sluvaffair's fic library

Logan turned toward you, and you immediately had to remind yourself to look anywhere but at him. His towel was loosely wrapped around his waist, his skin still warm and damp from the shower. Your eyes betrayed you anyway, following the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the towel.

He noticed, of course, tracking your gaze with a smug smirk.

Grabbing you by the waistband of your trousers, he tugged you toward him. Whatever trace of Garrett he'd been trying to channel disappeared instantly. The grin that curled across his face was all Logan as he ducked his head and kissed you.

"Ew, no, Logan, you're wet," you laughed, smacking his chest as his damp skin pressed against your clothes.

"Now, if I was Garrett, I'd say something dumb like, 'You're gonna be wet soon.'" He paused, fighting a grin. "But I'm not, so I won't."

He planted one more quick kiss against your lips, his still damp hair dripping onto your top.

"Okay, Garrett," you said, wiping at the wet spot on your shirt. "We're going to be late if you keep that up."

"Fine, fine."

You reached for the bottle of TRESemmé curl cream sitting beside the sink and squeezed a little into your palm. You rubbed it between your hands before rising onto your tiptoes.

"Hold still."

"I'm holding."

"You're literally moving."

"That's actually called breathing."

You poked the side of his ribs. "That's not what I meant. Now, head down."

He obeyed immediately, ducking his head until his forehead nearly touched your shoulder.

“Good boy.”

Looking up at you through his lashes, another slow smirk spread across his face. “Careful.”

There was something about the way he said it that made the bathroom suddenly feel even hotter.

You worked the product carefully through his hair, separating the curls with your fingers before scrunching the ends upward and letting them spring back into place. Logan watched you through the mirror, occasionally making faces at himself whenever he caught your eye.

Ever couple of seconds, Logan would alternate between snaking his wet palms around your waist to tickle your skin and loudly shouting 'Garrett~', the word echoing in the bathroom.

It took approximately three Garrett's before you completely lost focus.

"Logan."

"Garrett."

"Logan, stop."

"Garrett, stop."

You swatted at him, laughing as he dodged your hand.

By the time you reached for the diffuser, Logan was mostly dry but no less fidgety. He eyed it suspiciously.

"What is that?"

"A diffuser."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Garrett," you said, emphasising this t. "Do you want the curls to stay or not?"

He pursed his lips and squinted at you, clearly weighing his options. "Whatever you say, Wellsey."

"You're so annoying," You giggled.

The warm hum filled the bathroom as it came to life. Logan leaned down slightly so you could reach, and you carefully gathered sections of his hair, scrunching the curls beneath the heat without disturbing their shape.

For once, he actually managed to stay still. Mostly.

The sudden silence when you switched the diffuser off almost made the bathroom feel too quiet. You stepped back to admire your handiwork. "Oh, that's hot."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He turned toward the mirror, running his fingers through the air just above his hair without actually touching it.

Somehow, the curls had unlocked a whole new side of him. The cocky athlete, the smug grin, the effortless confidence. It was annoyingly convincing.

"How hot?"

"Keep it in your pants big boy," you laughed, patting his shoulder. "You've been talking about this for weeks. We're going."

"You're no fun," he huffed.

You rolled your eyes and walked toward the door.

"Tucker, where we at with the outfit?" you shouted down the hallway.

"COMING!"

Clearly, Tucker took the 'Becoming Garrett' assignment almost as seriously as he took the Friendsgiving meal prep. He came running out of Garrett's room with an armful of clothes, nearly crashing into the doorframe before catching himself.

There were folded shirts stacked precariously beneath his chin, a pair of joggers draped over one shoulder, and what appeared to be three different pairs of shoes dangling from one hand.

"I have options," he announced breathlessly.

Logan stared at him. "Why do you have that many?"

"Preparation is key."

You leant against the doorframe, watching as Tucker became increasingly invested in the transformation.

"Black shirt," he decided finally, tossing one at Logan. "Those joggers. Chain. Sunglasses."

Logan caught the clothes flying at him.

Half an hour later, Logan stood in front of the mirror in full method actor mode, sliding a pair of black sunglasses onto his face.

──────────⋆꙳⛸❅*──────────

The walk over to the athletics hall was considerably less dignified than Logan's new persona suggested. As the three of you made your way across campus, Tucker gave him last minute pointers.

"Remember, Garrett's confident."

"I know."

"Like, stupidly confident."

"I know."

"Don't smile too much."

"I know."

"Actually, don't talk unless you have to."

Logan stopped walking. "Tucker."

"That was so Garrett," you laughed at the same time as Tucker said, "Actual chills."

The athletics hall was already buzzing by the time you reached there. Students gathered around the entrance, drawn by the promise of free booze and stupid entertainment.

You bit your lip as you walked over to where Dean, Allie, Hannah, and Garrett were standing.

"Can someone explain what the fuck are we doing here?" Dean asked.

"I second that," Garrett said.

Allie and Hannah, meanwhile, were already giggling. When you caught Hannah's eye, she glanced around theatrically.

"Wait." Everyone looked at her. "Where's Garrett?"

"You're right," you gasped, looking around just as dramatically. "Where is he?"

Dean's eyebrows lifted.

Right on cue, Logan stepped out from his hiding place.

Shoulders back. Chin slightly lifted. Sunglasses firmly in place. His curls bounced with every step as he strutted over. He wore the kind of smug expression that could only have been practiced in a mirror.

"For fuck’s sake," Garrett sighed.

Hannah pressed her lips together, fighting the laughter that she knew Garrett would disapprove of.

Allie and Dean didn't offer him that grace, doubling over in the kind of laughter that even had the corner of Garrett's lips twitching.

"Stand next to each other," Dean laughed, already pulling out his phone to snap pictures.

"Why are you wearing my clothes, man."

"Why are you wearing my clothes, man," Logan drawled, mimicking Garrett's voice.

Garrett sighed deeply and rubbed both hands over his face. "I hate all of you."

The first time you read it, you laughed, just your luck to find someone crazy enough to think that they were Spider-Man.

But the more you read over how he recalled your time together, the more you saw the small, intimate details of yourself that you barely noticed yourself. Little things that no stranger could have known.

And suddenly, it all made sense. The headaches, the images you couldn't place, the empty feeling in your chest.

He knew you, and you had known him.

Another knock.

You drew in a shaky breath, shaking your head as if that could clear your thoughts, and finally stood. The apartment felt too quiet without MJ and Ned here, but they couldn't be here for this conversation. Not for this.

Making your way towards the door, each reluctant step seemed to echo through the silence. By the time you reached it, your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your throat. You paused, hand hovering over the handle.

For a brief, immature, second, you considered pretending you weren't home. But, if he really was Spider-Man, he'd probably be able to hear you anyway.

So, you opened the door.

Peter stood in the hallway, one hand tucked in his pocket while the other clutched a flower bouquet, your favourite flowers.

His eyes softened the second they found you, the nerves in his face melting into something warm and familiar. It was a reaction that had your stomach turning.

"Hey," he said, letting out a long breath. "I'm sorry I'm late. I-"

His voice cut off when his eyes dropped to the jacket in your hands. You were shaking, fingers curled tightly around the fabric. His gaze moved back up to your face, brows furrowing at the glassy look in your eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"You left something in the pocket."

Peter's expression changed, the realisation hitting his chest deep and immediate.

"I'm sorry."

The apology came so fast it almost felt like a reflex.

You pulled the letter free.

"Is it true?" You raised the letter between you both. "Or are you just crazy?"

In this moment, you weren't sure which option you would have preferred.

His head dropped, brown curls falling over his forehead.

"Yes."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Prove to me that you're who you say you are here." You waved the letter at him.

Peter looked around the hallway before there was a sharp thwip, a web shooting from his wrist and hitting the kitchen counter behind you.

You stared at it for longer than should have been necessary for your brain to process. Every word in that letter was real.

"Oh my god."

The tears begun welling in your eyes so fast it nearly startled you, blurring the edges of his face.

"Take it," you huffed, pushing the jacket and letter into his hands before turning on your heel.

"Wait," he called behind you.

The door closed softly as he followed you into the apartment. He set the things down on the kitchen counter before following you deeper into the room.

"I'm sorry."

"You wanted me to find it?"

"No," he said, holding his hands up, eyes immediately pleading. "I swear, I- I- forgot it was in there."

You let out a laugh so sharp that it barely sounded like one. "You expect me to believe that?"

His eyes fixed on the letter on the counter.

He said your name in a way that was too familiar, too strained, as if you'd had arguments before and he knew how to plead with you. You had, you supposed.

"I'm really sorry."

You whirled around to face him so fast that you felt slightly dizzy. "I don't really need you to keep telling me that you're sorry."

"What do you need?" He asked, moving closer. "Anything, please?"

"I need you to tell me why you'd do this to me."

Peter blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened and closed as he searched for the right words.

"I lost someone," he said finally. "Someone close to me and it was my fault. I couldn't- I couldn't have that happen to you. I couldn't lose you."

The way he looked at you, genuine and pleading, made your head swim.

You pressed the palms of your hands to your face, willing the stupid tears to go away. It only made it worse, your palms becoming damp as your breathing turned uneven. "That wasn't your choice to make."

"I know."

"Then why did you make it?" Your voice rose and cracked all at the same time.

"I'm sor-." He stopped himself, swallowing. "Because I thought it would be best. And I tried to live my life without you but I can't. I love you. So bad that you're all I think about every day."

Your weight shifted to the other foot. It was hard enough to believe that some guy named Peter loved you, but trying to process the hero Spider-Man telling you he couldn't live his life without you felt all too much.

"Okay." Was all you could say.

He shoved his hands into his pockets; eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

It took some time before you could find your voice again.

"When you did whatever you did, did I know that I would lose you?"

"Yes."

"And did I ask you to make me remember you?" When nothing came out of his mouth, you knew the answer. Your throat tightened, the words catching painfully as you continued to press. "I feel like if we were as in love as you said we were, I would have asked you to make me remember you. Did I?"

"You did."

"And did you say you would?"

"I did."

At least he had the decency to sound guilty. He continued actively avoiding looking at you.

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long did you keep this from me? How long did you lie to me?"

"Four years."

Something in your chest pulled tight. Four years. For four years he was alone, no Ned, no MJ, no you.

And some small, bewildering part of you wanted to reach out, to pull him into your arms and wipe away the tears that had collected on his face, because seeing him cry felt wrong in a way you couldn't explain.

But the other, stronger, part of you broke down. He had lied to you for four years.

The tears ran freely down Peter's face. "I was trying to protect you."

You swallowed against the ache in your throat. "Protecting me isn't the same as choosing for me."

The sob wracked through you before you could stop it. Peter rushed forward, stopping just before you, his arms opening instinctively.

"Can I?"

"No," you cried. "I don't know you."

The words came out as bitter and cold as you meant them, but when Peter flinched, you immediately wanted to take them back.

"I understand." He stepped back, arms dropping to his sides. "I should go, then?"

He turned slowly, moving slowly to the door as if he could slow down time.

"Peter," you called as his hand hovered over the door handle. You didn't want him to leave just yet.

When he turned back, his face was full of hope, and something horrible twisted beneath your ribs at the sight of it.

"What were the last four years like for you?"

"Lonely," he admits, a laugh that's not really a laugh escaping him.

You nod through the tears, shoulders rising with a shaky breath.

"I know why you did what you did. And I'm grateful that you loved me enough to do something unselfish."

"Love," he mumbled.

You ignored that. "Would you like to say hi to Ned and MJ?"

He looked up at you. "Really? Yeah, I'd love that."

"Maybe not today, we're kind of..." You gestured between the two of you. His face was red and puffy from the tears, and yours probably looked the same, lips raw where you'd been chewing on them.

"Thank you." He turned to leave again before stopping. "Can I ask you something selfish?"

"Yes."

"I know you don't remember me, but could you think about it? About me?"

You looked at him for a long moment, dried tears staining your face.

"I'll try."

taglist: @anglheartz

↳ B = Body part  (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

You: Your mouth!!!! Dean is obsessed with all things to do with your mouth. The filthy words that come out of it; the lewd moans that leave as he buries himself inside of you; the little pants with every thrust; the way your tongue swirls over his tip; how pretty your lips look all swollen and wet when they're stretched around him... he loves it ALL. If your mouth is open and sounds are coming because of him, he's in heaven.

Him: Dean's earnt the confidence he has in his body, and he's proud of how good he looks for himself and for you. His favourite body part might be his chiselled chest, especially when it has angry red lines where you've dragged your nails down it.

↳ C = Cum  (anything to do with cum, basically)

Dean takes great pride in ensuring you're enjoying yourself and that you'll at least cum once before he does. He'll be genuinely offended if you ever implied that he should get off before you do.

He loves to sit back and watch your thighs tremble and back arch off of the bed with smug satisfaction as he brings you to the brink again and again.

In terms of his finish, besides the obvious when he's buried in you, he loves to see his release all over you, whether that's your face, your breasts, your thighs etc.

↳ D = Dirty secret  (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Would say exhibitionism but we all know that's not a secret...

Dean has a secret craving for being completely dominated and edged to the point of overstimulation. He loves a woman in control and the thought of you tying him up and bringing him to the brink, only to pull away and do it all again genuinely turns him on. He LOVES to beg more than you know.

↳ E = Experience  (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

It's Dean Di Laurentis... he's experienced...

Seriously though, further to the sheer volume of women he's slept with, he treats fucking like a art that takes dedication and months of studying to master. He knows what he's doing because he puts the WORK in. This shit is serious.

↳ F = Favourite position  (this goes without saying)

Dean is the CEO of Sex (iykyk). He has too many positions in his back pocket for him to have a singular favourite. He is just a big fan of positions that leave your mouth exposed to everyone in the vicinity can hear how loud you moan.

Ones he's particular to can be read here.

↳ G = Goofy  (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dean's goofy cause he's a loveable idiot, he's also dramatic af so he'll defo be whipping out the smirk and the dimples sometimes.

He'll go with your vibe, but he'll hit you with the "this is no laughing matter 🤨."

↳ H = Hair  (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Dean is old money, well-groomed is an understatement. His hair is always effortlessly styled, even when he's run a hand through it a million times, even when you've gripped it tightly and pulled on it when he's between your legs. His hair down there is practically non-existent. At the very least, it's very tightly trimmed.

↳ I = Intimacy  (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Dean's six flags reputation isn't completely an act. Sex for him just isn't as deeply intimate and romantic as it is for others. Dean shows intimacy & romance in other ways.

That said! Dean is very attentive as pleasuring women, especially one he's in a committed relationship with, it a priority for him. He'll defo worship and appreciate and make you feel extremely desired.

↳ J = Jack off  (masturbation headcanon)

Six flags!Dean doesn't have time to masturbate cause he's fucking every night. But boyfriend!Dean masturbates to pictures and videos of you often, especially when he's on the road.

He'll do it when he's in bed so he can use his phone, watch over the movies that you made together and listen to the sounds of your moans flowing through the speaker on his phone.

He 1000000% sends you cumshot videos and vids of him moaning your name as he's jacking off yup.

↳ K = Kink  (one or more of their kinks)

Mirror Mirror on the wall.... he loves to spread you open and make you watch as he plays with your clit. He makes you watch as he brings you to a quivering mess by just his fingers. He's brought a full length mirror just so you can see how every part of you reacts to him

Dean has experimented with kinks before and there's not really a thing he'd outright veto unless it contained the obvious.

↳ L = Location  (favourite places to do the do)

Literally anywhere. The more public, the better.

↳ M = Motivation  (what turns them on, gets them going)

Not to make him sound like a whore (he is), but there's a lot that can put Dean in the mood.

One thing though is confidence. He loves a woman that completely owns her womanhood. So, seeing you walk into a room looking all confident and gorgeous (whether you're wearing something scandalous or not), really gets him going.

↳ N = No  (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He wouldn't do anything you weren't super enthusiastic for. Sex for him is about the enjoyment and if it's something that you're only trying for him or kind of like meh? about, he won't be turned on.

↳ O = Oral  (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving: Grandmaster level. Dean considers himself to be a connoisseur and that's because he is. He'll happily spend an hour between your thighs, using every technique and tool at his disposal, tongue, lips, toys, fingers etc. until you're sobbing his name.

Receiving: He'll lay back, arms tucked behind his head as he watches you go to town. It would be all about the eye contact with him too, so he'll want you to look up at him through your eyelashes and tears.

Preference: Surprisingly! He loves receiving more, he eats you out on the daily because it makes you feel good and that's what he wants.

↳ P = Pace  (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Dean can switch it up and be whatever is needed for the situation.

He's good at the build up, giving you slow and deep strokes intended to have your toes curling, then once he has you unravelled and begging, he'll speed up and drive it home.

↳ Q = Quickie  (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Oh Dean LOVES a good quick fuck. A five minute bang against his bedroom door before he's got to run off to practice or class. He loves the spontaneity and time pressure.

Partly why he loves it too is because it gives you less time to rearrange yourself and not look so thoroughly fucked, so when you go back to the group, they know...

↳ R = Risk  (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Again... it's Dean Di Laurentis...

The man invented risk and experimentation. He practically holds the Kamasutra book as his guide to life, trying every and anything at least once.

He gets a rush out of even potentially dangerous situations, like getting head while he's driving, and the risk of getting caught makes him (metaphorically) wetter.

↳ S = Stamina  (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He's outlasting you by FAR. Better remember to bring water, snacks, and some sweets to replenish all the lost fluids.

↳ T = Toys  (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Dean is a toy connoisseur. His nightstand is a goldmine of toys you didn't even know existed that can do things you'd never even thought of. He's got toys, cock rings, wands, paddles, restraints, oils, lubes, the whole nine yards in there.

Every couple of nights he's whipping out something new to enhance the session and you'll be left wondering how much more could there possibly be.

↳ U = Unfair  (how much they like to tease)

(Un)Fortunately for you, Dean wants you to break your composure so he'll tease and tease and edge and edge and only give you that sweet release if you say his name loud enough that his housemates can hear you.

He's also one to tease you in public knowing that you'll have to wait to get the relief you crave.

↳ V = Volume  (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

A yapper and a narrator through and through. He basically never shuts up with a mixture of dirty talk and praises and grunts and groans.

↳ W = Wild card  (a random headcanon for the character)

Dean loves a good role play and he takes that shit seriously, dressing up and being full on in character and expecting the same from you.

↳ X = X-ray  (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

DON'T JUMP ME! But Dean is not packing. He's a grower, not a shower, and he's like 5'5 MAX when fully hard. He just knows exactly what he's doing with it.

But it's thick and flushes dark red when he's aroused, tip excessively leaking precum out of the lil mushroom head that slightly curves to the right.

↳ Y = Yearning  (how high is their sex drive?)

RIP you. That man is HUNGRY.

↳ Z = Zzz  (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Within like 15/20 minutes he'll fall asleep, but that's only after making sure you're washed, fed, and wrapped up. He'll pull you flush against his bare chest so he can hold you all night long (so you can wake up with his dick pressed against your ass).

♤ a bit angstier, but i also image that logan would feel a slight twinge of jealousy (depending on the win). like he has so much pressure about his future and the draft and making ends meet that i imagine he'd possibly get a bit :( that sth isn't on the cards for him.

♤ that said, despite those feelings, he'd never let you know that or make you feel bad for him purposely. he's a good boyfriend, but not always a perfect guy.

The Lows...

♤ logan's probably the only one of them that really would be able to be there for you if sth angstier happened, both headspace wise and ability to comfort wise.

♤ logan's a pretty attentive guy, so he'll pick up on your hints that sth bad has happened, and he'd drop anything and everything to be there for you in that moment.

♤ he'll hold you in his arms and genuinely ask about what happened and actually listen intently.

♤ if it was a situation that required a voice, he'd 100% be that for you. he'd be standing in your corner loudly against whoever and would make it absolutely clear to everyone that he has your back no matter what.

♤ if it was sth SUPER angsty, he's the type to actually be there for you in the way that you need and not just give you what he thinks people in that situation would want.

♤ he'd take you into his arms and never let go.

At first, it really had been coincidence. His patrol would take him past your building, and if he happened to see you walking home, he'd follow for a few minutes just to make sure you got inside safely.

It had seemed harmless then, even responsible. You walked alone sometimes, often later than you should, and Peter knew better than most that a quiet street didn't necessarily mean a safe one.

But then came the late-night visits. You'd let him inside and, somehow, the minutes would turn into hours as you'd consume him in ways he never knew was possible.

By the third visit, the uncomfortable realisation that you were different hit him. It wasn't supposed to become personal. Just some stress relief for a busy superhero. That had been the whole point of keeping the mask on, of keeping Peter Parker safely out of it.

But somewhere between it all, the parts of himself that he was compelled to keep hidden kept fighting its way out. He craved more from you, to know what you thought about the man behind the mask, to know how you looked in the morning.

But, every time he'd open his mouth to tell you, he'd think back to the danger it put MJ in and change his mind.

Being Spider-Man meant making the hard decision, even if it broke Peter Parker's heart. It meant making the difficult choice when the easier, selfish, choice was right in front of him, smiling and asking him to stay the night.

So, he kept close to you in any way that he could. Watching over you was almost instinctive now, something buried beneath all the careful reasoning that he liked to tell himself he was in control of. Peter wasn't always sure where the instinct ended and he began anymore.

He stopped just outside the window, staring before he could help himself.

Your hair is styled differently, your clothes are nicer than what he usually sees you wearing, and there's something about the way you're standing there, glancing down at your phone and then towards the door, that makes his chest tighten.

You looked beautiful, you always did to him but this was different, this was the kind that made him forget what he was supposed to be doing. This was the kind that had the spider humming beneath his skin, pushing at the edges of the restraint he'd been trying so desperately to build.

'I need to introduce myself.'

The thought arrived so quickly that he barely had time to argue with it before his feet were moving towards the door. One second, he was standing outside, telling himself he should leave, and the next he's pushing open the cafe door.

"Hey."

You looked up at him, a polite smile on your face. "Hi?"

Peter suddenly forgot every remotely normal opening line he's ever heard. "Sorry... I don't mean to bother you."

"You aren't."

The relief flooded through him immediately enough that he nearly laughed at himself. It was embarrassing, really. "Oh, that's good."

He looked at you for a beat longer, mouth opening and closing as he mentally reworked his sentence.

"Are you oka-."

"I'm Peter, by the way."

The words came out at exactly the same time, leaving him blinking at you. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling heat creeping up the back of his neck and settling on his cheeks.

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I was just going to ask if you were okay," you laughed, head tilting slightly. "You looked like you were working up the courage to say something."

Peter glances around the cafe, hoping that nobody else is listening to this trainwreck. "That obvious, huh?"

"A little," you shrugged.

"That's embarrassing."

"It doesn't have to be."

"I'm going to start again. Hi, I'm Peter Parker."

He extends a hand to you. You looked down at his hand, then back up to his face, mouth curving as you took it and introduced yourself. "It's nice to meet you."

Peter almost forgot to let go of your hand. "Nice to meet you too."

The words sound absurd coming from him. He already knew you. He knew what your hand felt like, what you sounded like when you were close, and he knew about the little crease that appeared in your brow when you were annoyed.

This was your first time meeting Peter, but it wasn't his first time meeting you.

"So," he said, because apparently his brain had decided that was the best contribution he could make, "you come here often?"

Your laugh was bright and airy and, despite the fact that he winced at the line, the sound still hits him pleasantly in his chest.

"Is that your opening line?"

"I've never been good at his," he muttered, suddenly finding the wall behind your shoulder fascinating.

"At talking to women?"

"To women I actually want to impress."

"Oh, really?" You asked, smiling so hard that it touched your eyes.

"Yeah," he said, eyes creasing as he smiled back. He gestured to the seat in front of you. "Can I sit?"

You glanced down at your phone, then towards the cafe door. Peter followed your gaze before looking back at you and understanding washed over him.

"Oh. You're waiting for someone."

It wasn't really a question, not in the way he said it. But you answered anyway.

"Yeah, I am."

Peter nodded, something small and unpleasant settling in his stomach. He knew he should leave you alone to whatever you were waiting for, but you were still looking at him, and he found himself wanting to stay for just a little longer.

"Do you mind if I sit until they get here?"

You nodded and he quickly scrambled into the chair.

The smile that spread across your face was somehow brighter than before, and Peter found himself returning it without thinking. There was something almost playful in your expression, something he couldn't quite place, and when you leaned toward him across the small table, his body followed before his mind had caught up

"Are you sure you have the time to sit and chat?" You whispered. "Don't you have to swing by somewhere else?"

Peter's eyes widened as he considered if he misheard you. Your lips were pressed together, visibly fighting a laugh.

"You knew?" It came out as a hiss, quiet enough that nobody around you seemed to notice, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

"You literally just told me your name was Peter and you sound exactly like the guy." You looked at him as though the answer should have been obvious. "You really should consider using different voices."

"I can't believe you figured it out that quickly."

"It's practically insulting my intelligence that you thought I wouldn't."

He laughed under his breath, dropping his gaze to the table for a moment. "Okay. Fair."

It was ridiculous, he had spent weeks imagining this moment, but he hadn't prepared for you to look this delighted. You were studying his face, eyes roaming over all the features you'd never gotten to see before.

Peter felt suddenly, painfully aware of every feature you might be noticing. The shape of his nose, the unevenness of his hair, the faint shadows beneath his eyes from too many nights without enough sleep. He wondered if you could see every insecurity he'd only realised once he met you.

"So, this is you?" You asked.

His throat felt strangely dry, and he had to swallow a few times before words came out. "Yeah."

You looked at him for another second, and then your expression softened. "I like it."

"You like what?"

"Your face."

"Oh."

"That's all you've got?"

"No, I-." He cleared his throat for what felt like the fiftieth time today, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just wasn't expecting that."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"I know," Peter sighed. "It's just... you never asked to see it. Wasn't sure you cared."

Something changed in your expression then, the teasing giving way to something quieter.

"I didn't know I was allowed." Your voice was quiet, barely a whisper but he picked it up, the words settling somewhere deep in his chest.

"Maybe not in the beginning," he admits, "but you were."

"Then why didn't you take the mask off?"

Peter looked at you for a moment, and suddenly the cafe felt too warm and too bright. There were too many people around you, too much noise, and too many things he could say but none of them felt like it was enough.

So, instead of answering, he let out a quiet breath and looked away.

"Okay," you said, your voice gentler as you apparently decide to let him off the hook. "Easier question."

Peter looked back at you.

"What made you finally introduce yourself?"

"Well, I was in the neighbourhood and-."

"Really?" You interrupted, eyebrow raised and the corner of your mouth twitching. "In the whole of New York, you just happened to find me in this tiny cafe?"

Peter gave you a small, helpless shrug. "Yes?"

You leant in closer, your face only inches from his when you lowered your voice. "You're not a very good liar, Spidey."

Peter's mouth twitched despite himself. "So, I've been told."

You both stayed there, faces inches apart as you watched him with a slight tilt in your head. He was still working on a plausible explanation for why he'd been following you down the street when the scent of flowers and strong aftershave reached him, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. His nose wrinkled slightly.

"Hey, babe."

Your eyes shifted past him and the change in you is immediate.

You brightened, pushing your chair back as you stood. And, before Peter has processed what he was seeing, you were walking towards the man approaching from behind him.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, the man pulled you in to a hug. He whispered something to you and you laughed. It's the same one that Peter, for some reason, believed was reserved for him.

Peter was suddenly aware of the wood of the table creaking beneath the pressure of his grip. He forced himself to loosen his grip on the table, and it's immediately replaced with the sound of his teeth grinding.

He managed to look away for all of two seconds before he was looking back at the man's hand resting comfortably on your waist. Something hot moved beneath Peter's skin as a heavy weight pressed on his chest. His jaw started to ache with how tightly he was clenching it.

The man looked over to Peter, his gaze moving over him with mild curiosity before returning to you. "Who's this?"

"This..." You gestured over to where Peter was sitting, forcing a smile on his face, "is my friend, Bob."

It's irrational, he knows, but Peter's stomach drops at the word friend.

He'd spent all this time insisting that Spider-Man and Peter Parker had to remain separate, insisting that you deserved the freedom to live your life without being dragged into his.

So, what else would you call him?

And now he was sitting across from you while another man's hand rested comfortably around your waist, discovering exactly how much he hated the consequences of his own rules.

"Hey, Bob."

"I was just leaving," he said, pushing himself to his feet with a little too much force.

The chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a couple of curious glances from nearby tables.

"Bob?" You said, voice tight.

He turned to look at you and the irritation on his face must have been evident, because your expression shifted. Peter softened immediately.

"Sorry," he said, forcing a smile. "I just remembered I have somewhere I need to be."

He mumbled a quick goodbye and walked out of the cafe before he could do something stupid like throw you over his shoulder and march you out of there.

The moment the door closed behind him and the cold air hit his face; he hoped that would be enough to clear his mind. It wasn't.

He made it half a block before he changed direction, following the familiar streets until your apartment came into view. He was just making sure you got home safe after being out with a strange man.

That was all.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn't stand the thought of you going home with someone else. Nothing to do with the way his chest had tightened when he'd seen you with him. And absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he'd finally shown you his face and, within minutes, discovered that you were waiting for another man.

He was simply making sure you were safe.

That was what he did, what Spider-Man did, keep the citizens of New York safe.

He sat on the fire escape outside of your apartment, elbows resting on his knees. The city stretched around him in a blur of headlights and distant sirens, but none of it held his attention for more than a few seconds at a time. It was nothing that needed Spider-Man's attention.

He stayed where he was until the lights in your apartment came on. His heart jumped at the sound of your window opening.

Peter turned to find you standing there, one hand resting against the frame and your expression far less surprised than it should have been.

"Are you going to come in?"

He climbed through, carefully manoeuvring over the familiar clutter beside the window before straightening inside your apartment. You closed the window behind him and walked away without another word.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you responded.

Peter stood there for a moment, watching you disappear toward the bathroom. He'd expected you to ask why he was there. Maybe he'd even imagined you'd be angry. Instead, you seemed almost determined to carry on with your evening as though he wasn't standing in the middle of your apartment, which somehow made him more unsettled than either reaction would have.

A few minutes later, you emerged with your face still damp, rubbing your skin dry with a towel as you crossed toward your bedroom. Peter followed close behind you.

Still, you ignored him as you took a seat on your vanity, patting your face dry.

"You were with a man."

You glanced at him through the mirror. "I was."

His jaw tightened. "You were on a date."

"Yes."

The answer was so simple that it irritated him more than it should have. You turned toward the desk, reaching for a jar of cream. He remained by the door; hands tucked into his pockets as he watched you through the mirror.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Your hand stopped.

"Not today." Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his reflection. "Does that make you feel better?"

"No."

"Then, why'd you ask?"

"I don't know."

You gave him a tired look through the mirror, one eyebrow lifting as you began smoothing the cream over your skin. "That's becoming your favourite answer."

He flinched. "Wait, are you annoyed at me?"

You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest. "Wow, you really are a genius."

Peter's eyebrows drew together. "I should be mad at you."

"Excuse me?"

"You're the one off with other men."

"Men!?" You repeated. "It was one man."

"One man too many." The words came out before he could soften them. Your arms tightened across your chest.

Peter looked away, jaw working as he tried to rein himself in. He knew how this sounded.

"You want to rephrase that?"

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I just meant that I didn't like it."

"I noticed." You folded your arms. "You were rude to him for no reason."

"I mean I did have a reason," he muttered, looking down at the floor.

Your expression softened as something warm ran through you, which only served to make you more annoyed, because you weren't supposed to be rewarding Peter's behaviour.

"What was the reason, Peter?"

"I was jealous." Peter seemed almost embarrassed by the words once they were out in the open, his shoulders dropping as though admitting them had taken more out of him than he'd expected. "I saw him with his hand around you and I hated it. I hated that he was touching you. I hated that you were looking at him like…" He stopped himself, jaw tightening before he forced the words out. "I hated it because I wanted to be the one standing there."

A small smile tugged at your mouth. "Well, Peter, that's unfortunate."

He gave a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. "Yeah, it is."

Getting up from the chair, you walked over to him, stopping just before him. "You know this is your fault, right?"

"I know."

"We never set any boundaries apart from the mask doesn't come off."

"I know."

"You never asked me to wait for you."

Peter blinked. "Would you have waited for me?"

You stepped closer. Peter could feel the warmth coming off your body now that you were standing so close. He could hear your heartbeat, steady but just a little faster than it had been a moment ago. His own pulse was pounding hard enough that he was sure you could hear it too.

You tilted your head.

"No," you snorted. "I don't wait around for men." Peter's eyebrows lifted, his mouth twitching despite himself. "But it would have been good information to have."

"Noted."

Peter's gaze dropped to your mouth before he could stop it. And, of course, you noticed.

"So," you murmured, "you were jealous."

He looked back into your eyes. "Yeah."

"How jealous?"

His jaw flexed again as the images of you in another man's arms flashed through his mind. "Very."

"So, what are you going to do about it?" You challenged.

Peter felt something inside of him pull taut. He reached out, hooking his hand around the waistband of your trousers, and pulled you into his arms.

The second his mouth met yours, every thought he'd been trying to keep under control seemed to scatter. His other hand found your waist, drawing you against him as the kiss deepened, and you rose instinctively into him, your fingers twisting in the front of his jacket.

He groaned into your mouth, as you shifted against him, the contact sending a sharp rush through him.

He broke the kiss only to let you catch your breath, his nose draggling along your jaw as he pressed kisses to your neck. He breathed in, the smell of the cocoa butter you'd used in the morning hit his nose first. He smelt like the drink that you'd had in the cafe, and then something that made his nose turn.

"Fuck, you smell like him."

You laughed. "We can fix that."

Pushing him off of you, your fingers curled under the hem of your top and you pulled it off over your head. Peter swallowed thickly as he watched you slowly undoing the buttons on your trousers, shimming out of them, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

"I was thinking I needed a shower anyway."

Without waiting for his response, you walked out of the room. He stood where you left him, listening as the shower turned on. He heard you sigh as the hot water hit your skin and he closed his eyes, imagining what you looked like in there.

"You're not joining?" You called from the bathroom.

Peter was moving before his mind even realised what was happening, stripping out of his clothes and discarding them around the apartment as he raced into the bathroom.

The mirror had already fogged by the time he got in there, the steam from the shower clouding the room. He stepped in behind you, his hands catching your waist and pulling you flush against him.

"Peter," you warned, even as you tilted your neck to give him better access. "I don't want to get distracted and slip."

"I'd never let you slip," Peter scoffed. "Now let me help you."

Peter took the soap from your hands and built up a lather. Once soapy enough, his hands immediately went to your breasts, kneading them as he covered it with soap.

"Really?" You breathed, your head lolling against his chest as his soapy thumb rubbed over your erect nipples. Heat spread low and fast between your legs. "My tits are the first place you wash?"

Peter smiled and kissed the side of your neck, then nipped at your ear. "They looked in desperate need of holding."

"Whatever, Peter."

Peter's attention remained on your breasts, fingers squeezing and rolling your nipples while you used the washcloth to wash the day off of your skin. He kept rubbing himself against you, his erection pressing against the curve of your ass.

"Peter," you warned as his hand wrapped around one of your thighs and lifted. You fell back into his broad chest.

"I'm helping."

Peter's idea of 'helping' was to drop a hand between your legs. He ran a finger through your folds, humming approvingly at the wetness there.

"You're this wet already?" He asked between nips at your neck.

"We're in a shower."

"You can still be wet in the shower."

His fingers stopped near your clit, teasing around there but not quite touching you.

"Stop being an ass," you sighed, the water hitting your chest and rolling down your body. "Otherwise, I'll go ask my friend from this morning. I know he knows how to get a girl off."

Peter responded by sucking down on your neck, tugging the skin between his lips. A loud whine was dragged from your throat as he also pressed down on your clit, circling with a pressure so dizzying you arched back into him.

The way your body responded to him sent blood rushing to his groin, a desperate throb in between his legs that he ignored in favour of driving you over the edge.

"Wait- Peter- I-," you moaned

He moved to another spot on your neck, sucking at the skin there as two of his fingers pressed at your hole. He eased them in, stretching and curving and scissoring them within you, pressing against the spot that had your thighs shaking.

"Peter," you sighed. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum."

"That's it, baby," he cooed, his breath warm against the skin of your neck as his thumb circled your clit and his fingers pumped within you with terrifyingly accurate coordination.

"Yes," you groaned, eyes rolling back, "don't stop."

You reached your hand back, fingers curling into the stands of his hair with force as if to stabilise yourself as the orgasm wracks through your body.

It took a good minute before your body stopped shaking with the after effects of the orgasm, and Peter couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

"You were saying?" He asked, kissing over the blooming marks he'd left on your skin.

Peter didn't give you the chance to come up with something snarky to say, he spun you around in his arms and kissed you. It was no less desperate and consuming than the one he'd given you in your bedroom.

His hands hooked under your thighs as he continued kissing you, spit collecting in the corner of your mouths as the kiss turned sloppy.

Peter's hands cupped your ass, lifting you up with ease. A shiver ran down your spine as he pressed your back against the cool tile of the shower wall.

"I was hoping to drag this out," he murmured against your lips. "But, fuck, I need you now."

He kept you up with one hand, his other hand guiding the tip of his dick through your soaked folds. He swore as your fingers ran along his chest, eventually settling into his shoulders where you imprinted little crescent moons into his skin with your nails.

Your felt the tip of him nudging at your entrance, thick and heavy and pulsing.

As he sank into you, a shared moan filled the room. His forehead pressed into yours as he bottomed out, the feeling of you all wet and warm around him was almost too much for him to handle.

He held himself for a minute there, feeling the now cold shower water hitting his back. But he didn't mind the wait or the cold, not when he was nestled so deeply in you. It's not until you started squirming in his arms did, he ask,

"Can I move?"

"Yes, please!" You pleaded, your hole clenching around him.

Peter didn't waste any time, his hips immediately snapping into yours. It was relentless. Desperate in a way that Peter hadn't felt in years. His dick pulses within you, dragging against your clenching walls and hitting your g-spot, bringing you closer to another orgasm.

The noises you make only urged him on more, pushing his hips to move faster, slap into you harder. His hands tightened around your thighs hard enough to bruise, and you hoped they would.

Your eyes closed, little gasps coming from your mouth at every thrust of his hips. Each thrust sent your back sliding up the wall and each soft curse and moan of your name from Peter drove you closer to the edge. Your hand slipped between your bodies, circling your clit with all desperation and no technique as you chased your second orgasm.

It came just as easily as your first, your walls clamping down around Peter.

The sound of the cries that slipped through your mouth as you came and the feeling of you clamped around him had Peter's hips stuttering. His carefully controlled hips started to lose their rhythm as he got close, his breaths coming out heavy.

"Cum in me, Pete."

And he did, with a strangled cry of your name, Peter filled you to the brim, his thrusts turning into slow rolls of his hips as he continued shooting cum into you.

He pulled out of you slowly, his sticky release dripping down your thighs as he set you down gently. Grabbing the shower head, he ran it over your body, gently spreading your folds to clean you up there.

"Ah," you moaned as the cold water hit your skin.

"I know," he cooed, "I'm sorry, just let me clean you up."

Peter made quick work of washing you properly this time. You felt putty in his hands, almost falling asleep as he pulled you out of the shower.

"Am I forgiven yet?" He asked, pressing a kiss your forehead as he wrapped your body in the towel.

"No," you said, even as a soft smile took over your features.

p.s. I am SO tired as i finished this fic, so if you see any mistakes, no you didn't xoxo

A cold dread washes over you, forcing your brain immediately alert and your body already moving to sit up.

"What?"

"He is currently displaying elevated heart rate, respiratory distress, and heightened sensitivity to auditory stimuli." There's a pause. Then, because Evie apparently has no concept of subtlety when she's concerned. "He's also crying."

You're out of bed before she's even finished the sentence, dragging on the first hoodie you find and shoving your feet into slippers without bothering with socks.

The hallway is dark and quiet in that weird middle-of-the-night way where every sound feels amplified. You rush to the elevator, pressing the up button repeatedly as if that will help it to understand your rush.

"Evie, what's happening now?" You ask into your phone.

"I believe he is attempting to suppress the arachnid DNA, leading to significant distress."

Of course he is.

"Tell him I'm coming."

The elevator doors stall as they open, then shudder again as they close, the machine shaking as it carries you the three floors up. The door opens on his floor and the immediate smell of damp fills your nose.

There's no natural light up here either, so you fumble with your phone, turning on the flashlight and carefully stumble over the junk littering the cramped hallway on the way to his door.

You knock once, and there's no reply.

"Evie?"

"Peter has stated that your presence will not be necessary. He says he is okay."

You frown at the door. "Is he okay?"

"No."

At Evie's bluntness, the pit in your stomach grows. You knock again, louder this time and more insistent.

You wait a few seconds, listening. There's no movement on the other side, not even a sleepy 'I told you I'm fine.'. Which makes it so much worse.

Trying the handle, you ease your way into the apartment. The only light comes from the moonlight filtering through the windows.

Peter's sitting on the floor beside his bed. His knees are pulled against his chest, his face buried against his knees and fingers tangled into his hair. His shoulders are tense enough to look painful, and every few seconds, they jerk.

"Pete?"

He jerks at the sound of his name and his head lifts too quickly. Bloodshot eyes find yours immediately.

You freeze, trying to control your facial expressions before he see the depth of your concern. He's not even particularly dishevelled by Peter standards, but he looks awful, pain lines etched into his face in a way that makes him look way older than he is.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I'm here because you need me."

His eyes squeeze shut and his jaw clenches before he responds. "I'm honestly fine."

"You're sitting on the floor, in the dark, alone."

"I happen to like the floor."

The situation is too serious for the snort that leaves you, but you've woken up too many times to Peter handing upside down from your ceiling to believe that lie. "You prefer ceilings."

"I'm going for a change in scenery."

For a moment, you consider leaving him alone, but then his fingers curl into the fabric of his sweatpants and you remember the worry in Evie's voice.

Moving closer, you keep your voice gentle. "Stop being so stubborn."

His mouth twitches, it's small, but you take the victory.

"...It's quieter down here," he admits. You glance around the apartment as though you might suddenly be able to see what he's hearing.

Rain thuds against the window. The refrigerator hums from the kitchen. Pipes tick somewhere behind the walls. A car passes on the street below, tires hissing briefly over wet pavement.

If you can hear it, Peter must be hearing it ten times louder.

"Oh, Peter."

"It was smell at first, then sound, and then everything else." He cracks one eye open to look at you, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "I've been trying to supress it but it hurts."

You come to a seat next to him, not too close, but close enough that you can feel the heat radiate off of his body. "Then maybe you're not supposed to."

"Hmm?"

"Maybe you're not supposed to fight it, Pete." You hold out your hand, fighting the urge to pull back when he just stares at it. "These senses are a part of you. I think you have to learn to work with them."

"I- I can't," he sighs. "It'll be too much."

"I know," you swallow. "But I'm not asking you to do it alone."

Slowly, reluctantly, he reaches for your hand. The second your palms meet, his fingers close around yours. Harder than he probably realises. You don't comment on it, instead, you curl your fingers around his.

Peter's thumb drags over your knuckles.

"Your hand is cold," he grumbles.

"That's because you're so hot."

"Mhm."

A slightly more alert Peter would have turned that into a quip. The fact that he hasn't sends another wave of nausea through your stomach.

You squeeze his hand, "just focus everything on me."

Peter's rests his head on your shoulder as you begin to speak, rambling on about every single thing you can think of to give him something to focus on.

After a few minutes, Evie's voice cuts through. "His heart rate is returning to normal. However, I recommend that he remain with you for another twenty-five minutes."

You glance towards Peter's workstation. Then back towards Peter. For the first time since you walked through the door, some of the tension is gone from his face.

"Come on," you murmur. "Bed."

"Don't leave me," he mumbles.

"I'm not going to."

He doesn't argue then, letting you help him up and guide him onto the unmade bed. He crawls over the blankets, and you climb beside him.

It's a situation you haven't found yourself in before, and you find yourself lying stiffly on your back in the bed next to him.

"Can I...?" He asks quietly as he gestures vaguely.

You open your arms, and he moves into them without another word.

His head settles against your chest; his face tucked beneath your chin. You wrap one arm around his back and gently scratch your fingers through his hair with the other.

Beneath his ear, your heartbeat thumps steadily. You keep scratching lightly through his hair, over and over again, until his breathing begins to match yours.

"Peter's vitals have returned to normal," Evie announces softly sometime later.

Your eyes close as you smile faintly, relief flooding through you. "Good."

You half expect Peter to move off of you, but he doesn't. If anything, his arms tighten around you as though some part of him is afraid that the moment you know he's okay, you'll leave.

He doesn't know that you have no plans to and now doesn't seem like the right time to broach that subject. So, you don't. You just keep your fingers moving gently through his hair as his soft snores begin to fill the loft.

Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.

You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.

Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.

Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.

By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.

MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.

With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.

“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.

The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.

“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”

“I know.”

“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.

“I know.”

“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”

“I know.”

MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”

Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”

“Bingo.”

Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.

“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.

Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”

“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.

Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.

“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”

For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.

Before you could focus on it, it was gone.

The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.

“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.

The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.

“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”

Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”

“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.

When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”

You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.

Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.  

“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”

There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.  

“You’re seeing things?”

There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.

“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”

MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.

The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.  

“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”

Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”

Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.

He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.

By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.

You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.

Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.

He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.

“My name's... Ned.”

The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.

“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.

‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”

“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”

You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.

“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.

Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.

“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Please, sir.”

Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.

“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”

Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.

“Of course,” you replied anyway.

At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.  

Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.

Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.

His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.

Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.

“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”

He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.

“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”

A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”

“You weren't exactly convincing.”

“I've never been very good at lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.

He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated.

The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.”

Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”

Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”

You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”

“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”

“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”

The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.

You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”

“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”

“It sounds unhinged?”

“Very.”

“Good. Just so you’re aware.”

He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”

“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”

Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”

His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.  

Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.

“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”

“You probably should.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.

Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”

A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Um... I don't... think so.”

“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”

“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”

He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.

“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”

“Oh.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.

Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.

“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”

Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“You will,” he promised.

You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.

By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.

The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.

You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.

You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.

“You came.”

Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”

“Good to know you keep promises.”

It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.

“Hey! I don't think we've met.”

A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.

“I'm Peter.”

“Ned.”

As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”

“Evidently, Ned.”

“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”

“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.

You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”

Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”

You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”

A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.  

“I forgot how nice it is up here.”

Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”

Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.

You smiled slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, Peter.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.

The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.

Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.

You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”

“It's fine.”

“You'll freeze.”

“I'll survive.”

“Peter...”

“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.

You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”

It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.

“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”

The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.

Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.

“Can I?”

When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.

He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.

“There you are.”

Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.

Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”

“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”

“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”

You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”

“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”

Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.

“I have to go.”

You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”

“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”

“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll come back for it.”

You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly.  “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: keeps bringing you to the brink of orgasm only to back off, black eyes shining with delight when frustrated tears well in your eyes. he'll threaten to, and probably will, web your hand to the bed when you keep trying to touch yourself. Every bit of your pleasure needs to come from him.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: finally lets you cum, and then doesn't stop, pulling multiple orgasms out of you. his calloused fingers feeling rough as he circles your swollen clit again and again.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: is so sensitive that he'll cum all too easily when he feels your walls tighten around him, it's thick and warm and sticker than usual, clinging to your insides like it doesn't want to let go.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: while being sensitive, gets hard again within seconds, able to go so many rounds that you end up falling asleep on his dick as he continues rutting into you.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: uses every thrust to send a statement. your tits bouncing and bed creaking with every posessive reminder.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: expects you to mark him as best as you can. whether that's with your nails dragging down his skin, your teeth biting into his neck, or a stinging slap across his face.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: loves to see your reaction to him, how your hands curl desperately into the sheets, how your heart rate sky rockets, how your tongue falls out of your mouth, how your head lols

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: cares about your pleasure too, so he'll never go beyond the limits of what you've discussed before.

↳ Arachnid!Spidey who: becomes a balanced peter after, and gives you the aftercare your body needs.

It also always meant waking up with the reminders of the night before. The slight wetness between your legs; the developing mark on your chest; the pyjamas you couldn’t be asked to put back on unceremoniously discarded on the floor.  

Two years into this and Clark still looked at you as if you were the sun that revived him. Still watched with pupil-blown, hooded eyes as your breathing hitched under his touches. As time went on, and you both learnt your limits, nights carried stronger reminders into the morning following.

Clark shifted slightly, a deep rumble in his chest as he pressed himself closer to you. Already, you could feel the hardness of him pressing against your ass. His morning wood stood hard and ready behind you, his tip leaking against your back. The empty ache between your legs drove you to shift back against him. Unsure if he was awake, you bit your lip to keep quiet as the action sent tingles down your body.  

His response was a soft sigh escaping his lips, a warm puff of air hitting the back of your neck. Shifting again and again, you pushed back harder against him, building a soft, experimental, rhythm.

A more awake Clark would have pinned you down by now, grabbed your waist and took control of your erratically moving hips. But the Clark that was slowly waking up moved on autopilot, his hand moving from its position on your stomach to cup your breast.  

The touch on your chest was light, his thumb sweeping lazily over your nipple which drawled out a ragged breath that you couldn't quite stifle.

"Sweetheart?"

Clark's normal voice always did something to you, always hit your ears in just the right way. But sleepy Clark’s voice, the one that was raspy and still laced with sleep, had the ache between your legs desperately needing attention.

Your hand slid down your body, playing with your arousal before frantically finding your clit.  

“Morning, love,” you gasped.

The sound of your voice immediately snapped Clark awake. The first thing he could smell was the heat of your arousal; how wet and ready you were for him already. The hand that was on your breast gripped harder, fingers rolling and tugging at your sensitive nipple.

“Good morning to you too,” he breathed, his deep moans hitting your ear as you moved against him.

“Clark... I need–.” You stumbled over your words, unsure of what you needed most, just that you needed him.

“I know what you need, sweetheart.”

His warm hand travelled down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps as it settled on your inner thigh. Hand hooking around your thigh, he lifted your leg and wrapped it over the top of his, opening you wide to him.

Shifting slightly, he moved until he could position his tip close to your dripping entrance.

“Ready?” Clark asked, desperate to slid into your warmth but needing to hear you give him the go.

In response, you arched back into him. “Yes~.”

Ever the one to preach self-control, Clark doesn’t immediately push himself into you. Instead, he gave himself to you inch by inch. First, it was the tip of his dick pressing against your hole. Then it was the head. Before he finally let the rest of his inches slide in. He took his time, savouring the feel of your walls choking him.

Despite him having been buried in you not 8 hours ago, you craved the feeling of the stretch like you’d never had it. Your eyes rolled back as you felt every one of his veins inside of you.

“My gosh,” he gasped. “You always feel so good.”

His thrusts started slowly, building up until his hips were moving as desperately as you felt. With each thrust, he buried himself within you as deeply as he could in this angle.

“C-Clark,” you moaned, fingers circling on your clit faster, “need your touch.”

His hand immediately replaced yours, able to apply a pressure on your already sensitive clit that you couldn’t.

“I love you,” he said.

You opened your mouth to respond, but it was as if nothing but moans could escape you. He was all over you, mouth nipping at the area just below your ear; thumb flicking over your clit at a relentless pace; hips snapping into you and hitting that spot inside of you that had your toes curling.

“You’re so perfect. So mine. So made for me,” he continued.

The pleasure pooled in your belly, building and building as he continued whispering into your ear.

“I’m – I’m close,” you gasped out.

You reached for the covers, fingers tangling with the bedsheet as the pleasure built to an unbearable level.

“Can’t–.”

“You can, sweetheart,” Clark cooed as he pressed another kiss to your neck.

The force of your orgasm had your vision fading to black as pleasure crashed through you. Your body twitching in his arms as intense wave after wave hit you. The pace of Clark’s thrusts slowed, content with the knowledge of your pleasure and the feel of you clenched around him.

While you had no doubt about Lois’ abilities, this sounded a bit too far-fetched, even for Lois. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, shaking your heard as you glanced away from her and looked across the busy Daily Planet Bullpen. “Well, I’d hate to be the gal that broke Superman’s heart but I’m not interested in him.”

Lois raised an eyebrow, picking up the hint in your voice. “Oh? But you are interested in somebody.”

“Yup, a certain dorky reporter from Kansas,” you murmured, a genuine smile on your face as you spotted him.

Right on cue, Clark came shuffling out of Perry’s office, a stack of papers balanced precariously in his arms.

“Clark!?” Lois squeaked as quietly as she could. “You like Clark?”

“I do,” you replied.

Across the room, Clark’s head snapped towards your direction so fast that his thick glasses slipped down his nose. He stared right at you, wide-eyed and breathless, as if you’d just called his name.

You tilted your head slightly, there was no way he heard that conversation, right? You kept watching to see what he’d do next and the effect was instantaneous. He turned too quickly, attempting to make his escape but ending up crashing, and subsequently falling over, the rubbish bin. The stacks of paper in his hands went flying in all directions. The handful of pens he’d had in his breast pocket slipped free, clattering to the floor beside him.

Lois winced at the sight. “Seriously? You’d choose the guy currently apologising to a piece of office furniture over the guy who could fly you across the world?”

“I would,” you laughed, already standing up to go and help him gather his papers.

II. The Close-Up

You chewed thoughtfully on the bottom of your pencil as you stared at Clark’s side profile, having completely given up being subtle.

Clark was focused on the screen in front of him, typing furiously to meet Perry’s deadline.

“Are you staring at me, or just zoning out in my direction?”

His voice broke the silence, thick with amusement. He didn’t take his eyes off of his monitor, but a soft, dimpled, smile was on his face.

"I'm staring," you admitted honestly, not even trying to deny it.

“O-Okayyy.” He turned to look at you then, and you took the opportunity to lean forward, resting your chin on your hand.

It was as if your brain was hitting a brick wall. It infuriated you to no end, every time you looked at him, you could swear you’ve seen his face somewhere before. But every time you were right on the precipice of figuring out exactly who he reminded you of, a strange mental fog would roll in, making your mind go black just as the pieces were about to connect.

Looking at him now, beneath the obviously oversized clothes and his hunched posture, he was undeniably handsome. You traced the sharp line of his jaw and his deep dimples all the way up to the way his soft, dark, curls fell perfectly across his forehead. and his eyes, even behind the thick, slightly smudged lenses of his glasses, were an impossibly bright blue.

A sudden wave of déjà vu hit you, causing your breath to hitch. You were flashing back to three nights ago, when you were high above the Metropolis skyline, pressed against a chest that was as broad as Clark’s looked, looking up into those exact shade of eyes.

“You just really remind me of someone," you murmured, the pencil dropping from your fingers. "I can’t remember who but it’s right at the tip of my tongue..."

Clark snorted a little too loudly before turning back to his computer monitor.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, his hands came to frantically adjust his glasses, pushing them higher up the bridge of his nose. He slumped a little lower in his chair.

"Uh, probably just some guy from your local store," he stammered, offering a sheepish, crooked grin as he swivelled his monitor toward you. "Hey, do you... what do you think, is this headline too wordy? I’ve rewritten it four times and Perry is going to be so angry if I don't turn it in."

You blinked, the fog settling back over your thoughts as you looked at the screen, the mystery slipping through your fingers once again.

III. The Delivery

It was one of those days where the weight of the deadlines and the grey skies outside brought the mood of the entire bullpen down. You were slumped at your desk, resting your forehead against the cool wood as you let out a dramatic groan.

“If I don’t get out of this office soon, I’m going to lose my mind,” you muttered into the desk.

Clark, who was sat beside you as always, chuckled. “Hungry?”

If there was anybody who could decipher your moods, it was Clark. You hadn’t even realised you were hungry until he had said it.

“Starving,” you whined, turning your head so your cheek was pressed against the wood. “I would honestly give my left leg for a that pastry we had from the little bakery we found.”

Clark paused, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. An incredibly tender look crossed his face, his eyes softening behind his lenses. "Paris, huh? That’s a bit of a trek for a Tuesday lunch break."

"I know, I know," you sighed, sitting up and rubbing your face. "A girl can dream. I'm going to go stare at the vending machine and pray it has something better than stale food.”

"Actually," Clark said, suddenly standing up and smoothing down his shirt. "I need to go grab a coffee from the breakroom anyway. And I think I left some notes in the archive downstairs. Give me fifteen minutes?"

"Take your time," you mumbled, already turning your attention back to your screen.

Exactly fourteen minutes later, a delicious scent hit your nose as Clark placed something down  beside you. You looked up from your screen and blinked.

Sitting on a clean napkin was a pastry. Not just any pastry, it was perfectly golden, flaky to the point of shattering, and dusted with a light layer of powdered sugar. The only time you’d seen a pastry that perfect was on the trip you and Clark took to Paris last year.

You stared at it. Then you looked up at Clark, who was calmly sipping a cup coffee.

"Clark," you whispered, your voice trembling. "What is this?"

"Oh, that?" He rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing slightly as he looked anywhere but at you. "Uh, funny story. There's this... new bakery just down the road. They import... stuff. I ran down there to get a coffee and they just happened to have a fresh batch from Europe. Crazy coincidence, right?"

You picked it up. It was warm. How could it have been imported and warm? It was like it had been pulled out of an oven twenty minutes ago. Paris was a seven-hour flight away.

“A new bakery,” you repeated slowly as the corner of your lips tugged into a bright smile

“Yeah,” he responded, smiling back at you so wide his dimples appeared.  

You shook your head, slightly confused but not wanting to question as you tucked into your pastry. You let out a soft moan as the food touched your tongue. Behind his coffee mug, Clark took a slow breath, hiding the slight breathlessness in his chest from flying across the Ocean and back just to make you happy.

IV. The Rescue

You were crossing an intersection together, arguing over who was writing the front-page headline, when a driver blew past a red light. Tensing as you braced for impact, you squeezed your eyes shut, knowing there was no way you could move in time.

You barely had time to scream before the world blurred. There was no impact, just a sudden gush of wind that slapped your face and a bizarre sensation of floating.

When your eyes blinked open, you were standing safely on the far curb, tucked securely against Clark’s chest.

Across the intersection, the car sped past, completely oblivious to the fact that they almost flattened the two of you but, somehow, didn’t.

"Wow," Clark stammered instantly, his voice high and nervous as he quickly stepped back, adjusting his glasses with trembling hands. "We... wow... we must have jumped fast. Adrenaline is a crazy thing, huh? Good reflexes."

You didn't answer. You just stared at the empty intersection, then back at Clark, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was no physical way two humans could have leaped that far, that fast.

V. The One Time You Did

It happened late at night on your apartment balcony. Superman had just flown you back to safety after a close call downtown. The adrenaline from the danger was finally fading, leaving you with a weird emptiness as he set you down.

You stepped closer to thank him, reaching out to gently touch his arms, then his hands.

“I’m running out of ways to thank you, Superman.”

“You never have to thank me; I’ll always be there for you.” Superman reached out, his hand gently cupping your face.

And then, everything stopped.

The warmth of his palm felt identical to ones you’d felt before. It was a feeling you’d recognise anywhere. It was like the fog that was clouding your mind for months suddenly disappeared, leaving an overwhelming sense of clarity. Your hand moved up, covering his over your cheek.  

Looking up into his eyes, the realisation washed over you. as his breath hitched, you softly whispered, “Clark...”

But, every night, your body betrayed you. Your ears strained for a sound your mind tried to convince you wouldn't come. It was ridiculous, really, how thoroughly he'd woven himself into your evenings. Even as you tried to lose yourself in the newest shows or the pages of your book, there was a restless part of you that kept your body on the edge of expectation.

The knock at your window came 10 minutes into the movie that you'd been pretending to watch. Your core reacted before the rest of you did, a flutter between your thighs that spread warmth over your body.

You were already smiling by the time you crossed the room, your hand reaching for the window latch.

"Hey, Spidey," you purred, stepping aside to let him climb in. "You're late."

His head tilted slightly at the sound of your voice, the white lenses of his mask narrowing as though he could somehow see straight through the teasing tone you'd put on.

"You miss me?" He said, closing the window behind him.

You pursed your lips, pretending to consider the questions. A small shrug followed as if you hadn't already pictured him having you in 5 different positions. "A little."

"You know I can smell you, right?" Even though you couldn’t see his face under the mask, you were sure he was smirking.

You took a step back, as if that would help, and intentionally let your eyes roam down his frame. The sleek suit hugged every contour of his body, the fabric shifting over the sharp lines of his protruding muscles.

Seeing videos of him swinging across the city was a form of torture, really. You knew how those muscles felt under your hands, how warm his skin was, how he could lift you like you weighed nothing at all. And nobody but you knew.

"Well, if you can smell me, why are you still wearing so many clothes?"

"Whatever happened to 'hello, Spider-Man, how was your day?"" He chuckled, even as he moved to take his suit off.

You shrugged. "Figured we moved past the small talk a few visits ago."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

"So, where does that put us?"

You looked over at him. "I don't know, you tell me."

Wearing nothing but his boxers and his mask, Spider-Man closed the distance between you in a fluid motion. One second, he was by the window, and the next, he was looming right in front of you.

"That's a dangerous question to ask someone who makes terrible decisions for a living."

"Terrible decisions, huh?" You reached out, finger tracing the hard lines of the muscles in his chest, over his perky nipples, and down the ridges of his abs. The muscle beneath your touch flexed instantly, turning to stone as fire ran through his veins.

"And here I thought you were supposed to be the responsible one," you teased.

His breath hitched as your finger hooked just beneath the waistband of his boxers.

It was intoxicating knowing that the city's greatest protector could be this undone by just a single touch from you. He nearly stopped breathing as your fingers inched just slightly lower, your whole hand in his pants.

Even with only a semi, he was already so thick and heavy and warm in your palm. You ran your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum that had already pooled there. Spider-Man practically whimpered as you tightened your grip, and he bucked into your hand.

It only took your hand travelling the length of him twice and a tight flick of your wrist for him to become fully hard.

"Woooow, Spider-Man. Someone's eager tonight."

"You're one to talk," he gritted out. "You're fucking soaked, it's all I can smell."

He wasn't wrong, flushes of arousal coated your panties at every buck of his hips and soft whine that your hands pulled from him.

"True, but you're the one about to cum from the shortest handjob ever." Spider-Man hissed as you squeezed his already too sensitive head, knees bucking. "It's not even my best work."

A few visits ago, Spider-Man confessed that his recently enhanced senses left him unusually sensitive. You didn't know his name or his face but you did know that, and you used it to your advantage at every moment.

"Poor, Spidey," you cooed, pace increasing around his length, twisting and rolling your palm over the tip. In response, his dick twitched in your hand and you had to bite back the smile.

"Fuck..." Spider-Man breathed.

When your other hand slid into his boxers to play with his balls, he gasped your name. The sound send heat straight from your belly and down between your thighs, your clit throbbing to be touched.

Ignoring the throb, you pressed closer to him, standing on your tiptoes so your nose could brush against the line of his jaw, covered by his mask. "This is to say thank you, Spider-Man," you whispered.

Spider-Man's thighs quivered the moment he felt your tongue swipe over his erect nipple. "Oh, shit- I-."

The muscles in his abs clenched as he came into his boxers, leaving a thick and sticky mess on your hands. The grunts slipped freely from him as you gently stroked him through it.

The white lenses of his mask widened when you pulled your hand from his boxers and immediately began licking them clean. Sucking your fingers into your mouth, making a show of how your tongue swirled around them.

"Mhm, you want a taste?" You asked, raising your fingers to his mask.

"I want a taste of you," Spider-Man replied, his voice sounding unusually rough. "On the sofa, legs wide for me."

A part of you wants to be defiant, ask him "and if I don't?" just to see his reaction, see if you could push whatever buttons he was trying to hide. But another part, the stronger part, was burning with an ache so strong that you didn't know what to do with it. So, you listened.

You shimmied out of your sleep shorts with all the grace of a deer on ice. They were barely off of your ankles when you turned for the sofa, nearly tripping in your rush. Spider-Man's hands caught you to steady you, picking you up and dropping you onto the cushions.

The asshole had the audacity to laugh, a low, gravelly chuckle that made heat flush under your skin. He knelt between your spread legs, eyeing the way your obvious arousal had your pussy slick and ready. "Someone's eager tonight," he joked.

"Fuck you, Spider-Man."

Spider-Man pushed his mask up so it sat across the bridge of his nose, exposing the way his mouth was curved into a crooked grin.

"I thought you didn't take the mask off?"

That was the one unbroken rule between you. No matter how naked you both got, the mask stayed fully on, always.

"I always take it off to eat."

The problem was he said it so simply, as if he had no idea of the effects his words could have when you knew that wasn't true.

You shuddered a breath, anticipation prickling under your skin once again.

His hands cupped the bottom of your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the sofa. He leant in close, deliberately inhaling deeply as if he couldn't already smell you perfectly fine. "Fuck. Let's see if you taste as good as you smell."

Spider-Man pressed a warm kiss to your inner thigh, then trailed his kisses higher and higher until he got to the top of your inner thigh. He paused there for a minute, his warm breath fanning against your skin and leaving goosebumps.

"Spidey, you okay?" you asked.

With effortless ease, he manoeuvred you so that you were spread even wider for him, with one of your legs over his shoulder.

A shiver rippled down your spine as Spider-Man used two fingers to spread your folds open. With his other hand, he ran a finger from your twitching hole up to your clit, circling it before running it back down again.

"Hmm," he hummed in approval as your hole clenched around nothing. He pushed a finger in slightly, barely, letting it catch before pulling out. "I'm going to enjoy this."

The first touch of Spider-Man's tongue sliding across your folds had you gasping loudly. His tongue was rougher than you expected, but it felt so perfect against you.

"Fucking delicious," he moaned. He licked another fat stripe, did it again, and again, and again, lapping up the juices there before moving to focus on your clit.

Picking up a pillow, your nails dug into the soft cushion. Spider-Man sucked your clit into his mouth as he used a finger to circle your dripping hole.

The soft sigh that escaped you spurred him on, and he flattened his tongue on your clit, circling it with his tongue.

"Spidey~," you moaned, "t'so good."

At that, he pushed his face deeper into you, using his nose to rub at your clit as his tongue moved lower. His tongue wiggled inside of you, reaching as far as it could go to touch your insides.

"Oh, ooohh, shit, fuck, shit."

Spider-Man worked over your pussy as if it was his mission. His jaw must have been aching but he hummed and cooed around you, slurping loudly as he sucked up your juices.

"F-Fuck, who knew Spider-Man could eat like a pro."

Spider-Man looked up at you, a mixture of his spit and your arousal shining the only visible part of his face. The bottom part of his mask was slightly wet and your clit throbbed at the sight. Part of you had marked him.

"It's Peter."

He buried his face back between your legs before you had time to register it. "What?"

"Name's Peter," he hummed around your pussy, sending vibrations up your core. "Want you to use my name."

The sounds that came out of your mouth after that even surprised you. Spider-Man was in your home, between your legs, begging you to call him by his real name. The worlds between real life and the one concocted by your deeply satisfied brain were colliding.

"You're so good, Peter."

Your hips ground down on his face, thighs quivering around him as the familiar knot in your stomach started to form.

Peter moved his attention back to your clit as his hand slid under the hem of your shirt. He rolled and tugged and flicked at your nipple in time with his tongue's movements on your clit.

You could feel it building, the knot tightening in the pit of your stomach. "Peter~ I'm so close, Peter~~."

"Need you to cum on my face, pretty girl," he mumbled, words muffled by your thighs tight around him.

Your back arched off of the sofa, mouth falling open in a breathless moan as you came on his face, soft and mumbled 'Peter's falling from your lips.

His mouth stayed on you the entire time, licking up every drop that you could give him. He didn't stand until your body had stopped wracking with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

From your slumped position on the sofa, your eyes trailed down his body memorising the nose that had rubbed against you so relentlessly and the mouth that had sucked you into oblivion before moving down again.

Your eyes landed on his boxers, where another erection was straining against them.

"Soooo, round two?" He asked.

↳ A = Aftercare  (what they’re like after sex)

Beau is incredibly tender and caring after sex. While he's still got the stereotypical jock tendancies, a big part of the reason he enjoys sex with you is the intimacy and emotional connection part of it. He'll often start by immediately peppering any patch of skin he can find with dozens of noisy and sloppy kisses, going on about how incredible you were and earnestly telling you he loves you.

He's not selfish at all when it comes to the care aspect, so he'll only relax once he knows you have everything you need. He also loves the pillow talk, talking about any- and every- thing under the sun, asking how your day was, getting the gossip from you, hearing you talk about your major etc., especially if you hadn't had time to catch up before he was ripping your clothes off.

↳ B = Body part  (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Beau loves any part of you that he can grab or squeeze whilst he moves in you. He loves to squeeze your ass when you ride him. He loves to cup your breasts when he has you pressed against the mattress, his weight on your back.

His favourite though are your thighs; they're always the first sign of how wrecked he has you. He's obsessed with the way your thighs tremble around his head when his tongue is buried inside of you, with the way they ripple when he's slamming into you, with how there's enough meat on them that he can just grab and hold you.

On himself, he loves his abs. They're well defined in a way that shows off how athletic he is and how much he takes care of himself.

↳ C = Cum  (anything to do with cum, basically)

Beau is very vocal when he's about to cum, he'll always try to bury his face in your neck so you can hear how he grunts and groans as he fills you up.

He prefers to cum inside of you. To him, that's the ultimate sign of the connection you share. The second reason is because he loves when you cum on his dick, and the thought of your juices mixing with his cum.

Which leads into...

↳ D = Dirty secret  (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Beau doesn't know how to admit this to you but he loves tasting his own cum after you've both cum. At first, it was mere curiosity, wondering what you tasted when he came down your throat. But then it grew. Sometimes he'd lick the rag he used to clean you up. Sometimes he'd use his fingers, then suck the taste off of them, picturing the day he could just spread your legs and eat his cum right out of your leaking hole...

↳ E = Experience  (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Beau is pretty experienced, both through casual hook-ups and previous relationships. However, the reason he really knows what he's doing is because of how attentive and enthusiastic he is in bed. He'll quickly and adapt to what your body craves, and give it to you every time.

↳ F = Favourite position  (this goes without saying)

Anything where he can look at you. More details here.

↳ G = Goofy  (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

100% this man is goofy and high spirited and not serious. He takes pleasuring you very seriously, but the road to getting there is fun and light and very golden retriever vibes. He'll make stupid jokes, tickle your feet when your legs are over his shoulder, tease you between kisses, and always be up for a laugh when the naturally awkward things happen during sex.

He also thinks it adds to the intimacy that you're fully comfortable during it.

↳ H = Hair  (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Beau keeps himself well-groomed, and neatly trimmed.

↳ I = Intimacy  (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Intimacy is the whole reason why Beau loves sex with you. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and that translates into the bedroom too. He'll always make sure that you feel loved and adored and like you're the centre of his universe, because you are.

Touches are always intentional and grounding.

↳ J = Jack off  (masturbation headcanon)

Beau is completely shameless about how often he jerks off. Anytime something that reminds him of you happens, he'll want to slip off to jerk it out. He's a visual guy too, so he'll scroll through pictures of you guys together.

↳ K = Kink  (one or more of their kinks)

COCKWARMING.

He loves when he's studying or watching a movie or just existing and you just sink down on him and carry on about your day.

It's so perfectly intimate for Beau that he loves being able to have you wrapped around him even if he so desperately wants to thrust up into you.

↳ L = Location  (favourite places to do the do)

His bedroom. He doesn't need the adrenaline from the risky places.

↳ M = Motivation  (what turns them on, gets them going)

He gets especially aroused when he sees you in his jersey out in public, or when you wear something that tells the world so clearly that you're his.

He also loves when you wear summer dresses that hug your curves.

↳ N = No  (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Beau wouldn't like to do anything too extreme, he has his kinks but anything that might be considered more on the risky side, he's not interested.

↳ O = Oral  (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving: Beau is very enthusiasticand loud about it. He'll spend a lot of time between your legs, spreading your legs wide as he sucks relentlessly on your clit. Sometimes he'll just hover above your pussy, inhaling your scent and giving only soft licks until you're gripping the sheets and begging for more.

Receiving: He LOVES looking down and seeing your lips stretched around him, he's not quiet about it at all. His hand will be buried at the back of your head, gently pushing you down on him. His head will be tilted back, loud moans spilling out of his lips as he constantly praises how well you suck him off.

Preference: Receiving

↳ P = Pace  (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slowslowslowwwww

Beau is very intense and likes to take his time. Every thrust is perfectly controlled until he's about to cum and that's the only time that he gets sloppy and speeds up.

He holds you tightly as if you might float away if he doesn't.

↳ Q = Quickie  (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If needs must, then yes. Otherwise, he prefers the worship, having time to actually explore your body (as if he doesn't know it better than you do), and build the anticipation.

Beau's of the opinion that if he wants a quick fuck, he can just use his hand. The time spent with you is supposed to be slow and meaningful.

↳ R = Risk  (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Absolutely game to experiment, mostly because he doesn't like telling you no. The riskiest he'll get is sly touches under the dinner table while his parents are there or trying to keep you quiet as he fucks you in his childhood home.

↳ S = Stamina  (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Beau's stamina is off the charts. He has a super quick recovery time too, often able to last three rounds over the course of the night and still be able to wake up refreshed and ready to go in the morning.

↳ T = Toys  (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He's super open to them and has zero ego about them. If it's something that will work well with the session he has planned for you, he'll pull a toy out with zero hesitation, smiling down at you while he presses it against your clit as he drives into you.

On himself, he defo uses a cockring.

↳ U = Unfair  (how much they like to tease)

His teasing comes from him spending so long worshiping and touching and licking your body, but he's never too mean with it.

↳ V = Volume  (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Beau is a loud ass mf. He groans, laughs, and talks throughout the session, also loving to hear you be just as loud. The sounds you make only motivate him more, so he'll do what he can just to hear that. He has zero shame about the sounds he makes and how breathily he whispers in your ear sometimes.

Also, he whimpers.

↳ W = Wild card  (a random headcanon for the character)

The first time with Beau, he got so worked up so quickly that he couldn't stop himself from against the bed as he finally got to eat you out and ended up cumming in his pants before he even got you off.

↳ X = X-ray  (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Beau's thick but not particularly long.

Body wise, he's muscular in the well-rounded way where his legs and butt aren't too scrawny.

↳ Y = Yearning  (how high is their sex drive?)

He wants you practically every night that he can have you. If you're apart for any reason, your phone will constantly be buzzing with texts and pleas for even more pictures than he already has.

But when it's off season and there's no reason for you to be apart... good luck.

↳ Z = Zzz  (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He's quick to fall asleep, but only after he knows that you're satisfied.

You let your head fall back against the pillow, your eyes already drifting closed as sleep begins to pull you back under again. It's only then, just as you're comfortable, that the next sound tears through your bedroom.

Your bedroom window, old and creaky, is slid open. The curtains stir as something, a big something, slips past them. There are no footsteps or creaks of the floorboards to prove it happens, just the rustle of the curtains as more breeze flies through.

"...P–Peter."

The name slips from your mouth before your mind has even fully caught up. It has to be him, he's the only person reckless enough to slip in at three in the morning, and the only one who would consider your fourteenth story window as a perfectly reasonable front door, despite having a key.

There's no response, so you reach for the lamp. A soft, yellow glow fills the bedroom, your eyes taking another second to adjust before immediately settling on the wall.

Peter's halfway up your bedroom wall, crouched close to the ceiling with his weight resting on his feet. He has one hand on the opposite wall, as if he needs it to keep him balanced.

He's still not turned to look at you, opting to watch the city through the gap the wind creates in the curtains. One shoulder in his suit has been ripped almost clean off, exposing bruised skin beneath streaks of drying blood. There's more dried blood along the side of his face, disappearing beneath his jaw and into the collar of his suit. Fresh crimson still trickles from a cut above his eyebrow, his curls clinging damply to his forehead.

You chew your bottom lip as you take him in. It's become the norm for him to crawl through your window at night after patrol, but never this late and never looking this banged up. Dating Spider-Man has its perks but now it brings you an uncomfortable swirl in your stomach.

"Pete?"

When he finally looks over to you, the breath in your throat catches. His eyes, usually so soft and brown when they look at you, are gone, replaced by darkness. You blink a few times, as if that will reset your sight and give you something more familiar.

It doesn't and your brow furrows. You've spent enough time looking into Peter's eyes to know every shade of brown that they could be in a different light. This wasn't that. The colour has been swallowed whole, replaced by a black glossy enough to catch the light from your bedside lamp.

Over time, you've learnt to just roll with the things that happen to and around Peter. Now, for the first time really, he's beaten, he's bloody, his eyes are pitch black, and he just stares at you.

It's probably one of the most unsettling things you've ever seen, which makes it deeply irritating that your first coherent thought is still 'God, he's attractive'.

"That's... new," you finally say.

His head tilts ever so slightly, the movement smooth enough that it reminds you he isn't entirely human, as if him clinging on your wall without a regard for gravity wasn't reminder enough.

"What happened, handsome?" You ask softly.

One corner of his mouth twitches at the nickname, it's barely a smile, but it's enough to loosen the knot that has been tightening in your chest from since you turned the light on.

"Suit yourself," you say.

The silence feels wrong on him. Usually, Peter feels silence the way other people breathe. He apologises, makes terrible jokes, and talks himself into circles until you have to interrupt him just to get a word in. Even after the worst patrols, he somehow finds the energy to ramble on about the criminal who threw a microwave at him or complain about New York's pigeons' vendetta against him.

Tonight, he just watches you. His gaze follows you as you kneel beside the bed and pull out the first-aid kit you stashed there for times like this. It tracks the movement of your hands while you sort through gauze and antiseptic, placing them on the bed.

"Come here."

This, he obeys immediately. Usually there's some sort of protest, "I'm fine." "You don't need to fuss." "It's not even my blood."

But today, he walks down the wall, each step carrying him lower until both feet settle quietly onto the carpet. He walks the short distance over to you, stopping close enough that you can smell the rain and city dust beneath the metallic tang of blood.

There's tiny cuts scattered across his jaw, already looking like they're healing. "You really got beat up, huh?"

He nods in response.

"The other guy look worse than you?"

Another nod.

"Good."

It's your turn to watch him, your eyes trailing down from where his hair is still damp to the way his muscles bulge out of his suit. A hum of approval slips past your lips, and the corner of Peter's mouth lifts again.

"Missed you." His voice is rough, quieter than usual, as though he hasn't spoken in hours. Knowing Peter, that is unlikely.

"I missed you too." You reach for the antiseptic. "Suit off, sit down."

It's a routine you've done time and time again. He's out of the suit in no time, then on your bed in only his boxers. His chest and stomach is no better than his face, scrapes and bruises littered across him.

You kneel between his open legs, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic before lifting it towards the cut above his eyebrow. "This is going to sting."

Normally, he'd flinch before you'd enough touched him, already complaining about your bedside manner despite being the one who'd shown up at your window and begging you to take care of him with those puppy-dog eyes.

But, the antiseptic touches raw skin without so much as a wince or bad joke about how it hurts worse than anything he fought as an Avenger.

The furrow in your brow deepens for the second time today as you carefully clean his face. "Peter."

His black eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "What?"

"You've been staring at me for the past... I don't know. Like five minutes."

"I know." Is his simple response.

There's something in his voice that somehow manages to sound not quite like Peter but also entirely like Peter at the same time. A hint of brown peaks through his eyes as you study him.

You find yourself looking away first, pretending to concentrate on cleaning the cut along his jaw even though you've already wiped it clean.

When your thumb accidentally brushes against the corner of his mouth, any hint of brown disappears, replaced by pitch black again as there's a faint hitch in his breath.

The effects of his reaction rolls through your body in a way that you're not sure you can admit out loud. Although he doesn't show it, he's probably in pain, and the worry you'd had initially is very quickly being replaced by a burning desire.

"I think we're done."

You stand to throw the used cotton aside. The moment you try to leave, warm fingers close around your wrist. It's not tight enough to bruise, but it's enough to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from even thinking of pulling away.

The tug on your arm is done with hardly any force at all, but it still has you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his shoulders to steady yourself, and he lets go of your wrist only to settle one hand against your waist.

Lifting you with ease, he puts you on his lap.

For a brief second, he looks almost puzzled by the contact, as though some part of him is only catching up to what the rest of him decided several seconds ago.

As your fingers trace down the lines of his chest, over the faint bruising, his eyes drop to your chest, watching how your chest begins to rise and fall faster as your heart thuds in your chest.

His nipples are already erect, so perky and tempting and you can't help but slide your thumbs over them. It's as if the touch sparks something within him, his hands tighten on your waist, drawing you closer until there's barely any space between your bodies.

The streets of New York sound even more distant as the sounds of ragged breathing fills the room, it's all consuming and desire pools in your stomach without even being touched.

"Pete," you moan, and the restraint snaps.

Peter's hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down to crash his lips to yours. It's not really a kiss, it's too messy and too desperate, and he groans in your mouth as your teeth accidentally catch the cut on his lip. Still, he doesn't pull away. In fact, he craves more.

His hands run over your back and then down to cup your ass, tilting your hips forward in an attempt to press you harder against him. He hums quietly against your mouth, the sound vibrating somewhere deep in his chest.

Somehow, he calms down enough that his lips move against yours in a way more resembling real kiss, his tongue sliding over yours. The motion has heat prickling under your skin and a throb blooming between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his back, adding to the collection of marks there.

Without breaking the kiss, Peter eases you both backwards. You barely notice you're being moved until you suddenly feel him, all of him, press against you. He arranges you so he's flat on his back, your knees on either side of his hips.

The thin fabric of your panties is damp in a way that you're sure he can feel through his boxers. He's done nothing so far to

"Fuck," you groan against his mouth as you shift against him. The friction sending little sparks of pleasure through you, but not enough to satisfy the ache.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. You could always tell what he was thinking through his eyes, but they're still black, probably darker than before if that's possible. But, the expression on his face gives you all the reassurances that his eyes can't.

"My senses are going crazy." It's the first sentence that was more than two words he's pulled together all night, so you sit up straight, looking down at him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep and ragged breath. "Fu-. You smell so..."

The praise went straight to your core, more wetness dampening your panties and Peter whimpered.

He didn't open his eyes immediately, taking another long, shuddering breath of air as if your scene was an intoxicant he couldn't get enough of.

Shifting in his lap, you grind down against him with as much pressure as you could manage. His hands on your hips twitched, his fingers digging into your skin with enough pressure that you knew it would bruise tomorrow. Good.

His eyes lock on to yours, the void in his gaze terrifying in a way that only made you ache more. "I can hear your blood rushing. I can feel... no, I can smell how warm and wet you are."

Leaning forward, you drag your chest against his bare skin until your noses almost brush.

"So, then you know I'm ready for you." You kissed the bottom of his jaw, where a bruise has formed. "I'm begging for it." Another kiss and shift against him. His full body tremors underneath you. "I need you."

Before you can blink, his hand flies up to wrap around the back of your neck, and then the room spins. Peter's over you in an instant, pressing his erection against your core.

There's a wet patch on his boxers where his precum has pooled and each roll of his hips coats his boxers as it glides over your damp panties.

"Fuck... Pete."

Your nails find their way to his back again, leaving him with marks that you know he'll appreciate in the mirror in the morning.

Peter whimpers, hair flopping over his face and eyes half-lidded as he moves faster against you. You reach up, thumb flicking over his nipples in time with his grinds against you. Electricity runs through his veins at every wipe.

"I-I'm not- I'm close already," he stutters, his dick twitching in his boxers.

"But I want you inside of me," you all but whined.

"Okay, yes."

If you weren't as aroused as you are now, you would have laughed at the unnecessary acrobatics as he jumps back to pull your panties off in one swoop. The cold air hits your soaked folds, and his throat bobs as he watches the way it glistens in the light.

"Hurry up," you begged, legs closing slightly. It was a silly thing to feel so self-conscious in front of the man who's been between your legs more times than you could count, but he's also not seen you this desperate before.

He stands to pull his boxers down, a soft moan escaping his lips as the fabric catches on his sensitive tip. He turns to look at you as you swallow hard. His dick is beautiful, slightly curved and thick in a way that fills you up completely every time. It's flushed a pretty pink at the tip. Your tongue moves in your throat, craving the feeling of how heavy it would feel on you.

Settling between your legs again, Peter spreads your legs wide. He rubs the tip of his length through your slick folds, his precum and your arousal mixing. He uses the tip to circle your clit with extra pressure, and you cannot help the grind of your hips.

Peter taps his dick on your clit once, then once again, running it through your folds again.

Your hands hook under the backs of your thighs, pulling them to your chest and exposing yourself to him. "Peter, please."

"I'm sorry, baby," he coos.

Just the tip is eased past your hole, and it's enough for your mouth to go slack, eyes rolling back as the stretch burns so well. He continues to push in slowly, face scrunched as your walls wrap around him like a specialised glove.

Every ridge, every vein, and every pulse drags hits against the walls of your pussy. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny, and neither of you move for a moment, too lost in the feeling.

"Won't last long," he grits out.

Sweat already beads at his forehead. Sex with Peter is usually a stamina war, he goes rounds and rounds before even tiring. But whatever's happened to him has heightened his senses in a way that he cannot yet control, the feelings overwhelming him to the point of almost overstimulation.

"That's okay, take what you need."

He begins to move, pulling out so just the tip is left in before pushing back forward. He finds the right angle immediately, hitting against your spot and making your toes curl.

Without missing a thrust, Peter grabs hold of your ankles, using them to spread your legs further. The new angle has you both sighing, moans mixing in the room with the sounds of his skin clapping against yours.

"Feels s'good, s'tight," he groans. "Touch... self."

Three of your fingers immediately find your clit, circling with the pressure that you know you like. It only takes a few tightly pressured circles for the first waves of your orgasm to shake through your body.

Peter watches your body arch as your orgasm hits you in full force. You clench around him and that combined with the pure ecstasy on your face has him burying himself deep inside of you, giving you a few more frantic thrusts before he's whimpering and groaning, his nerve endings going haywire.

Seconds later, he's shooting hot, ropey cum into you. He falls forward but keeps his body hovering over yours. Your hands cup his cheeks, pressing kisses to his face as you both come down from your highs. He mumbles praises to you between kisses, making your heart squeeze.

"Feeling better, Pete?" You ask.

"Yeah, thanks to you," he sighs. He sits back on his heels, still buried inside of you.

As you watch him, his eyes slowly clear of the black, his soft brown eyes finding yours.

@.hawkshockeycentral: a bit of magic from @.GarrettGraham44, and a brilliant finish from @.JohnLogan22, who slots a beauty in the top corner, giving the Hawks a 1-0 lead early in the first period🔥

A smile tugged at your lips, a familiar flush of warmth spreading over your chest. You could practically see the smug grin that was definitely on Logan's face right now as he crashed into Garrett on the ice.

Between stirring the sauce and draining the pasta, you refreshed your feed more times than you cared to admit. Your phone was set to vibrate if a notification came through, but every lull had you checking anyway.

By the time you carried your dinner to the table, the first period had ended without much else to report. You'd barely managed three bites before your phone buzzed again.

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth as you read the notification.

@.hawkshockeycentral: Logan goes down hard after receiving a nasty check from the opposition. He's headed straight to the locker room.

The fork slipped from your fingers, dropping back into the bowl and splashing pasta sauce on your shirt. An uncomfortable knot formed in the pit of your stomach, throat tightening as you began refreshing the feed every few seconds, desperate for another update. But the official account stayed silent.

Every second without an update seemed to stretch impossibly longer than the last.

You went to the hashtag, praying a fan in the arena had posted something. It only took a couple of seconds of scrolling for you to see the first video, it was a shaky recording from the stands with the caption ‘warning! ☹’. Against your better judgement, you tapped play. You instantly regretted watching it, a wave of nausea rolling through you.

Logan was driven shoulder-first into the boards before folding awkwardly onto the ice. He tried to push himself back up, only to stumble back down onto his knees. He tried to push himself up, but his right side gave out and he tumbled back down onto his knees.

Garrett was already in the face of the guys who hit Logan before he hit the ground a second time, the video ending before you could see what happened next.

A small, distant, part of you took comfort in knowing that Garrett had his back, but your mind was cruel, repeatedly replaying the moment that Logan went down.

You chewed the inside of your cheek until it stung, waiting for something, anything, official. 'He's okay,' you tried to reason with yourself. 'Hockey players get hit all the time, Logan gets hit all the time.'

That didn’t stop your foot from bouncing until the update finally arrived.

@.hawkshockeycentral: Update: @.JohnLogan22 has been ruled out for the remainder of tonight's game.

No detail, no context. Just a blunt sentence that you had to read three times before the words properly sank in.

Your thumb was already opening your messages before you'd fully registered what you were doing.

You: Please tell me you're okay?

It was a long shot, a desperate plea to the universe that willed him to check his phone when you knew that wasn’t even possible right now. Still, you stared at your message, hoping to see the typing bubble come. It never did, the delivered but not read checkmark only making you more restless.

Your pasta lay forgotten on the table, growing cold as you refreshed the Hawks' social media pages for what felt like the hundredth time.

When the final buzzer sounded and the players disappeared into the locker room, the Hawks' account posted the usual celebratory team photo.

You zoomed in on every face, mentally checking off every player, Garrett stood in the middle; Dean and Miller making dumb faces in the back; Tucker doing a peace sign behind a freshman’s head, everyone was accounted for, except for Logan. Your stomach dropped.

With shaky hands, you called, tutting as it went straight to voicemail.

The five minutes that passed while you waited for the call felt like a punishment for a crime you didn’t commit. A torture designed specifically for you. But, then another ten minutes passed, and your imagination took over, filling in the blanks with possibilities that you wouldn’t dare to speak aloud.

By the time your phone finally lit up, your bottom lip was chewed raw.

My 22 ❤️ calling.

You swallowed the lump in your throat before answering, forcing a smile as though he could somehow hear it. “Hi.”

“Hey, baby.”

The relief of hearing his voice made your knees feel weak.

“You scared me,” you sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter.

A soft laugh crackled down the line. “I'm sorry, but you don't need to worry. I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine.”

There was a faint rustling on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath that he tried, and failed, to hide. You held your breath as his shallow exhales filtered through the speaker.

“It looked worse than it actually was,” he said after a moment, his voice strained. “The medical staff checked me out. Nothing's broken.”

Relief lasted all of a few seconds. ‘Nothing’s broken’ didn’t mean that he wasn’t hurting. And you didn't know if you'd earned the right to ask how much. To push when he might not want to be pushed. A cold anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach, making your heart beat double-time against your ribs.

Logan waited quietly on the line while you gathered your thoughts.

“You sound tired, babe.”

“Yeah, I am.” His breath caught before he finished the sentence.  

Tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear, you played idly with a loose thread on your shirt. “Is that why you didn't answer? Or wasn't in the team picture?”

“No, baby. I was getting checked over, then Coach was talking, then we got on the bus,” he sighed. “Didn't realise it'd been that long.”

“You could've sent one text in that time.”

“I know, I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologise.”

“I made you worry.”

“You did,” you retorted quickly.

“I'll make it up to you.”

“You don't have to do that, Johnny.”

“I kinda do.”

“No, just, talk to me about something else,” you pled, just wanting to hear his voice. “Anything.”

For a few minutes, the back and forth almost felt like every other late-night phone call you'd shared since you started dating. Conversations with him were too easy, making you forget the context of the call. He couldn’t hide the yawn that came through the speaker.

“You should get some sleep,” you said softly. “I'll see you when you get back?”

“You'll definitely see me.”

“Promise?”

A sleep chuckle drifted to your ears. “I promise.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “Okay, good night.”

“Night, baby.”

The line went dead as he hung up. You stared at the dark screen for barely thirty seconds before unlocking your phone again. Thumb hovering over Garrett’s name, you bit the bullet.

You: hey. is he actually okay?

Garrett: he's going to be sore as hell tomorrow. maybe miss a game or two. Garrett: but it's nothing career-ending.

You stared at the screen, your dorm room suddenly feeling too quiet, a pull begging you to be somewhere else. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you'd grabbed your keys.

Using the spare key he'd given you just a few weeks ago, you let yourself into the Hawks' house. You turned on the bedside lamp in his room and set everything out on his nightstand: a large bottle of water; a fresh ice pack wrapped in a tea towel; painkillers; and the bottle of muscle massage oil you'd picked up on your way over.

Then, you waited. By the time the team bus was due back, you'd rearranged his room more times than you cared to admit and nearly convinced yourself to leave twice.

Showing up uninvited at the hockey house felt too much, too clingy, too soon. But he had given you a key for a reason, right?

The front door slammed downstairs, stopping your pacing in its tracks.

Voices drifted through the hallway, followed by the scrape of a duffel bag across the floor before a low groan reached your ears.

You were already halfway to the bedroom door when footsteps approached. Garrett stepped inside first, a knowing smile spreading across his face when he spotted you.

Behind him, Logan looked exhausted.

His baseball cap was pulled low over messy hair, his skin pale beneath the hallway light. One arm was held stiffly against his side, his jaw set as he stubbornly limped into the room. Garrett stayed close enough to steady Logan before he could wave him off.

Logan looked up, your eyes meeting through the hair covering his eyes. For a split second, surprise flashed across his face, followed immediately by something softer, something almost like relief.

“Hey,” you said softly, taking a hesitant step forward.

“You came,” he said quietly.

You offered a small shrug. “Yeah, thought you might want company.”

Hearing that, Logan instinctively straightened, as though standing a little taller would somehow erase the limp. The movement pulled at his shoulder and thigh at the same time, and a sharp hiss escaped before he could swallow it.

Before you'd even thought about it, you were beside him, one hand settling carefully at his waist while the other reached for his uninjured arm.

Garrett set Logan's heavy duffle bag on the floor with a soft thud before carefully stepping aside.

“You got him?” Garrett asked.

You nodded, even though you weren't entirely sure that you did. “Yeah.”

Garrett's gaze flicked between the two of you before he lightly nudged Logan’s uninjured shoulder. “Don't be a hero, tell her where it hurts.”

“Thanks, G,” Logan muttered dryly.

With one last reassuring smile in your direction, Garrett slipped out, quietly closing the bedroom door behind him.

Logan shifted a little closer, one arm finding your waist while his injured one stayed tucked carefully against his side. Up close, the bruise stretching from the side of his neck beneath the collar of his t-shirt looked even darker than you’d imagined.

Your hand came to cup his cheek. “You look awful,” you whispered.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he smiled.

You smiled back, your eyes lingering on the bruise for a second longer. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

His eyes stayed locked onto yours with an intensity that made the breath hitch in your chest. He looked at you like he was making sure that you were really there. Hand tightening around your waist, he leant in, moving carefully so he wouldn’t nudge his shoulder. You tilted your head up, closing the distance so he didn’t have to stretch his neck.

The kiss was tender, slow and warm, like a gratitude that melted away the anxious edge you’d been holding all night.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“What was that for?” You whispered.

One eyebrow lifted, the familiar spark finally returning to his eyes. “I need a reason to kiss my girlfriend?”

The first genuine laugh of the night escaped you. “No.”

“Good.” He brushed one last kiss against your forehead before his gaze wandered around the room,  eventually settling on the neatly arranged nightstand.

“You did all this?” He motioned slightly toward the water bottle and supplies.

“I didn't know what you'd need.”

“You didn't have to,” he muttered, though his hand tightened around your waist.

You reached up, taking off his cap and brushing a piece of hair away from his forehead. “I wanted to.”

Something in his expression softened completely.

For all his confidence, the easy flirting and cocky smiles, there was a quiet vulnerability underneath that you were slowly discovering. The easy grin he wore around everyone else was gone, replaced by something softer.

“Were you waiting long?” He asked.

You glanced away, focusing on the buttons of his shirt. “...Maybe. I couldn't stop thinking about you.”

You swallowed the unspoken truth, that for a terrifying few minutes after watching him tumble onto the ice, an irrational, suffocating panic had convinced you something terrible had happened, that you might lose him before you even really had him.

“I know it's irrational, but after I saw that video...” You let out a shaky laugh. “You went down and couldn’t get back up... For a second, I-. I don’t even want to say it out loud.” You shook your head as if that would erase the thoughts.

His hand squeezed your waist. “I thought about you too.”

You looked back up at him.

“You did?”

“I did,” he admitted, his tone unusually solemn. “While the trainers were checking me over in the back, I just kept thinking about you. How much I wanted was to get home... to you.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and you stood on tiptoe to press a brief, tender kiss to his lips. “I care about you. So much, Logan.”

“I care about you, too.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheek. “Alright, come on, hockey boy.”

He blinked. “Where are we going?”

You pointed to the bed. “It's literally like two steps away.”

“Sound exhausting.”

“Logan, I need you in bed.”

One eyebrow lifted. “Oh, well, when you put it like that...”

You laughed, giving his hand a gentle tug as you guided him the short distance to the bed. He lowered himself onto the mattress with a quiet groan.

“You know,” he said as he reached for the hem of his T-shirt, “normally I'd be trying a lot harder to impress you.”

“You’ve already done enough impressing for one day.”

“Did you see I scored?”

“Yes, but you also got flattened.”

“Details.”

He winced as he tried to pull the shirt over his head, the movement tugging painfully at his shoulder.

“Stop,” you said, stepping closer.

“I’ve got–.”

“You've got one working arm.”

He sighed dramatically but let his hand fall. “Bossy.”

“So I've been told.”

Carefully, you gathered the fabric at the bottom of his shirt and eased it up, pausing every time his face tightened with discomfort until it finally slipped over his head.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“You're welcome.”

“Behave,” you warned as you crouched to help him out of his joggers.

“I like you better when you let me flirt,” he sighed as you helped him into a pair of shorts.

“I’m still letting you flirt, but you’re injured.”

“Not all of me is injured.”

You rolled your eyes, failing to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Picking up the ice pack from the nightstand, you wrapped it more securely in the tea towel before holding it out to him.

“Ice.”

He took it with an exaggerated sigh. “My nurse is so mean.”

By the time the ice pack had lost its chill and Logan had reluctantly swallowed two painkillers, the tension in his shoulders still hadn't eased in the slightest.

“You still hurting?” You asked softly.

He shrugged with his uninjured shoulder.

“It's... manageable.”

The look you gave him was enough to make him shift uncomfortably on the mattress. “What?”

“You're doing that thing, Logan.”

“I don't have a thing.”

“You do,” you insisted, folding your arms. “It's where you pretend you're completely fine because admitting otherwise is somehow offensive.”

“Offensive to who?”

“You tell me. Because I'm fine with you not being fine. I'm fine with you needing me.”

“I should be taking care of you,” he said, even as he adjusted his shoulder with a quiet wince.

“Mhm.”

You reached for the bottle of massage oil. His eyes followed your hand, his mouth already opening.

“If you're about to say 'you don't have to', we're going to have a problem.”

He stuck his tongue out at you before pressing his lips together.

“Turn.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He gave you an exaggerated salute before carefully turning around to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to you. “Just don't go anywhere near the bruise.”

“I won't.”

You settled behind him, your legs resting either side of his hips. Rubbing the oil between your palms to warm it, you rested your hands lightly on his shoulders.

The second your palms touched him, every muscle beneath them tightened.

“Too much?”

“No,” he murmured. “Just cold.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay, baby.”

Slowly, your thumbs traced careful circles beside his neck before working lower, avoiding the bruise spread across his shoulder.

“You carry everything up here,” you murmured.

“Comes with playing hockey.”

“You also overthink though.”

“I think a perfectly normal amount, thank you.”

You smiled to yourself, hands drifting lower, carefully easing the muscles between his shoulder blades. Every so often, he'd suck in a quiet breath, and you'd immediately lighten your touch.

“Too sore?”

“A little.”

“You should have told me, Logan.” Your hands stilled for the briefest moment. “Don’t just sit there suffering.”

“I didn't want you to stop.”

Your heart squeezed.

“You know,” you said softly, “you don't have to pretend with me.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.” Your fingertips resumed their slow circles. “You don't have to act tough because you think it'll make me worry less.”

The room went quiet for a beat before his response came, almost too low to hear, “I'm just... I’m not used to being taken care of.”

Gradually, the rigid line of his shoulders softened beneath your hands. The crease between his brows eased away, and his breathing became slower, deeper.

“There,” you whispered after another minute. “How's that?”

Instead of answering, Logan leant back until his back was resting lightly against your chest.

Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, making sure not to brush the bruises. His hand found yours immediately.

“Better,” he murmured. “So much better.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I'm glad.”

He turned his head just enough to look back at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion but impossibly soft. “You know what the best part of tonight was?”

You smiled. “The painkillers finally kicking in?”

He huffed a laugh. “Seeing you.”

You were sure your heart skipped a beat.

“I walked in expecting an empty room,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Instead, you were already here.”

Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks. “I almost didn't stay.”

“Why?”

“I kept thinking we've only been together a couple of months.” You shrugged. “I didn't know if this crossed some invisible line.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “I gave you a key.”

“I know.”

“I was hoping you’d use it.” He turned as much as his shoulder allowed. “I want to cross all the lines with you.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Cheesy.”

“Yes,” he agreed, closing his eyes. “But effective.”

Within minutes, the steady rise and fall of his breathing told you he'd drifted asleep, his hand still loosely wrapped around yours.

It was an awkward angle, one he’d probably wake up regretting, but you stayed exactly where you were, gently combing your fingers through his hair, grateful that he'd let you take care of him.

↳ A = Aftercare   (what they’re like after sex)

Logan doesn't play when it comes to taking care of his people, and that's especially true after sex. He literally won't be able to rest until he's sure that you're comfortable, fully satisfied, and happy.

He's the ultimate clinger. There are times where he'll just want to stay buried inside of you, trying to stay as physically close to you as he can until he literally has to get up. He loves the feeling of going soft inside of you.

Especially when he's been practically, rough and/or eager, he'll make sure he takes care of you. That could mean his hand slipping between your legs, not in a sexual way but to check if there's any swelling or soreness. It could be wiping you down with a warm and wet cloth, kissing over the hickeys and bite marks that he left on you, fetching you a drink to replenish lost fluids, or checking in on you in breathless whispers, "how was that for you, baby?", "are you sore anywhere?", "do you need anything?"

He'd tell you how well you did and how he just wants to take care of you now. He'd pull your boneless body flush against his chest, pressing kisses to every bare inch he can get at and thank you for being there.

↳ B = Body part   (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

You: There are many, SFW, body parts of yours that Logan enjoys, but if we're talking NSFW then it's your hips, purely based on how much time his hands spend there. He's obsessed with having something to grip tightly onto when he's got you in his favourite positions.

When he has you bent over, skirt hiked up and panties slipped to the side, he's obsessed with the feeling of your soft waist in his hands, how he can use it to control the pace, pulling you back harder against him, watching how he disappears within you.

His second favourite is probably the small of your back, something darkly possessive within him swells when he pulls out at the last minute and cums there. "I think you should just get my name tattoo'd here, that way I can mark you permanently."

Him: As someone who is a hockey player, hard-working, and handy, he's the most proud of his hands. They're calloused and slightly scarred, but they tell a story of a man who knows the value of hard and skilled work.

Also, he loves his hands because of how they look when they're on you. He loves how his hands are large enough to cup your breasts, how thick his fingers are, so it only takes two of them for you to feel full. He loves how long they are, so when he curls them in you they're able to hit that spot.

↳ C = Cum   (anything to do with cum, basically)

Logan's favourite place to cum is when he's buried deep inside of you, unbreaking eye contact as you both feel his dick twitch as he shoots warm, ropey, cum into you. As said in A = Aftercare, he'll stay inside of you after that, loving the messy, sticky, and dirty feeling of your juices mixing.

A man as possessive and (consensual) domination-loving as Logan, he loves when he pulls out so he can just sit back on his heels and spread your legs, watching how his cum slowly drips out of you, staining the mattress below.

If it's not inside of you, then it's on your stomach or lower back, the control of it having his dick stirring again.

He is also someone who'd play with the cum, rubbing it over your body, shoving it back in your sensitive hole, scooping it up and making you clean it off of his fingers. All of it.

↳ D = Dirty secret   (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This many is a voy👏🏽eur👏🏽.

He didn't even realise he had an obsession with this until one afternoon. It’s not like he hadn’t seen you changing in front of him before, but that day, as he watched you changing through the small opening of his slightly ajar bedroom door, something shifted.

Your back was turned as you lifted your shirt over your waist. His breath caught, his dick stirring in his pants as you slid your trousers down your thighs. He didn't understand why he stood watching you from the dark rather than making his presence known...

Until it happened again, this time more deliberate. You were taking a shower, he tested the door, it was unlocked...

He did it a couple more times, seeking out the cracks in doors, before the guilt hit him more than the shame. When he finally admitted to it, you just laughed and told him you knew and would have locked the door if you wanted privacy.

From then, it's a game with no rules. he'll never know when you're going to purposely leave the door open or unlocked, inviting him to catch you without your "knowledge".

Sometimes he comes back from practise and you're in his room, door ajar and legs wide as you press a vibrator against your clit. He palms himself through his pants as he watches your back arch against the bed.

Sometimes he'll come back to find you desperately sliding your pussy against his pillow, moaning his name softly because it smells like him and you miss him.

When he's on an away game, he'll ask that you send him videos so he can watch you touching yourself, rolling a nipple between your fingers.

↳ E = Experience   (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Now this one is a mixture. Because on the one hand, he’s had many a hookup before. He’s young, attractive, and has a reputation for knowing how to treat a woman. So, his room (after Dean’s) was no.2 for the never-ending line of puck bunnies.

On the other hand, when it comes to sex with a girlfriend, he’s not as experienced. He’s used to pleasing a variety of women that he had nothing but confidence walking into your first time together. But seeing you there, on his bed and wet for him, it felt like a whole different ballgame.

He wasn’t prepared for how different it would feel when you’re with the same person, your feelings getting deeper and deeper, and the desire to please getting higher.

With you, he focused on ways to make you cum that not even he knew existed. So, he has a mountain of experience, but learning to please you felt like a new challenge.

↳ F = Favourite position   (this goes without saying)

Two sides to him where one is the good ol' missionary position. He loves the eye contact, loves when you gasp into his mouth and wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer and deliciously deeper.

But, again, there's a possessive side of Logan that comes out mainly when you're fucking. The desire for control takes over and he loves to take you from behind.

He loves Prone Bone or, alternatively, the Wheelbarrow. More details here.

↳ G = Goofy   (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Logan's playful and sarcastic and would most definitely make teasing comments especially if he was jealous or something. But, in the heat of the moment, he's not silly or goody. He's dead focused on fucking the life out of you. He takes making you cum as serious business. That's not to say that sex with him is rigid because it's not! He just wouldn't be focused on being a standup comedian.

THAT SAID!! if something funny happened like a pussy queef or someone losing their footing, he'd laugh and make a joke. He wouldn't take that part seriously.

↳ H = Hair   (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As an athlete that spends hours wearing sweaty hockey gear, he takes personal hygiene VERY seriously. He's a naturally very hairy man, but he keeps himself well-groomed for you but also himself. He defo has some hair down there though, he doesn't like the bare look, preferring the more masculine look of his natural body hair.

He's unbothered by it and doesn't understand the appeal, but one thing you'll NEVER let him touch is the happy trail on his stomach leading to his pubic hair 😋.

↳ I = Intimacy   (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Just because he's possessive and likes control, it doesn't mean that he's not a romantic and sex isn't extremely intimate. In the bedroom, his walls crumble. Just looking into his eyes during it will tell you how devoted he is. No matter how hard his hips thrust, how tightly his hands grip, how hard he's mouth sucks on your collarbone, his eyes tell you how attached and vulnerable he is with you.

From between your legs, he'll look up at you, fingers tangled with yours while the other one caresses you.

He'll spend his time always trying to kiss you too, whether that's on your lips in missionary or down your back from behind.

↳ J = Jack off   (masturbation headcanon)

Logan masturbates mostly as a stress-relief when he's overwhelmed with hockey or family drama and you're not around. He mostly does it in the shower, after he's used your scented shower gel or soap, so he can imagine it's your warmth around him. His hand wraps around him tightly, he closes his eyes, picturing what you looked like pinned underneath him or remembering the sound of you moaning his name.

↳ K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Say it with me now, PRAISEEEE KIINKKKKK. He loves both giving praise and receiving it. Hearing you softly whisper "You're doing so good, Logan," or "You take such good care of me" while he’s deep inside you completely undoes him. His thrusts always become more erratic, his dick sliding out as he gets too eager.

He also loves to tell you that you take good care of him. When your lips are wrapped around his dick, tears pricking at your eyes, he'll stroke your cheek and tell you how proud he is of you. how perfect you are.

Don't let there be a time where you're silent during sex...

And that's the tamest of his kinks...

↳ L = Location   (favourite places to do the do)

It's not that Logan doesn't like the risk, but he's favourite place is his (or your) bedroom because there's the freedom and flexibility to try out so many different positions, toys, role plays etc.

However, if he's burning with stress or after a tough game, he's going to take the first place he can find. Especially if it's a locker room... The Uniform Stays ON & Missed Shots.

↳ M = Motivation   (what turns them on, gets them going)

Not to make him sound like a WHORE, but it's probably easier to list what doesn't get him turned on when it comes to you. Next to anything that you wear (a short skirt, knee high boots or socks, his jersey, tight clothing that shows your curves, long baggy clothing that doesn't show your curves, glasses, your pyjamas, gloves...) gets him going.

Watching you study, you absentmindedly biting your lip, the lil concentrated face that you make, the way you hold the pen... and he's ready to mount you.

Any strong emotion (jealously, anger, stress, post-match high) gets him needy for you.

↳ N = No   (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Truthfully, I see it get to a point where he'd be hard pressed to agree to a threesome, especially if he had to watch you get fucked by someone else.

Other than that, he wouldn't want the sex to feel emotionally detached or unsafe. So, he wouldn't want to do something that degrades you or causes extreme pain. Nothing gets him softer faster than seeing your face distorted in uncomfort or pain.

↳ O = Oral   (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving: He loves this because he's a genuine munch that does it for the love of the game. He takes his sweet as time between your thighs, to the point where there are days where you have to remind him that there are other body parts he could use there. Sometimes your thighs end up shaking, not from orgasm, but from fatigue as he's kept you spread so long as he ravishes you. He's skilled, patient, and takes pride in making you cum on his tongue. He's vocal about it too, moaning loudly as he tastes you, grinding against the mattress.

Receiving: He doesn't ask for it as often, but he does love it when you're on your knees, looking up at him through your eye lashes as your tongue laps over his leaking slit.

Preference: giving.

↳ P = Pace   (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

By now, he's learnt what you like and knows the exact pace that you need without you needing to use words. He's a pillar of patience, he knows how to build up that tension, getting you ready on his tongue or fingers before considering anything else.

Like 55% of the time, he's slow and sensual. Undressing you slowly, teasing touches, body worship etc., But the other 45%, he's fast and rough and leaving brusies that you'll savour in the morning.

↳ Q = Quickie   (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Logan is built for longer sessions, he likes to make you cum first, but then likes to drag out your second orgasm to the point where you're left begging.

That doesn't mean he is completely opposed to a quickie. He'd do it if he had to, like the coach to the next away game leaves in 10 minutes, has to. but even then, he's defo the type to shrug and go "I'm already late so may as well take my time, it's not like they can leave without me..."

↳ R = Risk   (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He'll take the risk especially if it's something you want, he loves to test limits.

He's not an exhibitionist, so doesn't really go to far on the public risk side of things, he gets enough adrenaline from hockey that he doesn't necessarily need that in his sex life too. however, he doesn't mind taking a semi-public risk and he has no problem getting Caught.

↳ S = Stamina   (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

The man is an athlete. He has the endurance to go for multiple long and heavy rounds in a single night. Sometimes, he lasts so long that even you're like 'okay, wrap it up!'

His turnaround time is crazy too. He can cum and then not even 10 minutes later, he's pressing his semi on the small of your back.

His stamina always far extends what's needed to ensure you're thoroughly taken care of.

↳ T = Toys   (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn't own them himself, unless you're counting handcuffs and a blindfold, but since he started dating you, there's a whole collection of toys in his bedside draw.

He's not the type to get intimidated by a toy and pressing a vibrator to your clit whilst he drove into you would get him insanely turned on. He'd let you use your toys on him too.

↳ U = Unfair   (how much they like to tease)

Sometimes he's a tease without meaning to tease. What he'd call savouring you, you'd call teasing. But really, whenever he did intentionally try and tease you, it would backfire and only make him more desperate.

↳ V = Volume   (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He makes you loud, but he himself isn't a loud screamer or name-caller. He isn't silent though, and lets you know just how much he's enjoying you through a series of deep chest rumbles, breathless sighs of your name, and GRUNTS.

This man is a ragged grunter and a swearer. He talks a lot, mostly swear words. When he gets closer to orgasm, he'll stop being able to form sentences all together, only grunts and your name.

↳ W = Wild card   (a random headcanon for the character)

The first time he told you he loved you was when he was buried in you, and the realisation made him cum immediately.

↳ X = X-ray   (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He's THICC, veiny, and lengthy without being too intimidatingly massive. Probs like 7inches erect. The head flushes dark when he's aroused and very responsive to your touch.

Body wise, he's very stereotypically masculine. Strong, broad shoulders, well-defined abs, strong back muscles, hairy in the right places. His biceps aren't large though.

↳ Y = Yearning   (how high is their sex drive?)

With all that testosterone bubbling inside of him, his need for physical outlet is HIGH. He craves you and sex constantly. When he's on an away game, he'll be very restless. He'll sneak you into the hotel sometimes because he just can't focus or sleep without fucking you.

If it's not possible to have you there, he'll bombard you with texts, detailing how he's going to pin you down when he's back. He'll beg you to send him videos or watch the ones that he's stored in his phone and rut against the bed.

↳ Z = Zzz   (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once he's satisfied that you're satisfied, it doesn't take him long to fall asleep at all. He'll wrap you up in his arms and KO within like 5 minutes, sleeping deeper and more peacefully than any other time.

☁️: as always, i'm curious to hear your thoughts... please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog with your thoughts (whether you agree or disagree) ❤︎‬ x

That was the problem with drinking alcohol that tasted more like juice, they slipped past you, filling you up before suddenly catching up all at once. But, for tonight, that felt less like a problem and more like a solution.

The music vibrated through your body, settling somewhere behind your ribs. You let it pull you in, eyes slipping closed as you tipped your head up to the ceiling, arms high as you swayed with the beat.

For a while, it was enough. Enough to keep you distracted; enough that you almost forgot to look for him. Almost.

But there was something inevitable about it, something about seeking him out that was more habit than conscious effort. You turned with the music, another careless spin that gave you an excuse to glance around the room.

Logan stood near the kitchen, easy to spot even in the dim lights. Frustratingly, he always was. Two puck bunnies were around him, one leaning against the counter while another whispered something into his ear that made a slow, appreciative smirk appear.

"You good?" your friend asked.

You hadn't even realised that you'd stopped dancing until the question pulled you back.

"Yeah, just dizzy," you responded.

You spun back around to face the dancefloor, moving to the music knowing that nobody was watching. That didn't stop that part of you that you'd spent so long trying to bury from wishing that he was watching. Like you wanted him to notice the way your hips moved, the way you looked in that dress, and suddenly decide that he'd had enough of just being friends.

You found yourself turning again a few beats later, like a black hole that you couldn't escape, pulling you in.

There it was again. His hand resting gently on her waist, the soft smile and doe eyes that made you feel like the only person in the room. All of it turned on her.

He leant in closer so she could speak into his ear over the music, and the movement was familiar enough that it made something tighten beneath your ribs.

Then, she pulled back slightly and her hand came to cup his face. You turned so fast that your drink sloshed over your hand. He hadn't pulled back when she'd leant in.

Something in your stomach shifted. Hopefully it was from the alcohol, that was an easy fix. Maybe it was from the dizzying amount of times that you'd spun around, pretending to be subtle as you looked at him. That would be easier too.

Unfortunately, your body had always been better at telling the truth than you were.

With a few deep breaths, you forced yourself to move again. Desperate to ignore the possibilities that your mind conjured up. Desperate to blink away the idea that she took his hand and led him upstairs.

An emotion too irrational to digest now bloomed in your chest, all directed at Logan. But it wasn't his fault, he was attractive and single and it's not like he knew he was hurting you. He'd take it behind closed doors if he knew.

But somehow, the thought of not knowing was worse. At least if he was in your face about it, you knew when to brace.

You were still facing the dance floor when a pair of arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back but not flush against him. Your shoulders loosened before you could stop them.

It was ridiculous, really, how your body recognised and responded to him. Even through the alcohol, even though the noise, the haze cleared at just the smell of him. The irritation was enough that you couldn't appreciate the fact that he obviously hadn't taken the girl upstairs.

"Hey, trouble," he turned you in his arms, and you allowed him too before you could remember that you were supposed to be annoyed. "Haven't seen you all night. You having fun?"

"Yeah." You meant for it to sound casual. Something that said you were completely fine and definitely hadn't spent half the night pretending not to look for him. But the alcohol had caught up to you to the point where the word was slurred. "Great party."

Logan's eyebrows lifted. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the flushed cheeks, the unfocused stare, the way you were leaning into him just a little more than you probably realised.

"Whoa," he said, voice dropping into something more concerned than amused. "How drunk are you?"

That was the worst part about what you felt for Logan. He always noticed you, but not in the way you craved. The girls who flirted with him got his attention, his smiles, the easy charm.

You got this. The worried look, the studying of your face. He could tell something was wrong before you even opened your mouth. He knew you in a way that was too domestic.

Something about being under his microscope made irritation flare beneath your skin again. "Wouldn't you like to know," hiccup, "weather boy."

Logan only looked at you, lips pressed together as his jaw ticked. "Right..." His hand tightened gently around your arm, steading you as he began pulling you towards the stairs. "Time to get you upstairs and into bed."

"No." The protest came too quickly, too defiantly to be normal. Logan glanced back at you, unable to mask the confused look on his face.

Upstairs meant his room, it meant another night waking up next to him. It meant opening your eyes before he did, and letting yourself look for a little too long. The way he slept with his eyes just slightly open, a fact he refused to believe even with photo evidence.

It was hard not to notice the soft lines around his mouth, the way his curls flattened against the pillow.

All the things you noticed but never got to touch.

Falling asleep in Logan's bed after nights of drinking at the hockey house was one of those traditions that started, but never should have. Nobody questioned you on it anymore, even Dean stopped teasing.

At some point, everyone had started assuming you'd end up there, tucked beneath his spare blanket while he took the couch or squeezed in beside you if the house was too full.

You should have put a stop to it long ago.

"I want to go home."

"Fine." His expression softened slightly, like he assumed the hardest part of the conversation was over. "Then I'll take you to your dorm."

You yanked your arm out from his grasp, stubborn as you crossed your arms over your chest. "I can go alone."

For a moment, neither of you moved. Logan just stared at you. Then, he sighed, dragging a hand over his face.

"I don't love whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, your crossed arms, your refusal to let him help. "But I'm obviously not going to let you go back alone."

He waited for a response, and for once, you couldn't think of a single thing to throw back at him.

The warmth in your chest from the alcohol had stopped feeling comforting somewhere between the dance floor and the hallway. Now, it just burned.

"I need some air."

The cold night air hit you hard enough that you closed your eyes and breathed deeply for a few breaths. The world had already begun spinning.

"The Uber'll be here in 10," he said.

You nodded, but didn't open your eyes, willing the stars in the night sky to magically make everything okay.

"You okay?" Logan asked, voice too quiet for you to convince yourself that he wouldn't continue prying if you lied.

You lied anyway. "Peachy."

The snort from Logan was loud enough that you opened your eyes. "Liar."

"I'm not."

An embarrassing jolt of heat hit you when he grabbed your wrist, turning you to look at him. His eyes were soft as they traced your face, trying to find the answers you couldn't share. "Want to tell me what happened?"

You shrugged. "Nothing happened."

"You don't usually get this drunk for nothing."

Your eyes drifted back towards the front windows of the house. The lights inside blurred together. Somewhere in that house were those girls.

Maybe that's why he was in such a rush to get you home.

"Looked like you were having fun tonight," you said, bile rising in your throat.

"What?"

"With them."

"I mean... they're nice girls and all." He shrugged as if this was a casual conversation. Like he didn't know who 'them' meant.

The headlights of the Uber turned onto the street and Logan looked over at it before you could respond. Probably for the best.

His phone buzzed. "That's yours."

With more concentration and dedication that it should've required, you made your way over to the car. Logan stepped ahead of you, reaching for the door.

"Logan, wait." He turned to look at you. "I need to tell you something."

For the first time tonight, he smiled at you. "Oh, this sounds serious," he teased.

"It is."

The smile slipped from his face almost immediately, and it was almost enough to take the courage from you, but the beating of your heart was stronger.

"Go on."

The pounding of your heart drowned out the music still blaring from the house behind you, barely able to hear your own words. "Logan, I like you."

His eyes searched yours like he was waiting for the punchline. Then, a confused laugh escaped him. "Well... I'd hope so."

"No, Logan." You looked down as if looking at his shoes took away the weight of your words. "I mean I like like you."

He sucked in a slow breath. His mouth opened, then closed again. Silence between you both had always felt comfortable, even in the beginning of your friendship. But now, it stretched on so long that your palms felt clammy despite the chill in the air.

You looked back up at him, he was just watching you, an expression on his face you couldn't place.

"Logan? Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"So, why haven't you responded?"

He looked away for a moment before rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

"Because between us, we've consumed way too much alcohol for this to be a real conversation." His eyes met yours again. "You especially."

Maybe it was the alcohol in your veins, but the you felt unnecessarily personal.

"Don't talk to me like that, Logan. I'm not too drunk for this to be how I feel."

His eyes flashed then, a fight in him you weren't used to. "You can barely stand; I think you are."

"I'm telling you I'm not." As if to prove him right, your body betrayed you. You swayed, catching yourself a second too late. "Okay, I am drunk, but I’m telling the truth."

Logan's expression softened into an expression that you knew so well. The one reserved for bad exams and family phone calls that left you quiet for the rest of the day. The look that always came before he tried to fix things.

"Yeah, okay." He nodded slowly. "I believe you."

Hope bloomed so suddenly it almost hurt. "Really?"

The sigh was soft, word gentle. "No."

"Logan."

"Look, just get in the car and we can talk about this another time when you're able to stand on your own."

The hope you felt was so quickly replaced by frustration that it gave you whiplash, head aching. "Why aren't you hearing me?"

"Because you're drunk." His voice was calm. Irrational or not, that frustrated you more. Here you were, drunkenly pouring your heart out, and there he was. Treating the situation like it wasn't real. "And you're saying stuff you'll regret in the morning."

"Are you trying to convince me," you asked quietly, "or yourself?"

His jaw tightened. There was so much he could say, and he chose to say nothing.

It wasn't fair of you to press like this; his denial of the situation should have been answer enough. He didn't want to talk about this tomorrow; he only wanted to tell you that the feelings you had weren't real.

The Uber drive rolled down the window before the silence could go on any longer.

"Are you guys getting in or what?"

Neither of you moved as if waiting for the other to break first. But then, Logan stepped back first.

"We should go."

He sat beside you in the car, like usual. But his elbows rested on his knees as he stared out of the window. Neither of you speaking.

When the Uber pulled up outside your dorm, he climbed out after you. For a second, you thought he'd walk to the door like he always did. Instead, he stopped beside the car.

"I'll text you tomorrow."

You nodded.

The walk to your door felt longer than usual. You turned half-way up the stairs to see him still standing exactly where you'd left him, watching you.

Nothing could have prepared you for the wave of loneliness that hit and then the guilt that followed. It was as if you'd decided that you weren't allowed to feel bad, to feel rejected, to feel like the obvious distance he'd placed between you both was real.

Suddenly, your vision blurred. You blinked, thinking it was the street lamp catching your eyes. It was only when something warm slipped down your cheek did you realise that you were crying.

── .✦

Morning arrived with a pounding headache and an even heavier feeling settling in your chest.

You blindly reached for your phone before you even fully opened your eyes. A bad habit you excused yourself for given the night's events.

Unlocking your phone, your eyes immediately look for the notifications, Logan's name was at the top of the list, a missed text. With shaky fingers, you opened it.

Logan (06:08): you alive?

Was 'technically?' an acceptable answer?

You stared at the screen for a long time before typing. Then deleting. Then typing again.

You (06:59): yep :)

There, casual. But also, not real enough. He knew your deepest secret now; there was no point in hiding.

You (07:10): about last night You (07:10): we should probs talk

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Logan (07:11): nah, no need. it's already forgotten.

You read the message twice. Then you got up, brushed your teeth, had a shower, and then read it again as if the content of the message might have changed.

It hadn't.

By the time the next home game rolled around, Logan realised something had changed. He spent the entire warm up scanning the stands for your face. You always sat in the same section so he could find you, half-way up, just off centre.

Him telling himself that you'd probably been held up didn't change the fact that your seat stayed empty. Afterwards, fresh out of the showers, he caught himself looking down the corridor outside of the locker room. Usually, you'd already be there, leaning against the wall, and ready to make fun of whichever player did the stupidest thing tonight.

But the corridor was empty. Only then did he pull out his phone.

Logan (22:47): where were you tonight? missed by biggest cheerleader.

It took you all night to think of an excuse.

You (07:34): sorry! so much studying to do

After that, the excuses came from you so easily. Too much coursework, an early lecture, a group project. None of them were good, none of them were enough to excuse why weeks of games, parties, movie nights, and study sessions were missed.

But Logan never pushed, he accepted every one. If you wanted space, he'd give it to you. He just wished he knew why.

── .✦

The next win ended how it always did, celebrations and drinks and the chaos that always followed the Hawks. Someone suggested hosting the party at the hockey house. Logan shook his head. "Malone's this time."

Nobody questioned it, least of all him.

It had nothing to do with the small part of him that noticed that you'd stopped attending parties at the house, so you might be there.

The second he walked through the door; his eyes scanned the crowd and the tension in his shoulders loosened before he even realised, they'd tensed.

But fate was cruel, giving one thing to take away another. The universe demanded a balance, he supposed. You were there, but you weren't alone. The guy had one arm draped around your shoulders, comfortable, familiar.

Then, you laughed. Even from where he was stood, Logan could tell that it wasn't the fake one that you used whenever one of Garrett's joke didn't land. It was a genuine one.

He frowned, he always thought he was the only one who got those.

"What did you guys fight about?"

Logan looked over at Garrett. "What?"

Garrett just looked at you, then back to Logan. "What was the fight about? If it’s something stupid, go over there and fix it now."

"We didn't fight."

Garrett raised an eyebrow. "Don't play dumb, just fix it."

Logan looked over at you again. You reached up, fixing the guy's crooked beanie before letting your hand fall away again. Something unpleasant twisted in his chest.

"Who is that, anyway?"

Garrett shrugged. "I don’t know, I think he's in her psych class."

"They dating?"

The question left his mouth before he could stop it and he hated how desperately he waited for the answer.

"Looks like it," Garrett answered, nudging Logan's shoulder. "Go. fix. it."

"Should I get another round?" Dylan asked.

"Yeah, that would be nice."

Dylan got up and walked towards the bar, leaving you at the table. He was nice enough, a little boring, but safe. The important thing was he was the compete opposite to Logan.

Your eyes drifted across the room, taking in the crowd without really seeing any of it.

Then, you saw Garrett. Your body reacted before your brain did, your posture straightening slightly. Wherever Garrett was, Logan was usually close by, especially post-match.

And, sure enough, Logan appeared a few seconds later.

Your heart dropped. Of course, the time apart had done him favours. His loose brown curls framed his face in a way that made him look classically handsome, his tanned skin looking golden. His beard was trimmed in the way you'd told him suited him most.

His smile at you was tight, didn't reach his eyes like his smiles usually did, but he was still handsome enough to make you want to look in a mirror, wondering if you looked good enough for this reunion.

"Hey."

The lump in your throat didn't go down no matter how many times you swallowed. "Hey, Logan."

Your eyes immediately flicked towards the bar, towards where Dylan was waiting to be served. You hoped he stayed there, you didn't want him to see whatever this was.

Logan noticed, his eyes following yours. "Who is that?"

You blinked. "... Excuse me?"

"That guy." His thumb jabbed to where Dylan's back was still turned.

"Oh." Despite the drinks you'd had tonight, your mouth suddenly ran dry. "That's Dylan."

Logan nodded slowly. "You're dating him?"

It wasn't really a question, not the way he said it. Something about the assumption made your shoulders tense.

"Yeah, kind of."

Logan looked back towards the bar, then back at you. "So that's why you've had no time for me?"

The words sat between you. A few months ago, you would have wanted to hear something like that. You would have heard the 'I missed you' hidden underneath it. But now, all you heard was how selfish his words were.

"Logan, maybe this isn't the time."

Something flashed in his eyes before he masked it. "When would be the right time?"

Your fingers curled around your empty glass. The answer had been sitting there for weeks. "Maybe the morning after I told you I liked you?"

Logan blinked as if you had slapped him. "You're right, we should have spoken. I'm sorry."

The apology came too quickly for it to feel real. Like he was apologising for forgetting to text you back, or for missing a plan. Not for standing there while you confessed something that had taken months of courage to say, even if alcohol was the only thing that had finally pushed the words out.

"Please, can you leave?"

The words seemed to catch him off guard. He made no move to leave, and your eyes flickered nervously to the bar. The bartender was taking his order, and it would be no time before he was back.

"Is he good to you?"

You looked back at Logan. "Yes."

"That's good."

The answer only seemed to satisfy him for half a second, his eyes darting back towards Dylan.

"Does he make you happy?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

Logan's brow furrowed.

Your fingers tightened around your glass. You took a slow breath through your nose, then another. You couldn't do this here.

Not with him standing in front of you looking like he'd just realised he'd lost something.

"Well because..." He stopped, eyes drifting somewhere behind your head. "I don't really know."

The honestly was jarring, and all it served to do was send irritation through you. Because after weeks of silence, after pretending like that night had never happened, now was when he decided he didn't know.

A bitter laugh almost escaped you. "That should've been something to think about before you came over here."

"If you'll just let me explain."

"You had weeks to explain." Your voice started to shake, breaking on the words and you hated that he could hear it. "Weeks, Logan. And you've chosen when you've seen me happy with someone else?"

"I know how it looks but it's more than that." The words were quieter than before, like even he knew they weren't enough.

At the bar, Dylan turned, making his way back to the table.

"He's a nice guy, Logan. I won't hurt him."

Dylan appeared beside you, two drinks in hand. "Sorry, the bartender was taking forever."

You forced the best smile you could manage. It felt wrong on your face, wrong to lie about your emotions so early on with Dylan, but the alternative wasn't something you could face now.

Dylan's eyes moved between you and Logan. "Everything okay?"

"Peachy," you said, too quickly. "He was just leaving."

Logan looked at you. For a second, it looked like he was going to argue. But then, he saw your face, the plea within your eyes. His jaw tightened. "Yeah, I was..." He looked at you one more time. "Bye."

You watched him disappear into the crowd before forcing yourself to look back at Dylan.

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