he drags his finger up again to point at your belly button. “There.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s about that size.”

You look down to where he’s pointing, and it takes a moment for you to process it before your jaw goes slack. “That’s not possible. What if that’s my womb?”

“Then I guess I get to fuck a baby into you then,” Jacob deadpans. He’ll humor your hentai logic for now. After all, you’re the reason why he now knows the meaning of the word gooning. “I’ll give my baby her own baby.”

Jacob doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he finally lowers himself between your legs and buries his nose in your thick coarse of hair to inhale your scent. The smell is even more potent here. But he loves it. He imagines it’s because you’ve been out and about all day, sweating and marinating all this goodness for him to enjoy.

He lets your hands hold his head before he fucks his tongue deep inside your cunt. When you attempt to pull away from the sudden intrusion, Jacob wraps his own arms around your thighs to lock you down on the mattress.

“Dad—Daddy!”

Jesus.

You might have the tightest pussy he’s ever had. And that’s saying a lot considering the amount of pussies he’s had on his handsome face. But Jacob supposes it’s because of your stature, and how short you are compared to him. And at this point, he’s not even sure if he’s going to doubt the fact that he might actually fuck your womb later on.

Your hentai logic is rubbing on him.

Jacob uses his thumbs to spread open your cunt, and he tilts his head down in an angle so the tip of his nose could rub on your swollen clit. It’s wet with saliva, and it smells like it too—but Jesus Christ, his dick has never been harder before. The more you slick on his awaiting tongue as he fucks it deeper inside your pussy, the less patient he gets in actually making you a mother.

He pulls away slightly to spit directly on your hungry wet cunthole, and he inserts two wet fingers inside, making you mewl like a needy little cat as you wrap your legs around his head. When Jacob looks up, he sees you using your other hand to muffle your noises, and he deliberately curls his thick fingers inside that makes you jolt.

“Take that fucking hand off your mouth,” he warns lowly, and he can only smirk when your hand immediately falls off your face and he finally hears your cock-hardening moans pouring into his ears.

“Your f–fingers are too thick, Daddy,” you sniffle, and Jacob can feel your walls clenching around his digits like it’s going to snap them in half. “It feels weird—but—but so good—”

“You’ve never had your own fingers inside you before, mhm?” 

“No, only—only on my—” you cut yourself off, clearly too shy to finish the sentence.

“Only on your what?” He raises a brow. “You have to use your words if you want Daddy to understand you better, baby. Otherwise Daddy won’t know what you need.”

“Only on my—” you try again, your voice slightly quivering. “C-Clit.”

“Oh? Here?”

He thumbs down on your perking clit that’s literally begging for his attention, and he smiles evilly when your legs shake around his head. Not even five minutes in, and they’re already shaking. Clearly you know how to just feed his fucking ego.

“I’d love to have you cumming all over my mouth, but Daddy wants the first orgasm of the night to be on his dick,” Jacob says as he pulls his fingers away. When you whine at the loss of contact, he simply smacks down your cunt and he raises a brow when he hears your pussy reacting lewdly by making a wet, dirty sound. “Oh. She’s talking back now.”

“S-Shut up,” you stutter, embarrassed by the noises your cunt made. “Are you going to get naked now?”

“Yes, yes,” Jacob sighs. “I know you’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Try not to let your pussy go crazy again when you finally see Daddy with his dick out, okay?”

He pushes himself off the bed to begin stripping. He discards his suit jacket on the floor, then he begins unbuttoning his black shirt. The room is warm, so Jacob doesn’t shiver when he’s gone shirtless in front of you. And when he kicks his pants away, he immediately wraps his hand around his hard cock to at least ease the tension and not bust a nut and embarrass himself.

Jacob stands at the end of bed pumping his dick slowly, and he runs a hand over his naked body as he observes the way you’re eyeing him up and down hungrily. Cute. 

“You like what you see, baby?”

“Wow, it’s really—” you lick your lips.

“Big?” he smirks. “You want to give it a taste first? Give it a little kiss? Daddy will like that very much.”

You sit up quickly, reaching a hand to slap his away, and you wrap your own around the girth of his cock. Your fingers aren’t touching each other as they wrap around him, and Jacob tries not to cum just from that alone.

When you finally press a gentle kiss on his tip, Jacob fists your hair and smears the fat head all over your lips to open them forcefully. When your mouth makes space, he wastes no time shoving himself inside and ignoring your surprised yelp.

He’s not stupid. He knows it’s not going to fit. But it’s worth a shot even if he’s only getting half of his cock wet with your spit. And he really enjoys hearing you struggle and gargle around his fat girth while you hold onto his thighs for support.

“Yeah,” he moans lowly. “Your mouth is so hot, baby. Daddy feels like he’s fucking a pussy already. But I know you’d be tighter than this. Don’t you also think so?”

Jacob looks down to see you peering up at him with teary eyes, and he immediately reaches down to grip his balls to stop himself from painting your face. He should really take a picture. Save it in his drive so he can have something to look at when he’s alone back home or in his office. Or maybe he can print it out and put it in a frame on his office desk for everyone to see—including your fucking dad.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking cute,” Jacob hisses, pulling your mouth off his throbbing hot dick and pushing you back on the bed. “Daddy’s never had this case of cuteness aggression before. Get on your hands and knees. I want to fuck you from behind. I can’t afford to look at your cute face when I’m fucking you. I feel like I’m going to hell.”

He turns his attention to grab his pants to fetch his wallet, which receives a confused look from you. “What are you doing?”

“Condoms.”

“But I thought you’re going to give your baby her own baby?” you ask with a pout, and Jacob closes his eyes.

Calm down, Jacob. Don’t risk it. Don’t fall for it. She’s bluffing. You’re bluffing. You’re not ready for fatherhood—and you never will be.

“It’s for foreplay, sweetheart,” he smiles, opening his wallet and pulling out the packets of condom. When Jacob turns his attention back to you, he sees that you’re face down and ass up on the bed. You’re reaching behind you to spread your ass cheeks apart, giving him the perfect view of your hairy swollen cunt and asshole that’s just fucking winking at him and— “Cut that shit out unless you want me to fuck your asshole inside.” 

You pout and you let go of your ass cheeks. Jacob finally breathes out in relief as he puts on the condom over his cock. He’s used to this. He’s never fucked raw before, even though he wants nothing but to bury his dick far enough in your pussy to actually get you pregnant like you want—but he’s not stupid.

He’s not.

Jacob grabs both of your wrists in one hand and holds them just above your ass, making sure you’re in the same face down position, while he uses his other hand to guide his angry red dick to your sopping wet cunny.

“You’re going to behave while you’re taking dick, or otherwise I’m taking it away. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.”

Jacob aims for your entrance, and he slides home.

As your cunt lips stretch around the fat girth of his cock, it truly feels like entering the pearly gates of heaven. You’re so tight that he feels like he’s going to snap in half. You’re lucky you’re wet enough for him to enter. Otherwise this would’ve been a huge fucking problem.

“Oh, Dad–Daddy—” you whimper, and you’re not fucking relaxing. He can feel how tense you are around him. 

Sounding more and more like Dad.

Maybe Jacob actually prefers that?

He struggles to get a couple of inches inside. It’s clear that your cunt is pushing him out, and while it does feel good around his dick, he doesn’t want to put you in any kind of pain that will have you bitching in his ears instead of something else.

“Relax, baby,” he says calmly. “Relax around my cock. Otherwise it won’t fit.”

“But it doesn’t fit!” you argue loudly. “It won’t!”

“It will,” he rolls his eyes. “Relax. You’re going to snap my dick in half. And we don’t want that now, won’t we?”

When he doesn’t feel you listening, Jacob smacks your ass that makes you scream frustratingly on the mattress. Until eventually, he feels you slightly loosening up—but still so fucking tight. 

This is going to be a problem.

But oh well.

“Alright. Good girl. I’m gonna fuck you now, mhm? Don’t freak out if you smell blood—it’s normal.”

Jacob doesn’t wait for your reply.

He fucks the remaining inches inside your wet pussy. And when you scream out in pain, he reminds himself that he’s a bad, bad man. And since he’s already a bad man, he shouldn’t care for it, and just start fucking you instead.

So that’s what he does.

“Jacob—ah fuck, Daddy—oh shit—Daddy, it’s too—big—” you slur out every thrusts, every time his balls slap on your wet clit. “Feel so full—hurts—it hurts—”

“I know,” Jacob groans. “It’s going to get better. It’s just that your poor little cunt isn’t used to having such a big cock like Daddy’s inside her. But she’s going to get used to it, isn’t she? Because after this, I’m going to fuck you every time I get the chance, so your pretty little cunt will know who she belongs to.”

He smacks your ass again, and he pounds you harder. He continues his rough grip on your wrists as he slams his cock inside your pussy over and over again. Jacob should probably let go. It’s not comfortable. But he’s a bad man, isn’t he?

He shouldn’t care.

“Should’ve done this earlier—should’ve fucked you earlier. This is the best night of my fucking life,” Jacob pants. Sweat is building on his forehead and chest, and in this position, he has the perfect view of your asshole puckering up at him shamelessly. It’s so beautiful. He ought to fuck it one day.

One day.

“Oh god,” you sob, voice quivering and breaking. Your glistening wet folds are welcoming him like he’s meant to be buried there for the rest of his life, making space for his fat cock even if it seems impossibly tight. “I’m—god, Daddy, I don’t—oh god, it hurts, ‘m so full—so full, so full—can feel it in my stomach—”

Jacob closes his eyes as he moves his hips. He can feel your stomach. But it’s something he wants to ignore because he doesn’t want to cum so soon. He can feel your dewy wet walls clenching and just fucking milking his cock out. And if he isn’t wearing any protection, he probably already would’ve pumped your cunny full of him—your cunt that’s so wet that the slide through your chubby lips is so frictionless.

“You must really love Daddy’s fat dick,” Jacob leans down to murmur in your ear. “Your pussy is smothering my cock like there’s no tomorrow. It’s so fucking sloppy. Fucking—shit. God—fuck—”

You clench around him again and he accidentally let go of your wrists. But Jacob doesn’t grab them again. He lets you do your own thing while he focuses on the feeling of the wet slosh on his girth.

And before he knows it, you’re fucking back on his hips, pulling away on your own and slamming your ass down onto his cock. Your cunt is still incredibly tight, but you’re welcoming him with much more enthusiasm now, and you won’t stop chanting his name through the lewd beat of your slick thrusts together.

“Daddy, oh Daddy—feels so good, Dad–Daddy—fuck—feel so full, ‘m pussy so full—”

“Yeah?” Jacob pants. “Keep talking. Tell me how good it feels.”

“So good, so good—wish I can keep Daddy inside me f-forever—it’s so big—can feel it in my stomach.” You wail when Jacob rams into you harder. “Oh fuck—oh shit, I’m gonna—”

“Go ahead. Fuck that messy little pussy of yours on your Daddy’s dick. Make yourself cum.”

Jacob reaches down in between your legs to rub your wet little clit, and it seems like he doesn’t have to rub any longer. You gush around his cock the moment his fingers touch your swollen nub, all while screaming out his name into the mattress. He feels your pussy tightening around his girth as your legs quiver and eventually give out, making Jacob’s cock slip out of you all of a sudden.

But he can’t hold it anymore. He peels off the rubber in one swift movement and fucks his fist aggressively while aiming his cock on your ass. You’re lying there boneless and out of breath, whole body trembling from that orgasm, your pussy slightly gaping from his assault. farting out the air that he fucked inside—and Jacob cums.

He paints your ass with spent, groaning loudly as he does so. His balls are pulling up as he milks himself dry, and even he feels pretty fucking boneless from that one round alone.

When Jacob notices you’re unresponsive, he places a hand on your shoulder and flips you on your back. Your eyes are closed, but you’re breathing heavily. Your legs are still trembling, and when he goes to check your pussy, you instinctively reach a hand down to cover her up.

“No…” you sniffle. “Hurts. S-Sore.”

“Fine,” he snorts. “I just want to see—what, are you passing out? Baby. Hey. Baby—oh dear.”

And you’re out.

Now, if Jacob is even worse than the man he already is, he would’ve fucked you still even if you’re unconscious like this.

But he doesn’t. 

So instead, he tells himself to just save it for later, and that for now, he should clean you up.

Begrudgingly.

*

You don’t wake up until the next morning.

It’s a shame, truly. Jacob had been thinking all night that he was going to score again. But when he stayed up until 3 AM and you were still showing no signs of waking up, and proved him so by loudly snoring on your side of the bed, he gave up.

Now it’s Saturday morning, and he’s even nice enough to buy and cook breakfast for his sweet, drooling, sleepy little princess.

“My dad was blowing up my phone.”

Jacob looks up from the stove to see you slightly limping as you enter the kitchen. You’re wearing his shirt, how cute. But he supposes it’s probably his fault considering he is using your very much oversized sweater now. He needed something to cover him up when he bought breakfast.

“You didn’t wake up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jacob rolls his eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb the princess’ peaceful sleep. Unlike you, I’m considerate to my bed partners.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you snarl at him as you climb on the stool. “You complainin’ about my snoring? What, is it your first time sleeping with a girl who snores? Give me a break.”

Jacob shakes his head, because yes, it is his first time. He would usually send the woman away when they’re done for the night. They never bothered staying for pillow talk because they were mature enough like that—unlike you.

“You’re not a morning person,” Jacob notes as he plates the pancakes and slides it in front of you. Then he’s even nice enough to pour you a glass of apple juice. “Or you’re just grumpy because you’re in pain?”

“Both,” you pout. “I had to come up with an elaborate excuse that I stayed over at my friend’s. Not sure if he believes it though. He’s still not answering.”

Jacob sits next to you and watches you fork down your pancakes with his cheek resting on his palm. He’s not really hungry. He’s not a big eater in the morning. Food never tastes right in his mouth. But he’s happy to just watch you eat instead, stuffing your mouth full with breakfast like a cute little hamster.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” you say with a mouth full. Jacob closes his eyes and tries not to grimace. 

“Stop talking with your mouth full, it’s rude,” he replies. “And you’re wearing my shirt. We’re even.”

You ignore him, and instead wiggles your eyebrow playfully at him. “Did you have fun last night, Daddy?”

Jacob rubs his hand all over your face and pushes your head back teasingly. You laugh loudly, slapping his hand away. “Shut up with that.”

“What? I thought you liked it,” you wink. “I like it. It’s better than just Jacob.”

“Well, you can’t be calling me that anywhere.”

“Why?” you raise a brow. “They’re going to think I’m your daughter anyway.”

Jacob licks his lips.

There it is.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?”

You give him a look. “Why is that weird? They’re not going to know. And it’s sexy.”

“You already have a dad,” Jacob deadpans.

“Yeah,” you smirk. “You.”

“Don’t—” Jacob shakes his head. “It’s different. Only when we’re in bed. Please.”

“Pfft. You’re so boring, seriously. If you don’t want me to act like you’re my actual dad, then stop trying to be better than him,” you roll your eyes. “What, you’re actually backing out? Come on, Daddy.”

He breathes loudly through his nose. Because he honestly can’t deal with this so early in the morning. It’s hot. It’s fucked up. But it’s hot. So much so that he can feel his own dick rising from the dead in his pants. And Jacob is once again reminded that he technically didn’t have his way with you last night after you passed out so rudely on him, and he thinks that maybe—

You know what.

“Sure,” he smiles. “I can be your Daddy from now on, baby. But you’ll have to let me do everything for you. Even outside the bedroom. Because that’s what good dads do.”

He’s bluffing. Jacob knows fuck all about being a good dad. But who cares? He has the chance to treat you better than your own father ever did. And aside from that, he gets to fuck you whenever he likes. He’s a bad man after all.

“Everything?” you raise a brow.

“Everything,” he confirms. “You don’t even have to think for yourself. Because that’s Daddy’s job, isn’t it?”

Jacob tucks your hair behind your ear, and he leans closer to peck your lips. It’s sweet from the pancakes and apple juice, but he likes it. Then he takes away your fork and starts cutting up the pancakes himself.

“Even this,” he says. “I’ll spoon feed you. Because you’re my baby, aren’t you?”

Jacob doesn’t miss the way your eyes blink shyly. You cast your gaze down to avoid meeting his, just like you always do when you feel flustered like this, and you nod.

“Good girl. Now open your mouth. You’ll need a lot of energy for today since Daddy’s still not done with you. I’m sure you remember oh so rudely passing out on me last night, don’t you?”

“Only because I was tired and sleep—” Jacob cuts you off by shoving a fork full of pancake in your mouth.

“You don’t have to explain yourself. I don’t care for it. You’re taking my dick again after you’re done eating.”

*

Jacob is happy with this arrangement.

He’s more than happy with it, actually—he’s fucking ecstatic. No amount of words could describe how lucky he is as of the moment. Probably the luckiest man alive. 

He can’t believe how fast his world turned upside down. And he also can’t fucking believe that he has no problem with it. Everything just turns so much better when he stops looking for justifiable reasons as to why he is the way he is.

Jacob Palmer is a fucking creep. And he really is going to hell.

Jacob:

Send me a picture. 

Hurry.

Child Support:

but daddy im wit my friend (ノωヽ)

Jacob:

Where?

Child Support:

i told u we’re going to the mall 2day

Jacob:

Then find a bathroom, take a picture of yourself. 

And I want to see your bare cunt, by the way. None of that underwear bullshit.

Unless you want me to take away my credit card.

Child Support:

:(( 

fine wait

Jacob taps his finger impatiently on his thigh as he waits for the picture.

He’s been on the edge all day. Maybe it’s because of the million dollar deal that almost slipped away from his hold. Or maybe it’s because it’s been exactly a week since he last buried his dick inside your pussy, due to the fact that he has been travelling away abroad. And now that he’s back in his homeland, he gets shoved in more meetings that his mouth is bubbling.

A few minutes later, his phone finally dings.

He immediately gets greeted by the sight of your wet cunt. You’re sitting on the toilet, using your two fingers to spread your lips open, giving him the perfect view of your dewy entrance. It’s good that you’re wearing the skirt that he bought you for easier access. 

Jacob:

You’re at the mall but you’re already this wet?

Who the fuck is making you this wet at the mall.

Child Support:

ur the one who texted me daddy :((

can i see urs pls?

Jacob:

No. 

Fuck yourself with your fingers. Take a video of it. I want to see.

He waits again as he palms his cock gently through his slacks. It’s shameless, especially doing it in the office. But the door’s locked and the blinds are down. They probably already think that Jacob left early. Good. More time to kill.

He’s not fully hard yet, but he’s getting there. Maybe if he sees that video of yours he’d decide whether he wants to fuck his fist here in the office or not. Edge himself until he’s back home. Or better yet—

His phone pings again, and his fingers hurry to play the video without thinking twice.

Jacob’s mouth salivates at the way you gently rub two innocent fingers over your little clit. Then you bring them up to your mouth to suck before sliding them back down to finally slowly enter your juicy wet cunt.

Jesus.

It’s good that you’re learning how to do it now. Jacob had to teach you, but you’re learning. Though, you have no clue how to bring yourself to finish yet—which is good. 

When you start pumping your fingers in and out, he hears your soft moans you’re trying to muffle by biting down on your bottom lip. Jacob can see the wetness of your slick on your fingers. So incredibly wet, and he’s not even touching you yet, nor is he saying anything particularly vulgar.

Child Support:

is that good daddy?

Jacob:

Goddamnit.

This shit is driving me insane.

Is that all for me?

Child Support:

yes im so

wet 

i cant reach the places you can when ur fingers inside me instead

:((

when r we meeting again daddy? 

i miss your cock so much

Jacob:

Just my dick?

You wound your old man.

Child Support:

ur the one making me horny in the middle of my date

Jacob:

Hm.

Take off your fingers now. Lick them clean for me. Go back to your friend.

Child Support:

i cant cum?

Jacob:

You can’t do it for yourself anyway. Forget it.

Child Support:

fine 

miss u ( ͒˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ͒)

my panties r wet now its embarrassing

Jacob:

Can’t wait to smell them later.

Child Support:

ew

wait 

wdym later?

*

Jacob leans against the railing at the food court hoping to see you on the floor below.

He knows you’re still here. He hasn’t acknowledged your last message, but he knows you’re still here, because your location says you’re here.

He looks up only briefly to scan around him instead and not below, and luckily for him, he doesn’t have to look any further. Jacob sees a familiar head in the crowd approaching wearing a butterfly hair clip, and he stands up straight so you’ll see him.

You don’t.

In fact, you almost walk past him if Jacob doesn’t call you out loudly.

“Sweetheart,” he whistles, and instantly, you whip your head to the side and see him. Your eyes go wide briefly, then you snap your attention back to your friend who’s staring at him weirdly. “Fancy seeing you in here. Aren’t you going to greet your Daddy?”

You blink dumbly, your mouth opening and closing. You look at him again, then back to your friend, then to him, then—

“That’s your dad? You didn’t tell me he was so young! And handsome!” Your friend whispers, but it’s still loud enough for Jacob to hear even with so many people around. 

The look of horror on your face is priceless. Jacob wants to fucking laugh out loud.

“He’s not my—he’s just—he…!”

“We’re separating anyway, so you can go home with your dad, okay? I’ll take the subway home, I’ll be fine,” your friend says with a smile, then turns her head to you and waves. “Goodbye, Dad! I wish I could stay and have a chat but my mother wants me home! It’s nice to meet you!”

She lets go of your arm and skedaddles away while waving goodbye at you. Then, she turns around without looking back, leaving you standing there shell-shocked in front of him.

Jacob smirks as he approaches you. The glare that you send him doesn’t go unnoticed, of course. It’s clear that you’re embarrassed. Probably scared as fuck too, because he’s not actually your father. Which means you can’t bring her over to meet your parents now.

“What was that?!” you shrill. “That was—oh my god, I’m dead. I’m fucked! I was—god, now I can’t take her to meet my dad! I was planning to take her to family dinner before I go to college and—argh!”

Bingo.

Jacob knew you were thinking about that. He knows you too well.

“What were you going to say then?” Jacob tilts his head. “He’s my… what? He’s my boyfriend? He’s my pseudo-dad? He’s my… fake dad who treats you better than him? He’s my… sugar daddy whom I love so much?”

“Argh!” you groan out again, fingers pulling at your poor hair in frustration. “He’s a pain in the ass!”

Jacob clicks his tongue. “Not yet, but soon. You know that I’ve been planning on already ravaging your—”

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Japan?!”

“Well, I did say I was going to smell your dirty underwear later,” he deadpans. “Later is now.”

“You were here all this time?”

“Uh… surprise?” Jacob shrugs with a smirk. “Your poor friend, though. I could’ve taken her home. How unkind of you not to offer.”

“Forget it,” you snarl. “It’s better that she goes home alone. God, I wish she’ll forget that this ever happened. But I doubt that.”

“Me too. No one’s going to forget a face like mine,” he laughs. “You don’t see fathers this good looking every day. I’m sure it’ll be a disaster when she actually meets your dad and sees that he’s nowhere near as handsome as me.”

You roll your eyes. “So full of yourself.”

Jacob wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you close to him. Your bodies are so familiar with each other, that even now when you’re annoyed at him, your arms automatically wrap themselves around him and bury your face in his clothes.

“Would you rather you being full of me instead?” Jacob leans down to murmur in your ear. “I can arrange that. You said you missed my cock, right?” 

“Not just that,” you pout, tilting your head up, and Jacob presses a kiss on your pouting lips. “I missed you too.”

“Sorry Daddy’s been away,” he sighs. “I brought gifts, though. Wanna try them out?”

*

That’s how Jacob finds himself fucking you roughly from behind, your wrists tied just above your ass, and he has his phone camera capturing the way your ass cheeks bounce repeatedly against his hips.

Jacob uses his free hand to spread your cheeks open, and the camera gets the perfect view of the pink butt plug fitting so snuggly between them. Adorable. A Hello Kitty butt plug that he knows you’ll fucking love—and he’s right.

Your asshole had no problem hungrily sucking it inside you earlier.

“God fucking damnit,” he groans out loud. “Your cunt is so fucking tight. Is that all for Daddy, huh? You missed me so damn much your pussy can’t stop hugging my fat dick?”

Jacob fucks his girth deeper, his sweaty balls hitting your dripping clit—and it’s so wet. So fucking wet that it’s making a mess all over his hips and thighs. It’s so messy and sticky that there’s a ring of cream around the base of his cock while your pussy is loudly pushing out the air he fucked inside you.

Again.

“She’s talking back again,” Jacob murmurs. “Not only are you a slut, baby. But so is your dirty little cunny. She misses me that fucking much, huh? Won’t stop talking to me. What is she trying to say, hm? Tell me.”

“Oh fuck—” you sob out, legs shaking beneath you. “Fuck me—fuck me harder, Daddy, please—”

“Yeah? That’s what she wants to say?” Jacob smirks. “No wonder she’s so noisy. Well, I can’t have her waiting for long now, can’t I? Gotta give this kitty what she fucking wants.”

When you turn your head slightly around to look at him, your eyes widen at the sight of his phone right over your ass, capturing every little dirty sound your cunt is making for him.

“Daddy—you never said anything about v-videoing!”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” Jacob hisses, bringing a hand to push your head back to the mattress. “Don’t worry, I won’t show it to anyone. Just need something to watch when I’m away like last night.”

“But—but that’s—” you sniffle out, your voice a little muffled from being shoved face first into the mattress. “You didn’t tell me—”

“What did I tell you before, huh?” Jacob clicks his tongue. “You don’t call the shots, I do. So unless you want trouble, I suggest you drop it, and smile pretty for the camera.”

Luckily, you know better than to argue back.

But even then, Jacob lands a hard smack on your ass for even questioning his choices that makes you cry out his name louder than before.

Good.

You should know your place.

* 

“I just feel like she’s hiding a boyfriend from me, you know. It’s just… father instincts.”

Jacob licks his lips as he listens to Lee drone on about his dear daughter at the table.

For a man who treats his daughter like shit, he sure doesn’t know how to shut up about you even if he tried. But Jacob can’t say anything about it. He can’t say that he’s so much better than him, that he’s treating you good, that he’s giving you everything Lee never gave you—because that’s not going to end well for everyone at the table. 

So he shuts up about it. Because what does he know about having kids?

“She was way too happy when she finally moved out. Like—way too happy. And I saw the apartment she’s currently living in and it’s just—” Lee sighs. “How can she afford that? She told me she has work. Never told me what though. And I just have this feeling in my chest that she’s hiding something from me. And I don’t like it.”

“Well, aren’t you relieved that she’s finally out of your hair?” Joel asks as he takes a sip of his beer. “So what if she has a boyfriend? She’s an adult.”

“Barely acts like one,” Lee scoffs, and Jacob feels his eye twitching. For some reason, it sounds bad coming from someone else. “I mean, after everything, she’s still my daughter. And I just want to look out for her.”

“Yeah, but aren’t you too late?” Jacob raises a brow. “You said she was way too happy leaving your home. It’s kinda your fault why. Based on your stories, you weren’t actually… a good father.”

Silence falls over the table. And all three pairs of eyes are on him. But it feels good to air out. 

“What do you know about being a dad?” Ian asks. He sounds genuine, not really mocking or teasing. “You know, you’re sounding more and more wise the more we see you these days. Don’t tell me

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Joel cuts him off. “You’re not planning to fucking settle down now, are you, Jacob?”

“Christ, no,” Jacob scoffs. “Where the hell did that come from? I don’t want to settle down—ever. End of story.’

“Then stop acting so wise,” Ian rolls his eyes. “Only dads get to be wise. You shut your bachelor mouth. But I gotta say that you’re right. Lee is a pretty shitty dad to his daughter. Not surprised she’s keeping stuff from you now.”

There’s a good reason for that. 

“Regardless,” Lee notes. “I still want to meet the boyfriend.”

Jacob can only smile.

His phone pings inside his jacket, and he slowly takes it out and places it under the table to check.

Jacob sees that you sent a selfie of yourself, but it’s really more of your chest instead. And by that he means it’s a clear photo of you holding up the camera over the newly arrived shirt that he bought you a few days ago.

Right across your tits, the words “Daddy’s Girl” crystal clear for his eyes only to see.

Child Support:

this fits me so well daddy ＼(≧▽≦)／

hope this cheers u up from that miserable night out with my dad

Jacob:

He wants to meet your boyfriend.

Child Support: 

(o_O)

u should introduce yourself again

Jacob:

That’d be weird.

He might get confused when I introduce myself as your Daddy too.

“Jacob.”

Joel’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He turns to his friend and raises a curious brow at him.

“What?”

“Who the hell are you texting?”

“Oh,” he smiles as he waves his phone in the air. “Just my child support.”

The three of them just laughs.

And the loudest of them all?

Your own father.

They’re never going to treat him seriously. That’s the thing. Which is why everything will work out for you and him in the end. So long as nobody gets a whiff of whatever you two are doing under their noses.

But it’s not like that’s any of their business now. Especially your father’s.

You’re not his daughter anymore. 

But what Peter could see the appeal in was your reactions to it. Because they were fucking delicious.

Fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, hair a mess, back arched so nicely and fuck—the way you’re moaning, so loud and lewd. Just beautifully harmonizing with the slick squelches he fucks from your cunt.

Your hot, sloppy, sopping cunt that just keeps sucking him in every time he pulls back, that flutters around his thickness and oozes down your thighs and his. His dick is absolutely shining with a slick coat of it, the cherry on top being the creamy ring wrapped snug around his base.

“Fuck, this really gets you goin’, huh?” He mumbles, muffled by the mask. Your answer is a small, somewhat embarrassed moan.

Peter thinks your cheeks must be just as red as they were when he entered the bedroom with the mask glued to his face, just as you had bashfully requested.

Actually, no. Given your current position, you were probably even redder than before. God, so cute.

Just so embarrassed and shy, hiding away in the sheets like this absolute lewd and filthy scenario wasn’t your kinky idea all along.

“Awh, my cute fuckin’ girl. So naughty, aren’t you?” he croons, thick fingers curling deeper around your hips. He feels his gut tighten from the way your whole body reacts to him.

“Droolin’ all over m’cock from a mask, huh? Shit, you’re so goddamn wet. Listen to her. She sounds so fuckin’ pretty.”

Peter thrusts faster, bullying his cock inside you so deep and rough—just so you can hear the slurps, squelches, and plaps you’re making.

It's driving you crazy, he knows. Peter can feel it in the way your pussy contracts around his cock, hear it in the slurry quality of your moans and whines, in the way you mewl out “P-Pete, oh–fuck!” while your hips tremble and buck back weakly.

“Hey, shhhh,” Peter coos, bare torso nearly kissing your back as he leans down. He can feel the tremor that wracks your body when the cool material of his mask slides against your sensitive skin.

“I've got you, doll face,” — Peter smooths a hand over your lower back, smirk damn near breaking his face — “you know you don’t have to do anything. I'll fuck you s’good you can’t think. Jus’ let me do everything, yeah? You trust me, don’tcha?”

“Y-yes.” You whine, surprising him with how lucid you are, but his cock kicks up inside you with how desperately genuine you sound. Like you have no doubts or reservations about allowing him to take full control.

It turns him on so fucking much.

“Good girl. God, you’re my good girl, baby. Always so good f’me.” Peter purrs.

Fuck, the way your cunt flutters when he says that. It's enough to pull at his balls, to make his gut tighten. Shit. He just wants to kiss up your hot, sweaty skin; wants to pinch it between his teeth and mark it up.

But the fucking mask is in the goddamn way.

It's always been a little tiny bit of a nuisance, but he’s never felt such irritation at the damn thing as he does now. Because, fuck, your pussy is wrapping around him so tight, fluttering and sucking and drooling, and he knows you’re getting close. You're about to cum, and Peter craves to feel your salty skin between his teeth while he fucks you straight to euphoria.

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he growls out through clenched teeth.

He's not exactly angry at you, per se; but his irritation bleeds into his movements. It makes him fuck you harder, faster, until all he can really hear is the sharp slaps of his skin against yours and the continuous sloppy squelches of your pussy.

God, it feels fucking good to just fuck you like this. Even if the mask is a hinderance.

“P-PETE—!” you squeal out suddenly, the sound sort of desperate and keen, back arching and hips trembling in his grip… and he feels it.

Feels the way your body tenses, the way your cunt squeezes his cock like a vice; how sloppily wet it suddenly is. so much more than before.

Holy fuck… you’ve just cum, so unexpectedly and without so much as a ‘I’m coming, Pete!’ as you normally do.

And Peter can’t help but stop abruptly. His cock screams at him when he does so, twitching and throbbing inside your walls as they massage it; but he’s dumbstruck.

“Did—did you just… cum?”

And he didn’t even touch your pretty little clit. Didn’t rub it with those small, firm circles that never fail to have you breaking apart for him.

But shit… all you do is nod. Confirm it. Your hands are still fisted in the sheets, face still buried from sight, body nearly melting into the mattress.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Peter's strong hands still wrapped around your waist, your stomach would have fused to the bed just as your chest had.

In other words, you were completely and utterly fucked out, unable to really move and only able to produce little whines and a few mumble-y, indecipherable words in the aftermath of your orgasm.

And it had to be the hottest thing Peter had ever fucking seen. You literally came so fucking hard just from his cock. And possibly the mask.

Okay… definitely the mask. Definitely him fucking you in the mask. Holy fucking shit… you were such a damn freak.

Truthfully, that was the last coherent thought Peter even registered having. Because in the next instant, his brain had effectively stripped itself down to bare instinct and without any warning to you or a care to your poor, overfucked body—

“Ahhnnnnnnghhh—Peter! W-wait—not so fast—fuck, wait—!” It was a sharp yelp that met his ears, but the only thing Peter's brain computed was the sweet, wet suckle of your gummy walls around his throbbing cock.

It felt so good that he just couldn’t help but bury himself inside over, and over, and over.

“You’re so fucking,” — schlap! — “filthy” — a particularly hard thrust that has your whole body lurching forward — “comin’ from just my cock like that, fuck!—so goddamn hot! ‘M gonna mess you up real good, baby… mmmm, yeah, keep squeezing my cock like that—!”

Peter knows he’s being rough. Maybe too rough. Knows by the way your cunt shivers and your body quakes, by the way little sobs tear from your throat with each stab to your cervix, that you’re way too sensitive for him to be fucking you like this. But still… how could he not?

You’re the one who came all over his cock because of a fucking mask. You're the one who’s moaning and whining like a goddamn whore as he uses your body.

And it’s your pussy that’s twitching and spasming around his dick. That’s producing all those lewd, sloppy, messy sounds as he fucks you into the squeaky mattress. Fuck, you’re the one that turned him into this.

And by the way you’re leaking a river down to the sheets and whispering his name like a prayer, you love it more than you’d ever really admit.

So much so that Peter was almost certain he could take this little kink of yours to a new level. And it’s with a wolfish grin hidden behind the same mask that started it all he chuckles,

“Maybe next time we do this, I'll take ya up to a junk yard—and we can see how long you can run before you get fucked.”

The second orgasm that suggestion rips from you is all the approval Peter needs to clock it away for future reference.

You whipped your head to look at Peter beside you on the couch, your eyes narrowed into slits, unsure if you heard him correctly.

He kept his eyes locked onto the wall in front of him, his cheeks heating under your intense stare. He cleared his throat before repeating himself, “I said I wouldn't know.”

The admission came after you finished ranting about your stupid ex boyfriend, listing every single thing he was bad at, specifically his inability to eat you out properly. 

“Is it really that difficult?” you’d asked aloud, not actually expecting him to answer. But then came his surprising response.

Peter gathered his courage and tore his gaze away from the wall to look at where your narrowed eyes were still glued to him. He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “I-Is it that surprising?”

You snapped out of your shocked state. A small pool of guilt settled in your stomach at the way you’d reacted, he was obviously embarrassed, but you just couldn't believe it.

“Wait—so you’ve never… gone down on a girl?”

The flush on his cheeks darkened as he shook his head, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat.

“Like, you’ve never given head?”

His brows rose when you repeated yourself, and just before he could form a response, you were speaking again.

“As in, you’ve never eaten a girl's pussy out—” 

He clamped a hand over your mouth, forcing you into silence, cringing at how blunt you were being. 

“Oh my god, I already said yes! Do you have to be so—hey!” He ripped his hand away when you licked a stripe up his palm with your tongue.

You laughed as he wiped his hand on his pant leg, leaning over to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. He stiffened under your touch for a fraction of a second, his breath catching as the warmth of your palm sank into his skin. 

“Sorry Pete, I’m just surprised.”

He exhaled a sharp chuckle, fidgeting with a loose thread on the couch to distract himself from the conversation. “Surprised? Why?”

“Well,” you started, shifting your hand to the back of his neck, toying with the curls there. “I guess the better question is why haven't you?”

A shiver ran down his spine at your soft touch, his heart beating faster. “J-Just,” he cleared his throat to calm his shaky voice. “The opportunity never came I guess.”

“The opportunity never came?” you repeated, bewildered. “You’re literally Spiderman! I’m sure you could have anyone you wanted.”

Not anyone, he thought, smiling bitterly. Your ex boyfriend made sure of it when he managed to get to you first before Peter could pluck up the courage to ask you out. But now you were single—the realization slammed into him.

The room settled into silence with you still lightly caressing his hair, your fingers scratching at his scalp now. His eyes fluttered shut as he sank into the feeling, a small, breathy sigh escaping him.

“Do you want me to teach you?”

His eyes shot open. He stared at you, waiting for you to pull your hand away and tease him for falling for your joke. But you only looked at him with a soft, patient smile, your eyes glimmering under the low light of his apartment.

“W-What?” he stuttered.

You bit back your smile, adjusting yourself on the couch to shift closer to him. “Do you want me to teach you how to eat a girl out?”

His eyes flicked to your lips then back up quickly. “Haha, I um… A-Are you being serious right now?”

You bit your lip with a nod. “Dead serious. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help you? Your future girl will thank you for learning.”

The universe must be playing some cruel joke on him. He was seconds away from screaming I only want you in your face, but something told him that wouldn’t go over well. Instead, with a hopeful lilt of his mouth, he said,  “O-Okay. If you’re okay with that. N-No pressure… or anything…” 

Your heart ached with fondness at how awkward he was being. You stood up in front of him, holding a hand out for him to take which he merely stared at. You glanced down to where his hands were clasped tightly together, positioned snugly over his lap. 

Oh.

You licked your lips, reaching down to tug his hand free, your gaze fixed on his lap as his hand moved to reveal the boner he was concealing, his bulge pushing insistently against his pants.

“I’m sorry!” he rushed out. “I-It just happened and—god I’m acting like such a loser—”

“Peter,” you grabbed his chin, tilting his head up to you, the sight of his big, shiny, round eyes causing a warm ache to settle low in your belly. “It’s okay. I’m flattered, actually.”

You smiled reassuringly and tugged him up, leading him to his bed. When you were both stood at the foot, you turned to face him, your fingers intertwining with his.

“Hey, are you sure this is okay? We can stop and pretend like this never happened… just say the word.”

He took in a deep, trembling breath, exhaling it with a small chuckle. “You’re asking me if I’m okay with a super pretty girl teaching me to—” 

You raised your brows at him expectantly, laughing when he struggled to vocalize what was about to happen.

He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “Yes. Yes I’m okay with that. Very okay with it actually…”

You grinned at him through your lashes, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, satisfied with the spaced out expression on his face when you pulled back.

“Okay, Spiderman, let’s see if you’re good at this too!”

He groaned, clenching his eyes shut. “Don’t call me that.”

When they opened, they grew in alarm at the sight of you slipping your bottoms down your legs. His gaze shot back up to your face when he realized you’d pulled down your panties too, his skin burning hot. 

You gave his hand a final squeeze before sitting down on the bed, pushing yourself back to rest against the headboard. 

He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his breaths coming in sharper as he saw you part your thighs from the fuzzy part of his vision. A moan threatened to escape him, his cock twitching excitedly in his pants.

“Peter,” you whispered, “Look at me.”

With a deep breath, he let his gaze trail down slowly over your neck, your shirt clad torso, until finally they rested between your spread thighs, your cunt dripping with arousal.

He was drunk on the sight, a rush of dizziness flowing through him when you let out a breathy pant, your clit pulsating at the way he was taking you in like you were the most mesmerizing painting hung in the Louvre.

“Do you see how wet I am already, Peter?” 

His hand twitched at his side when you lowered your own to your cunt, running a finger through your folds to collect your slick, holding it up in the air for him to see.

“Mmm, all for you,” you sighed. “Come here.”

His feet that were seemingly glued to the ground broke free of their spell as he rushed forward, planting his knees on the bed. 

“On your stomach, lay between my thighs.”

He obeyed your command, his pulse thumping quickly in his ears. The moment his head hovered close enough to your pussy, he breathed in deep, his eyes screwing shut at the way your intoxicating scent filled his nostrils. 

When he opened them you were staring at him with parted lips, your chest rising and falling heavily.

“Sorry…was that weird,” he apologized. “It’s just… my senses are enhanced and you just smell so…” He breathed in again, exhaling with a soft whimper.

Your cunt tensed, squeezing around nothing as the pleasure burned through you. You could see the worry still brewing in his eyes so you reached down to press a hand to his head, running your fingers affectionately through his curls. “It wasn’t weird.”

He smiled with relief, his eyes flicking back to your heat, waiting earnestly for your first instruction. 

“Start with some kisses,” you murmured, “Right here… and here.” You pointed to your swollen bud, then down to your slick folds.

He nodded, eyes all hopeful and bright. His lips brushed against your inner thigh first—a sweet, unexpected chaste kiss that made your heart flutter. Then he moved in, his lips ghosting your heat. The second kiss landed just below your clit, a little hesitant but soft, missing the target, but you didn’t care. Not with how gently he was treating you. 

You sighed with pleasure, your head falling back against the headboard to watch him through half-lidded eyes.

The third kiss was firmer, his lips pressing right over your center, sending electricity shooting through your body. You gasped, your hips lifting off the bed.

“God, yes, Peter,” you moaned, your fingers tightening in his curls. “Just like that, you’re doing so good.”

He whimpered at the praise, his hips involuntarily pressing harder against the mattress below him, unbeknownst to you.

“Now taste me,” you instructed, your voice slightly wobbly. “Lick through my folds. It might be a little salty, okay?”

He nodded, his nose nudging your clit, as his tongue slipped past his lips. The first swipe was agonizingly slow, the muscle exploring through your soaked slit. 

You gasped, your back arching as he hummed, the taste of you—an intoxicating mix of musky, sweet, and salty—flooded his enhanced senses. His next lick came quicker, a broad stroke that gathered your arousal on his tongue. He repeated the action until he was lapping at you eagerly, drinking in your juices, his soft whimpers muffled against your cunt.

“Yes… oh f-fuck, Peter… you’re a natural.” Your body shifted, writhing on the bed. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, spreading you more open while holding you still as he feasted. His hips circled on the bed, building to a steady pace until he was rutting desperately, the friction a sweet torture on his trapped, aching cock.

“O-Okay,” you panted, your vision blurring. “Here’s my clit… use your tongue, rub it in circles.”

He dove in, his tongue flattening against the bundle of nerves before circling it slowly. A sharp, white-hot pleasure shot through you, your moans growing louder, shifting to high-pitched cries.

“S-So good—mmngh… Just like tha—oh!” You bucked your hips against his mouth, his grip tightening even more. “Now j-just, flick… flick your… fuuuck—”

You tried to form words, to guide him forward, but all you could manage was a broken stream of cries. It felt too good, the heat in your belly coiling tighter with each perfect rotation of his tongue.

He glanced up the length of your body, fixing on your face to watch the pleasure overtake you, your lashes fluttering as your eyes rolled back. He parted from your clit to ask what to do next when a familiar electric prickle ticked at his brain. His focus zeroed into your clit, feeling the frantic pulses, sensing the desperate clenches of your inner walls. 

Woah, he thought, not knowing his spidey sense could be used for anything but danger.

It was like a switch went off in him. He dove back in, this time with expert flicks focused on your sensitive nub. He didn’t have to think anymore, guided by his sharp instincts.

“P-Peter! Oh my g-god!” You screamed, pushing his face harder into your cunt, grinding yourself against his mouth. He mewled against your clit, the sound making your vision turn fuzzy, bright stars clouding it.

You whined when he pulled away from your clit until his tongue dove lower, licking around your hole. He slurped up the arousal, then pressed the tip of his tongue into your tight walls, poking and teasing.

“Yes yes yes, right there… please,” you begged.

He pressed harder until his tongue slipped inside, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts. You rocked your hips over him, riding his face to force him in deeper, your thighs trembling around his head.

He gasped against your cunt, a breathy, wanton cry, the sounds helpless and needy, as he rubbed his cock faster into the sheets, his pre-cum soaking through the sweatpants.

“You’re doing so good,” you chanted, “Eating me out so perfectly… such a good boy… my good boy, Peter…”

He held you tighter as he whimpered into your cunt at the praise, his hips jerking wildly before his body seized. Heat flooded his underwear, his climax pushing through him with an intensity he’d never felt before.

But even as his cock pulsed over and over again, he kept working you open. 

He dragged his lips back to your clit, sucking the throbbing nub into his mouth, laving at it in tune with the aftershocks of his own body.

Your own release was within reach, dangling dangerously over the edge while he alternated between hard sucks and flicks of his tongue. 

“So pretty, nggh, taste so good,” he mumbled, and the sentence alone was enough to make you fall.

Your stomach buckled, your cunt convulsing with hard, fluttering clenches. He splayed a large hand over your stomach, holding you still as you came, his tongue never ceasing its relentless, worshipful assault.

“Peter… Peter,” you gasped, your clit burning as the pleasure curled into a sharp, sweet pain. “Cant! H-Hurts! ‘S too m-much!”

His brain went foggy, blocking out your cries as your cunt consumed him, losing himself in the taste and feel of you, licking and sucking long after your climax had passed. You groaned, your thighs clamping around his head.

You pushed him back as he gasped to catch his breath. 

“Too much, baby… too much.”

His eyes glossed over at the pet name, his cheek falling to rest on your trembling thigh. He blinked up at you, his face flushed and blissed out, his nose, lips, and chin glistening with your arousal.

He carefully began to rub your thigh absentmindedly, his touch tender as he gazed at you, the devastating weight of love held in his eyes. 

You played with the sweat-damp curls as you caught your breath, your body still twitching every few seconds with lasting pulses of pleasure. 

A small, incredulous smile spread across your lips, growing to spread across your face. 

“Wow,” you whispered, your voice wrecked. “Were you lying about not knowing how to do that?”

The accusation brought him back faster than the speed of light. He shot up, panicked, scrambling to his knees. “What? N-No! Of course not! I swear I—look my tingle—” He stopped when he saw your grin. The tension drained from him, replaced by a sigh of relief. “You’re joking…”

You laughed, soft and breathless. “I’ve never come like that before.”

His chest swelled with pride. He sat back on his heels, a goofy, triumphant smile appearing on his wet lips. 

You glanced down, your smile faltering at the wet patch at his crotch. 

“Peter… did you…?”

He looked down, mortification instantly flooding him, his cheeks tinting crimson all over again. He hadn’t even realized he came, lost in pleasuring you. His throat went dry as he stammered to pull together an explanation, an apology.

Before he could, you reached for him, your hand curling around his neck to pull him close. He  held his breath as his lips brushed yours.

“You came in your pants, just from eating me out?” You asked in a hush whisper, a smirk breaking through. “That’s so hot, Peter.”

You swallowed his whimper, pressing your lips to his. 

They were soft and insistent against his still ones, his brain short-circuiting before he pulled himself together, parting his lips for you. You dipped your tongue against his, tasting the remnants of your arousal as he melted into you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. He kissed you back needily, pouring every bit of his longing into it until you gently broke away.

You ran your thumb over his swollen lips, your brows creasing. You looked oddly… shy. 

You gnawed at your lip before sighing. “Is… is now a bad time to tell you that I like you?”

He stilled, his eyes staring into yours, unblinking and full of disbelief. 

You misread the silence. “I, um… I noticed with my ex that I’d compare him to you with everything he did. That’s why we got into that last fight and broke up. Because I realized… I liked you.” You dipped your head with a sad chuckle. “Sorry. I guess I ruined it, huh?”

“No!” He screamed, so loud and sudden, you flinched. “No, no, no, I—I like you too. I have for a while,” he exhaled a sigh of relief, a happy smile forcing its way to his lips. “I didn’t think you felt the same…”

Your grin returned, brighter than ever. You kissed him again, slower this time, sliding down until your back was pressed to the mattress, his hovering over you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pressing his bulge, his cock already half-hard again, against your sensitive, spent cunt. 

You smirked at him, a playful glint in your eye. “So… do you need me to teach you how to do this?” you asked, nodding down to where you were joined together.

Your laugh died down when he didn’t react to your joke as you expected. He just stared with a hopeful, wide-eyed vulnerability that told you everything you needed to know.

“O-Oh,” you breathed, your heart swelling, threatening to burst with affection. “You’re a…virgin?”

He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Your eyes turned giddy, filled with a look of pure joy. You cupped his face, pulling him down for another kiss, whispering against his lips, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

Comment or message to be added to the spiderman taglist <3

"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.

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