Untitled

LA is not what you expected.

You thought it'd be much different—endless possibilities, and that effortless glow of the city that everyone seems to have in the Instagram stories.

Instead, it feels like a whirlwind that never seems to slow down.

Don't get it twisted—you love this life, you really do.

You love the rush of new songs hitting number one on the charts. You love when your phone explodes with messages from your manager Yelena that are just a string of fire emojis followed by "we're going platinum, babyyyyyy". You love the arenas full of people singing your words back to you. You love the sparkly outfits, the stage light, and the pride that comes with finally making it… it's everything you dreamed of.

But god, it's exhausting.

Your DMs are a war zone of thirst, hate, and brand deals. Everything you say or post has to be consulted with your PR team first. The paparazzi hide around every corner, everytime you step outside there's this weird pressure to look like a filtered version of yourself 24/7, even when you're just trying to buy matcha in sweatpants, and oversized hoodie.

There's eyes on you all the time, and everywhere you go.

But now, there's different set of eyes that pierces through you.

"You ready?" a familiar voice brings you back to reality from the mess that are your thoughts. Bucky's standing behind the mixing console with broad shoulders, separated by the plexiglass vocal booth window. His brown hair is freshly trimmed but still somehow manages to look soft, and a little fluffy. The sharp line of his jaw is tense with concentration, and those striking eyes—in probably the most beautiful shade of blue you've ever seen—are locked on you.

There were times when you used to be nervous around him. You still sometimes are, but it's different now. His bossy demeanor doesn't feel so scary anymore. There's something grouding about it actually.

"Yeah," you respond, a little unsure, but he just nods once, professional as always.

"Okay… we start in 3… 2… 1…"

The music begins to play through your headphones — synths layered under a more gentle beat that feels like it was made for the exact mood you've been carrying lately.

You close your eyes, letting the melody wrap around you as you start to sing. Your voice fills the booth, growing stronger with each line. The words Bucky wrote for you just a few weeks ago feel different sang out loud. They're strange, but you try to pour the emotions—both wonder and exhaustion—into the verse, swaying slightly as the song builds.

When it ends, and you ease into pre-chorus, you chance a glance trough the glass.

Bucky is leaning forward, one of his hands is adjusting a knob while the other is resting on the console. Those blue eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief second, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be approval. The edges of his face seem a fraction softer under the low studio lights, letting you breathe a little easier which is life changing when you try to hit the right note. Trust.

You're supposed to flow right into the chorus, but for some stupid reason, the words catch in your throat. Your voice fades out mid-line, and you stop completely.

Bucky pauses the track immediately, and the sudden silence rings in your headphones. He straightens up, brows furrowed.

"What's wrong?" he asks, looking down at the waveform on his screen for a moment before looking back at you. "That was perfect."

The dissapointment in his tone hits you harder than you could expect.

"I… I don't know," you admit, cheeks warming as you fidget with the edge of your sleeve. "I just don't feel it, Bucky."

Bucky exhales quietly. It's not quite a sigh, but still, it's enough to let you know you fucked up without saying it directly.

"I'm telling you it was good," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, and you can clearly hear that underlying impatience in his voice. "Let's try again," he orders, and hits the rewind, then play button on the console. The music surrounds you again, and Bucky leaves you no room for discussion.

The truth is, what Bucky wants, Bucky gets. It doesn't really matter that your singing doesn't feel right to you. He is the one to decide everything. You are only here—in this fancy ass studio, with your name starting to mean something in the industry—because of him.

It all started with the covers you used to post online—you in your bedroom, singing to simple acoustic versions of big songs with both video audio quality so bad it was embarrasing.

Bucky found one of them one night, months ago. He'd told you later that something in your delievery made him stop scrolling, and that he saw potential no one else had bothered to look for. Whatever that meant.

Within weeks, he was pulling all the strings he could—flying you out for meetings, getting you in front of the right people, and quietly taking care of the mountain of family debts that had been weighing on you for years. He didn't make a big show of it. He just… said he handled it because you needed it to move on. So he paid for what was needed to be paid, and cleared that path for you.

Now here you are—attached to him because it feels like the right thing to do after everything he's ever done for you, despite the fact that agreement you signed with his label was probably equivalent to a deal with the devil.

You have to admit though, Bucky himself is not so bad.

He's your boss, and owns the entire label you're signed under, yes. But besides that, he's also produces your songs and helps you write them.

And although you have to follow what he says, and do what he wants, it seems like he's the only person in this world beside Yelena that genuinely cares for you. He always makes sure you're well rested, even if that means rescheduling a session when he notices the exhaustion in your eyes. He tries to reassure you when the doubts creep in, offering quiet, gruff encouragement in that low voice of his, and "It's okay, I know you can do it" that somehow cuts throught the noise in your head.

Bucky somehow always seems to know what to say or do, and he is the only one who still makes you feel looked after.

Because of that, you two got pretty close… as some would say.

And maybe you're mistaken. Maybe that is just an another illusion in the world full of fame, and lies. Or maybe you just want someone to care because despite thousands of fans, you still feel very fucking lonely.

But then, Bucky wouldn't be doing all of this, right?

The thoughts swirl too heavily in your chest. Your voice catches again mid-line, weaker this time, and you stop singing completely, eyes squeezing shut.

Bucky stops the track right away.

"I'm sorry—" you apologize, voice small.

His gaze softens when he looks at you through the glass. "You have nothing to apologize for, doll."

You swallow hard. "I don't like how it sounds, Buck. How I sound… It's not like… me."

He watches you for a beat, then steps out from behind the console. A moment later he's opening the door to the vocal booth, and steps inside, making the room feel so much smaller with him in it.

"I told ya, it's good, though…" he says casually, as you try your best to not break down in front of him. "I think my opinion should matter to you."

"I know… I'm sorry."

He reaches out, and his hand gently rests on you arm, warm through the sleeve of your sweater.

"It's okay. Let's take a break, and start again, hm? Does that sound good?"

You nod, and that insufferable knot in your chest looses a little.

"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes flick down to where his thumb is now brushing lazy circles against your sweater.

"You know…" he starts "We can always scrap what we have and start over… it would take more time, and I'd have to rewrite the lyrics probably , and—"

"No!" you cut him off quickly. Your uncertainty shifts into guilt.

The idea of wasting his time — his money, his effort — after everything he's done for you makes your stomach twist. No matter how much you hated the outcome, you would hate yourself more if you let that happen.

"I'll sing it… It's fine."

Bucky studies you for a second, those deep blue eyes search your face like he's trying to read everything you're not saying, The line of his jaw is relaxed now, not longer tense with that earlier impatience, which makes you feel more at peace.

"You sure," he asks? "We've got time, doll. Doesn't have to be today."

"I'm sure," you exclaim, trying to give him a reassuring smile.

The next afternoon, you're in the back of a sleek black Range Rover as the city's traffic crawls outside the tinted windows.

Yelena sits beside you with legs crossed, flipping trough her tablet, and checking a schedule that's somehow more packed than LA's streets. She'd been your manager since the very beginning — hired by no one other than Bucky, of course — but the two of you had clicked almost immediately.

Yelena was quite good at her job. In fact, she was probably one of the best in the business. She kept your calendar organized down to the minute, booked interviews months in advance, made sure you never missed a fitting, a rehearsal, or a meeting, and somehow always knew exactly what you were supposed to do before you did.

But she did far more than what was written in her job description.

She was fiercely protective of you.

Whether it meant shutting down reporters who asked questions that crossed the line, pulling you away from fans who refused to respect your boundaries, or making sure you actually ate something between back-to-back appearanes, Yelena always seemed to have one eye out on your career and the other on you. You'd lost count of how many times she'd marched into your dressing room with breakfast plate in one hand, and a coffee in the other, declaring that no interview was happening until you finished both.

She never tried to replace your family that you ended up leaving in search for a better life, nor did she pretended to be your friend but you'd earned each other's trust, and that means a lot, when everyone around is fake nice just to benefit from you.

"So," she says, swiping to the next page, completely in her element. "radio interview tomorrow morning, rehearsal in the evening, photoshoot got pushed to Thursday… which, honestly, saved everyone's ass because your stylist was about to have a breakdown. She was threatening to quit after yesterday…"

A smile tugs at your lips. "I think she says that every week."

"She does." Yelena nods, matter-of-factly. "But this time I think she actually meant it."

You let out a quiet hum in response, while your attentions drifts between her voice and the endless line of brake lights stretching ahead.

"…Then there's…" she continues, squinting at the screen. "Two press interviews, one magazine cover shoot… Another rehearsal right before an event with the Barnes Records executives Wednesday night…. Writing session with Bucky the next day… Then you've got—"

Your phone vibrates against your thigh, stealing your attention immediately.

You fish it out of the pocket of your jacket, and glance at the glowing screen.

Bucky | 1:41PM hey. here's the sample from our last session. let me know what you think. sample_1.mp3

Before you can stop yourself, a breathy ironic laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the car, which actually makes Yelena look away from her tablet.

"What was that?" she asks, both confused and concerned.

You quickly lock your phone, and toss it onto your lap as if she'd caught you doing something embarassing.

"Nothing," you respond, shaking your head dismissively, but that only makes her narrow her eyes at you.

"Mhm…"

"It was just Bucky," you explain, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of your jacket before speaking again. "He sent me the demo from yesterday's session."

"And?"

You lift your phone again, reading the message once more.

"Let me know what you think," you repeat, umable to hide sarcasm coating your voice, and another dry laugh slips out. "As if my opinion changes anything."

Yelena's brows knit together ever so slightly. "Did something happen yesterday?"

You hesitate for a moment, and the memory of your own voice carrying lyrics that suddently stopped feeling like yours comes back.

"I don't know," you admit quietly. "Something just felt… wrong." You lean your head back against the seat, watching skyscrapes dissapear behind the darkened glass. "I couldn't get into it."

"You've had off days before," Yelena says, nudging you on the shoulder, as if that was supposed to bring you some comfort.

"This wasn't that, Lena," you pause, searching for the right words. "It sounded good. At least that's what Bucky kept saying but I didn't believe him." You shrug helplessly, and your fingers start to absentmindedly trace the edge of your phone. "I stopped halfway through because I couldn't sing it anymore."

"And what did he say?"

You sigh, replaying the scene in your head.

"He rewound the track," you say at last. "We tried again. And again. Until I lied and finally said I like it" Your shoulders rise and drop again.

Yelena is quiet for a moment, and you don't even expect her to respond right away because that's the thing — even though Yelena may be your friend, she would never question Bucky, and his decisions.

That is exactly what kind of person Bucky is in this industry. No one would dare to say a bad word about him because that man had more connections than you could think of, which meant he could probably ruin your life by making just one call to the right person.

"So…" Yelena's watching you like she's trying to figure what to say without either judging you or defeding Bucky. "Are you going to listen to it?"

Your thumb hovers over the audio file, and the play button stares back at you. Eventually, you lock your phone again with a soft click.

"I already know what it sounds like."

"Come on, you haven't even played it!" she tries to encourage.

"I don't have to," you offer a tired smile that doesn't really reach your eyes. "If Bucky thinks it's good then it's enough…" The sentence feels heavier the second it leaves your mouth, and again, Yelena doesn't respond, although you can feel her eyes on you. Your own attention is fixed outside the window instead. The palms sway lazily against the perfect California sky, almost mocking how chaotic everything always feels beneath it.

Before she says anything, the car begins to slow. The soft hum of the engine changes as the driver turns into the entrance of your hotel. The tires roll over the smooth pavement leading toward the front door.

The concract pages lay open on the marble table in your hotel suite, and your fingers tremble slightly as you trace over the clauses you'd signed months ago.

Section 4.2. — Exclusivity

Artist agrees to grant Barnes Records exclusive worldwide rights to all sound recordings, performances, and related materials created during the term of this agreement. Artist shall not release, perform or distribute any musical content independently or through any third party without the prior written consent of Barnes Records.

Section 5.1 — Creative Control

Barnes Records shall have final approval over all recordings, songs selections, arrangements, mixes, and final masters. Artist's input shall be considered advisory only.

Section 7.3 — Promotional Obligations

Artist agrees to full compliance with all promotional, publicity, and appearance requirements as determined by Barnes Records, including but not limited to interviews, photoshoots, live performances, and social media activity.

Section 9.1 — Non-Compete

During the term and for twelve (12) months thereafter, Artist shall not engane in any conlicting musical or entertainment activities without express permission.

…Well, you're fucked.

You're staring at the piece of paper with tears in your eyes.

You should be grateful. People would kill to be in your spot, and you're probably being selfish. You should be kissing Bucky's feet for everything he did for you, and you know it.

Because what are you supposed to do? There is no fucking way you're escaping this agreement, so maybe it's time to make peace with it, and just listen to Bucky. Produce songs you hate, and be someone you're not.

You wipe at your eyes quickly, even though no one's here to see you fall apart. Maybe this is just what growing up in this industry looks like. Maybe the version of you that sang freely in your bedroom was never meant to survive here. Maybe the only way forward is to smile, nod, and let Bucky steer the wheel.

Your phone sits on the table beside the contract, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick it up, and open your messages with Bucky.

Your thumb hovers for a long moment before you start typing a message.

You | 3:08PM hey. actually i don't know if i love it. i'm sorry. i feel like i'm missing everything up lately.

You hit send before you can delete it, then immediately regret how vulnerable it sounds.

The typing bubbles appear almost right away.

Bucky | 3:09PM you're not messing anything up. come by the studio tomorrow morning if you want. we can talk it through. no pressure.

You let out a shaky breath, stare at his message, then finally respond.

You | 3:10PM I have an interview tomorrow morning… sorry…

And the reply comes faster than you'd expect.

Bucky | 3:10PM then maybe i'll come pick you up after? we'll get lunch together. you need time off too ;)

You read the message twice. A small flutter blooms in your chest.

On one hand, you're nervous to actually talk to him about the song. On the other hand… work aside, spending time with Bucky doesn't sound so bad. It probably shouldn't excite you as much as it does, but the idea brings you some comfort. After all, he is right — you do deserve some time off.

You | 3:11PM yeah! that sounds nice, actually. thank you.

The dressing room mirror is still lit up with those harsh light bulbs as you sit in front of it, catching your features to the point where it's almost blidning.

The inteview had gone well — at least according to everyone else, including Yelena who leans against the vanity beside you, arms crossed, looking pleased.

"You killed it," she says with a satisfied nod. "They loved the story about the upcoming album. And the way you teased them with the upcoming feature with Dazzler was perfect," she extends the word, making her russian accent slip out. "That's exactly what we needed for the promo. The clip is already getting traction online. We'll have the full segment up by tonight."

You manage a small smile, nodding along as you slip your jacket back on over the cute interview outfit.

"That's good."

"Ratings are going to be solid. A few more like this and we'll even have more buzz for the release. You should be proud of yourself." Yelena keeps talking.

You're just about to reply when there's a light knock on the dressing room door. It opens a second later, and Bucky steps inside.

He looks unfairly good for someone who probably woke up way too early just to spent the entire morning working in the studio. The black simple shirt he's wearing has some designer logo you can't really recognize because of the dark jacket atop of it. His hair looks much more styled today, and his steel eyes find you immediately, making the corner of his mouth lift.

"Hey," he says. His gaze flicks over you for a second. "You ready?"

You stand up, smoothing down your skirt, suddenly very aware of how your heart picks up at his presence.

Yelena glances between the two of you, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"Well…" she grabs her hoodie, and slings it over her arm, ready to slip out. "I guess my job's done for now. Gonna leave you two alone."

Before she can fully step out the door, Bucky stops her.

"How did the interview go?"

Yelena pauses in the doorway, flashing quick but confident smile, and you know he's not asking if it actually went well. He's asking if it's making good numbers, and if he's going to benefit from it.

"It went really well!" she answered charmingly, telling him the same thing she did to you.

Meanwhile you stand there quietly, watching Bucky's reaction.

He ends up giving a small nod that looks satisfied but not so surprised as if he excpected nothing less. Then he turns his head toward you. Your eyes lock instantly, and he smiles at you.

"Always knew my girl has it." he says casually, and the praise makes your knees feel a little weak. Heat rushes to your cheek and you have to look down for a second, biting the inside of your lip to keep from completely melting on the spot.

It's ridiculous how much those few words affect you. Especially after the spiral you had last evening, but coming from him, they feel like they matter more than anything else.

"Okay!…" Yelena nods, unsure what to say in such awkward position, then clears her throat. "Call me when you need something." She gives you both a goodbye smile and leaves, closing the door behind her.

You grab your purse, slinging it over your shoulder, and follow Bucky out.

The hallway is quiet as you walk side by side toward the back exit where his car is waiting. The black SUV with a driver inside is already idling. Bucky opens the door for you before sliding in after, settling beside you in the back seat.

The car pulls smoothly into traffic. You're both silent for a while, letting the hum of the engine take over the quiet.

Eventually, Bucky shifts slightly, turning his attention to you instad of the city outside.

"You still feel like you don't want to release that song?" he asks, picking up where yesterday's iMessage conversation left off.

You nod, cheeks burning with shame as you look down at your hands. "Yeah…"

"That's okay," he says without hesitation. "We can scrap it."

"I don't wanna cause you troubles," you murmur, hating how small your voice sounds compared to his.

Bucky chuckles softly. "You could never."

Unexpectedly, Bucky reaches over and places his hand on your thigh. His palm feels warm against your bare skin where your skirt had ridden up just a little when you sat down.

Your eyes drop instantly to the spot where his fingers rest, and your heart slams against your ribs while heat begins to pool low in your belly.

Bucky keeps looking ahead at the road like it's the most natural thing in the world when his thumb starts brushing slow absentminded strokes against your leg.

You press your lips together, trying to stay composed, but you're body's compeltely shut. Your thighs press closer instinctively, and you wonder if Bucky can notice.

It makes you so fucking horny it's ridiculous, and that makes you realize just how freaking busy you've been with your career lately.

There was no time to date. No time for anything, so no one touched you in months. You're fucking touch-starved, and here's the result: you squirming in your seat with ache between your legs caused by your boss. Great!

"You know…" Bucky starts talking again. "You've been doing great lately. Your latest single is still climbing in the charts… The interview today went well too according to Yelena…"

You try to listen, but his hand still caressing you is making it really difficult, sparking up your skin, and getting you desperately wet.

"I feel like you're really trying your best for my label. Am I right?" he asks, glancing over at you.

You nod quickly, suddenly more nervous under Bucky's gaze. "Yes— Of course, Bucky."

He just smiles, more to himself than to you, with a hint of mischief in it. Then he turns his head away, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding until now.

The restaurant Bucky picked is one of those upscale places tucked away in a hidden corner of the city — all dim lightning, white table cloths and waiters who move with so much grace.

Of course he chose it. Another small irony. Even something as simple as where you eat lunch is under his control. Just like everything else.

You're both done eating now, plates cleared away, leaving just half-full glasses of water. The conversation has stayed light so far — safe territory. Bucky asked about the interview again, and you asked about a track he's been working on for another artist.

You can't help but wonder if he's this close with all the artists he works with but unfortunately, you can't ask him that.

Bucky leans back in his chair, looking relaxed. His jacket is off now, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his muscular forearms. They look much better here, in the daylight than in the studio, and you probably shouldn't be glancing at them every few moments, but you do anyway. In the end, he's the one who made a mess out of you in the car. And this is just one of the consequences of it.

"You're getting better at all of this," he begins, picking up his glass. "The spotlight, the press… the performance of it." He pauses for a second to take a sip. "Doesn't mean you have to like every part of it, though."

The words hit a little too close. You trace the rim of your water glass with your fingertip, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Yeah… some parts are still harder than others."

Bucky lets out a low tsk. He draps one arm over the backrest, looking every bit the man who holds all the cards. The soft restaurant lightning catches the sharp line of his jaw, that now seems more tense than just minutes ago, and his blue eyes look even more intense asa he studies you across the table.

"You can't always get what you want," he says, voice calm and steady like he's stating a simple fact, which… he is, but you know damn well that this talk is definitely leading somewhere. "We all have to pay a price for our decisions. This is how this business works, doll."

You look up at him, a bit scared now where the hell this conversation is heading. You catch how his tone changed — more authoritative now.

Bucky continues without missing a beat, swirling the last bit of water in his glass before setting it down. "I have another deal for you. A friend of mine, she's a director. She needs a single for her upcoming movie. I already told her you'll do it."

Your mouth opens, and then closes again. Words fail you for a second.

Your schedule is already packed to the brim — interviews, photoshoots, rehearsals, studio time. You're barely keeping your head above water trying to finish your own album, and now this?

"But— my album," you start, voice coming out shakier than you wanted.

Bucky cuts you off smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "You scrapped a song, baby. You need to make up for it." His tone is somehow still gentle on the surface, although you know what's underneath. "I need my money back or we won't proceed with your album."

Your worries from yesterday come rushing back, even harder than before. Your thoughts spiral back to the conctract clauses, and the fear you're losing all the control. The words keep being stuck in your throat, so you just nod, deafeated.

"Okay," you whisper.

Bucky's expression softens with satisfaction. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his knuckles along your cheek. The touch is far too tender contrasted by what he just said.

"That's my girl,"

You almost choke on your own saliva, hearing that. You hate how fucking good his praise makes you feel, even now, with your stomach twisting, and your eyes stinging. It's pathethic, really. He just tightened the leash, and here you are, once again melting at his approval like some desperate idiot.

You wish your head wasn't such a mess of different thoughts. You wish that part of you — the one that felt genuinely grateful for everything Bucky had done for you — could stand up, and fight for herself, but there was no way you could bury that sentiment. You don't know why. You don't know why he is making you feel like this, and it's fucking annoying. You're nothing, but his fucking puppy, and while you hate it, why does it feel like that other part of you enjoys it?

"Fuck!" you're pacing back and forth in your hotel room, still in the clothes from lunch, frustration bubbling over the second Yelena walked in. "I can't make a song for that fucking movie, Yelena. I need my album to be finished by the end of summer. The promo is already out. I can't fucking reschedule it."

"Yeah. You can't," she says, sitting on the fotel with arms crossed. "The sales will go down, and Bucky will be even more pissed."

You drop face-first into onto the bed with a dramatic groan, burying your face in the pillow.

"Fuck! This is exactly what he wants, Lena. He'll then have another excuse to drag me into more projects."

Yelena sighs, standing up. and walking over to sit on the edge of the bed just to give your back a light, sympathetic pat.

"Listen… You'll make that song he asks for, and then we'll get you back to work on your album," she pauses, tilting her head. "What movie is it for again?"

You lift your head from the pillow. Strands of hair fall messily across your face as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your voice comes out tired.

"I don't remember the title… Bucky mentioned it but I don't think I registered it. I think it's made by the same director who made Rendezvous, though…"

Yelena freezes the moment she hears it. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she stands up, shaking her head, before dragging her hand slowly down her face.

""Oh. My. God…" she mutters, sounding genuinely horrified. "Please tell me you're joking…"

You blink at her, eyebrows lifting in confusion, heart already sinking at her reaction. "What?"

"The woman who produced it just had a whole ass cancel party on Twitter," she says, voice dropping.

"What?! Why?!"

"I don't even know. but there's crazy shit going on," Yelena sighs deeply, rubbing her temples as she starts pacing the same path you were earlier. "Jeez, your name is going to look so bad signed under her movie. You need to talk to Barnes."

"Me?!" you point at yourself, sitting up fully on the bed now. "You're my manager."

"Yeah but he doesn't fucking listen to me!" she throws her hands up. "You're his favorite. You need to talk him out of it… somehow."

You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle, and the sound escapes you before you can stop it. Your brain gets stuck on that one word Yelena said, looping over and over like a catchy hook. You sit up fully on the bed now, pulling your knees to your chest as you tilt your head at her.

"Favorite?" you ask, voice softer now. "What does that mean?"

Yelena's expression changes in an instant. Her eyes widen just a fraction when she realizes she said too much, and suddenly, she becomes very interested in smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on her sleeve. She clears her throat, still avoiding your gaze.

"You know what it means, " she mutters, trying to play it casual but the slight flush on her cheeks gives her away.

"No, I don't" you insist, leaning forward a little.

Yelena lets out a long, defeated sigh, running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair, and messing it up slightly.

"Just convince him, please," she says, giving you a pleading look. "That'll save both of us a lot of work."

You stare at her for a second, then slowly nod.

"I'll see what I can do…"

You repeat before you can fully think those words through. Inside though, you're already overthinking it.

How the hell are you supposed to change his mind?

You know damn well, Bucky doesn't exactly do "no." Once he decides something, it's set in stone. Especially when it involves money or deals.

The idea of walking into his office or calling him up, and somehow talking him out of this movie single feels laughable.

You may be his favorite like Yelena said — whatever that meant — but that doesn't guarantee you anything.

You need a different approach, and you better find it quickly.

The next day, you're in the middle of dance rehearsal. The studio mirrors each of your movements, every turn and tired expression. Sweat sticks your tank top to your back as the choreographer counts out the last eight-count of the routine.

When she finally calls for a five minute break, you almost collapse against the barre. You have been practicing the choreography for your upcoming tour for a month now, making sure it's perfect in every detail but today? It definitely isn't.

You're not sure if it's from over exhaustion or your thoughts are still somewhere else, and that's why you cannot focus. Maybe you're trying to dance out your annoyance, and helplessness instead of actually doing your job.

You grab your water bottle, and take a long sip, letting the cold liquid soothe your dry throat. Your phone sits on the floor near your bag, and you reach for it with your other hand, just to see it's already lit up with some notifications.

Yelena | 2:11PM Did you talk to him?

Yelena | 2:11PM ??

Yelena | 2:12PM Pleaseeee tell me you at least texted him

You read the messages, then instantly lock your phone without answering.

Of course you haven't talked to him. You haven't even sent a single message asking if the two of you can meet because just the thought of opening your chat with Bucky and typing anything about the movie single makes you sick. Honestly, you have no idea how to deal with it.

You take another sip of water, when your phone buzzes, and the screen lights up again.

Yelena | 2:35PM well, he's going to be there at the event we're having today. maybe try your luck then! :D

Brilliant idea. There's no better circumstance than solving this in public at a packed industry event with cameras, and executives. Absolutely zero pressure!

You type your response fast.

You | 2:36PM you are out of your mind

The event is already in full swing by the time you arrive. The clink of champagne glasses fills the elegant space, followed by the low hum of charmistatic conversations. Investors, label executives, and other more unknown faces mingle around polished tables, and big windows covered by big curtains that are supposed make the place feel more private.

You're wearing a fancy dark dress that hugs your figure just right, making you look expensive and put-together even when you're a mess underneath.

Yelena stays close at your side. Her eyes scan the room like she's already mapping out every important person in here, then leans in slightly to your side, nudging you.

"You can at least try and be nice to him tonight," she whispers, and you glance at her, adjusting your dress by pulling it up at the bust.

"Play up to him?" your eyebrows lift, and you cannot help a little smirk that's forming in the corner of your mouth.

"Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I mean… before you actually talk to him about the single. That doesn't sound like a bad plan, does it?"

She's right. It doesn't. You need to play it right, and today may be the first step.

You straighten your posture, and your gaze drifts across the room, searching for a familiar broad-shouldered figure with unforgettable eyes.

Yelena's hand lightly touches your arm as she nods toward the far side of the room.

"There he is."

You follow her line of sight, and spot him almost immediately. Bucky stands near one of the windows, deep in conversation with a small group of people.

From distance he looks completely at ease, one hand loosely holding a drink while the other rests in the pocket of his black suit.

Yelena starts walking towards them, dragging you along with her, and you follow a step behind, your heart already picking up its speed.

As you get closer, Bucky's attention shifts to you. His eyes flick over, and the second they land on you, they stay there, dragging down the length of your dress before coming back up to your face.

It's quick, and subtle enough that the others might not notice, but you do.

His eyes still don't leave you when Yelena greets the group with a bright, professional smile, already launching into polite introductions, and Bucky nods along, smiling at you, before cutting through the conversation.

"She looks gorgeous, doesn't she?" he says to the group, smooth and confident. "One of my greatest discoveries. Real presence on stage. You only come across such artists once in a while."

You force a soft but nervous chuckle as heat creeps up your neck, and others smile as well, nodding in agreement. His praise — again —does something to you, and just like always, you're not entirely sure how to take it.

So you just stand there, not sure how to react, what expression to wear, or whether you're supposed to say something or not.

You obviously know what he's doing — promoting you in front of his investors, polishing the story of his "greatest discovery" so they keep writing checks, and stay interested. Right now, you're just a shiny reminder of where their money is going which makes you feel like some animal in a zoo, while Bucky gets to show you off.

In the end, you stay quiet beside him, smiling carefully, and when eventually the conversation topic changes — someone brings up an upcoming festival and its sponsorship — the focus slowly moves away from you. The pressure eases just a little as the group starts talking among themselves again.

Bucky turns slightly toward you then, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His voice drops low, meant only for you.

"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "You look fabulous."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A real blush rises to your cheeks this time, much warmer and harder to hide, and for once the smile that follows it is genuine.

"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself," you whisper back lightly.

That earns you a chuckle from Bucky, which seems to soften the sharp edges of his expression for a second. He turns a little more to your side, keeping his voice low so the others don't fully pull you back into their conversation yet.

"Long day?" he asks. "Yelena messaged me your rehearsal ran late."

You nod, careful to keep your tone warm, and easy, just like Yelena suggested — play nice, be pleasant, be nice to him.

"Yeah, it did," you reply with a small smile. "The choreography's coming together though. I'm just hoping my legs still work by the end of the week."

Bucky hums in amusement.

"You'll be fine. You always pull it off," there's confidence in the way he says it — more like it's a fact than a compliment. Then he tips his head slightly toward the group still talking nearby. "These people are already impressed. Just keep doing what you're doing."

You force yet another soft smile, trying to form another appropriate response but for a second you hesitate, then decide to push a little further — testing the waters, maybe even playing into whatever this thing between you is.

"You really think I'm worth all of this?" you ask, avoiding his gaze when the words leave your mouth.

Bucky lets out a short laugh, taken aback by the question like the idea of you doubting yourself is somehow ridiculous to him.

"You're serious?" he mutters, still smiling.

Before you can answer, your fingers brush against his as you both shift slightly. It's nothing more than just a light, accidental touch, but Bucky's eyes immediately drop to where your hands nearly meet.

It sends a shiver up your arm, and you instinctively pull your hand away — not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it did the opposite.

You pretend to fix the delicate bracelet on your other wrist, fingers fussing with the clasp even though it doesn't need adjusting.

Bucky watches you for a moment, then reaches out.

"Let me help you."

His hand is gentle as he takes yours. Warm fingers steady your wrist while he carefully tightens the clasp for you. Instead of letting go right away, his thumb brushes over the soft skin of your wrist in small circles.

The simple gesture is enough to make your breath catch. Heat blooms under your skin where he's touching you, and when you lift up your gaze from your hand, Bucky looks back up as well, still holding you.

"Answering your question…" he starts, ticking his jaw. "I think you're worth much more than that."

The next morning, you wake up to soft light filtering through the curtains, and a quiet ache behind your eyes.

You lie there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, genuinely not knowing what to think about yesterday.

You feel… wrong.

Not because of what happened, if anything, the opposite is true — just thinking about the way Bucky looked at you yesterday is enough to send you a flutter of butterflies through your stomach.

The problem is everything else, or more specifically — everything Yelena's said.

You roll onto your side, and pull the blanket higher, biting your lip as the thoughts in your head begin to overwhelm you again.

Maybe you should just sing that stupid single for Bucky like he asked.

Maybe Yelena is overreacting. Maybe the controversy will blow over. Maybe the easiest thing — the safest thing — is to stop fighting, and just do what he wants.

Especially because he can be so nice to you it hurts.

The idea settles uncomfortably in your mind, carrying equal parts resignation, and something that feels a little too much like wanting to please him.

You hate yourself for how mixed you feel.

You want more freedom — to make your own choices, write your own songs, and scrap them without guilt, to not feel like every decision has to go through him first.

But at the same time you cling to Bucky so tightly it's almost stupid. His approval still means too much, and his voice still settles something restless inside you.

Even now, lying alone in this expensive hotel bed, some pathethic part of you is still seeking his validation like it's the only thing that keeps you steady.

And the worst part is knowing just how deep that need goes.

Maybe it's not just a need. Maybe you actually feel something towards him.

Your thoughts drift further. You start wondering how he actually feels about you.

He can't be completely casual… not with the way he looks at you, not with the way he touches you like it's natural, and not with the way he says things that get stuck in your head.

If he does feel something… then he should understand. He should get where you're coming from.

If he cares about your career the way he claims to, then he shouldn't be pushing you into that single. He should see the risk. He should understand why you don't want it.

So maybe it's worth to at least discuss it with him.

You're sitting across from Bucky in his office. The afternoon light is diffused by the blinds, making the room look warmer, and much more comfortable.

Bucky's been talking to you for a few minutes now — details about the movie single, the timeline, the expected deadling, and something about the director's vision — but the words barely stick.

Your mind is too loud. Every sentence he says slides past you while your thoughts keep circling the same worried loop.

"… so if we lock the track by next week, we'll still have enough time for the mix, and—"

Bucky stops mid-sentence. His blue eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.

"Hello? You there with me?"

You blink, snapping back into the moment. "Yeah, sorry… I just…"

"Just what?"

Your fingers tighten in your lap. For a second you almost swallow the words, but they slip out anyway, hesitant.

"… Do you think being a part of this movie is a good idea, Buck?" The question is so quiet it's barely audible. You force yourself to keep going. "I've heard from Yelena that my name may not look best signed under that movie… because of the connections with the director."

Bucky shakes his head once — a short, annoyed motion — and leans back in his chair.

"Don't worry about it," he says flatly. "They pay a lot. That should be enough."

You shift in your seat, and you know you either say it all out now, or never.

"But— I don't know, Buck… I thought we could at least discuss it—"

He interrupts before you can finish, standing from his chair with a sharp push. He starts pacing through the length of the office, shaking his head again — this time in clear disbelief.

"Discuss it?" He repeats after you. "What do you want to discuss, huh?"

You swallow hard.

"I just wish I had more to say. That's all…" you pause, looking for the right words. "I wish I could write my own songs like other artists. Decide what I want to take a part in, and what not."

You can't look at him while you say it. Your head is low, and your gaze is fixed on your lap where you hold your hands, and nervously pick at your nails.

Bucky lets out a humorless chuckle.

"You gotta be kidding me…" his jaw clenches, and his gaze is almost piercing through you. "After everything I did for you?"

The words hit you harded than you expected. Your head snaps up immediately.

"No… No, no, Bucky… That's not what I meant." You stand up, and cross the room, moving closer to him, hands slightly raised like you're trying to calm down the storm before it starts. "I didn't mean it like that—"

He's still mad. The frustration hasn't left his face.

"Like what?" he snaps. "Like I didn't fucking create you?"

Your hands drop uselessly to your sides. The sting of his words settles deep in your chest, feeling like a thorn.

At first you just look at him, brows scrunching together as your face slowly turns into a pleading expression.

"I just thought I actually mean something to you," you manage to admit quietly.

Maybe it's stupid — standing right in front of him like this, voice small, eyes burning. Maybe it's even pathetic, but you cannot help it. Tears are already pricking at the corners of your eyes as you just stand there, feeling completely exposed, and helpless under the weight of everything that's just been said.

Bucky watches you for a moment, then sighs. His voice is lower now, softer. He steps closer, and places his hands on your shoulders, gently trying to get you to look up at him.

"You do mean something to me."

You let out a shaky exhale, and Bucky's right hand drifts to your face, wiping away a tear that managed slip out.

"But business is business, baby. You have to understand that."

That only makes you want to cry harder. What is that even supposed to mean? That you matter… but not enough? That he cares… just not when it comes to things that actually hurt?

You look up at him with glassy eyes, tears finally starting to spill over freely.

Bucky's expression softens further. His thumb brushes gently across your skin.

"I know you can handle it, honey…" he encourages, and a broken little sob escapes you.

"I'm tired, Bucky."

That's all it seems to take for Bucky to pull you in without another word. His strong arms wrap around you as you bury your face against his chest.

Fresh tears soak into the fabric of his shirt while he holds you there, one hand coming up to caress the back of your head, smoothing over your hair in slow, steady strokes.

"There… There..." he murmurs soothingly against the crown of your head.

You don't even realize how tightly you are clinging to him — fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it's the only solid thing left to hold onto, and for the first time in what feels like forever, for once, you feel so fucking at peace.

And not because anything is easier. Not because the pressure of everything — the single, your album, or your entire career — is lifted, but because he's here, allowing your to fall apart against him.

You don't care if it's genuine. You don't want to think about it now, just enjoy this one moment, when you don't have to be the polished artist or the grateful discovery or the girl who always says yes.

"Shh… it's alright…" Bucky whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your head. His hand slides from your head to his jaw, and he tilts your face up toward his.

You try so hard to avoid his gaze, ashamed of yourself.

"I know it's hard," he says as his eyes search yours. "I know you've been stressing a lot lately..."

There's a pause before Bucky speaks again.

"Maybe I could take some of that stress off ya, hm?…"

Your eyebrows lift at that, finally meeting his eyes. At first you think you didn't hear him right, then you notice how his gaze drops to your mouth.

Bucky bites his lower lip softly, then looks back up at you, and the intent in his eyes is clear as a day.

Heat floods your cheeks as understanding hits. Your legs feel wobbly all of the sudden, and you can already feel yourself getting wet at the mere suggestion.

The truth is, you've been craving this more than you want to admit. You've been so lonely, drowning in schedules, and expectations that the idea of someone touching you feels almost desperate.

And it's not just anyone though. It's him.

You do want Bucky's hands on you. You want him to take you apart and put your back together, even if only for a little while.

You could only imagine how it feels like to be wanted, and worshipped like you matter beyond the songs and the stupid contract.

So you nod in response shakily, but Bucky only leans closer to the point where his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

"I wanna hear you say it, baby,"

You don't even try to hold it together. Tears are still wet on your cheeks as you look up at him.

"Please," your voice comes out cracking, and messy. "Please just fuck me, Bucky. I don't care anymore. I need it— I need you. Please, just— touch me…" you pause, sobbing. "Use me, I don't care, just please—"

The rest spills out of you in a broken, pathetic rush. You truly don't care if you look like some desperate whore as long as you get to have this.

Shame and need are tangled so tightly in your heart that you cannot tell then apart anymore, making you cry harder.

You try to say something more. Explain yourself maybe, but Bucky doesn't let you.

He shuts you up by crashing his mouth against yours in a hungry kiss, cutting the rest of your pleading. There is nothing gentle about it anymore — Bucky from just a few seconds ago seems to be gone, as your tongues meet almost instantly, teeth grazing while his hand slides into your hair to hold you in place as he deepens it.

You melt into him with a shaky sound, still tasting salt from your own tears.

Bucky walks you backwards until the edge of his desk hits the back of your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lift you up onto it, stepping between your legs as he never stops to kiss you like he's starving.

You feel him begin to rock against you. It's just a slow roll of his hips that's barely there but it presses the hard line of him right against your core, and the seperating you layers of clothes are not enough stop you from gasping into his mouth.

Bucky pulls back just enough to speak, but his lips are still brushing yours.

"Just like that," he murmurs. "Let me hear you, baby."

His hand drops to the waistband of yours pants. He pops the button open, drags the zipper down, and starts working them off your hips.

You lift up to help him, already so far gone it's embarrassing. You're so worked up you can barely think straight.

"Please, Buck…" you whine breathlessly as he tugs your pants the rest of the way down, and lets them drop to the floor.

"So fucking impatient," he mutters, eyes dragging down your body."Quit whining or I'll stuff that pretty mouth with my cock."

Before you can react, Bucky hooks his fingers into your panties, and yanks them roughly to the side. The cool air hits your bare, dripping cunt for half of a second, then his hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right against your soaked folds.

The sound is wet, and filthy. You jolt with a broken gasp, and thighs twitching around his hips as the heat of the slap blooms between your legs.

"You think you can always get what you want, don't you?" Bucky asks, voice rough.

Another slap lands harder against your pussy. You cry out this time, hips jerking.

"Please— Fuck!"

"Well that's not how things work," he continues, eyes locked on yours, carefully watching your reaction. "I've told you that before, remember? You are mine."

He raises his hand again, and slaps you one more time.

You jolt once more, and a broken sound rips out from your throat, but somehow your body reacts to it different than you'd expect. Your hips twitch towards his palm like you're chasing the next hit.

The stinging only makes the pulsing between your legs worse. Every slap seems to wind you up tighter instead of scaring you off. You're almost dizzy with how turned on it's making you, and some distant part of your brain can't believe you're actually into this.

You don't even realize when Bucky's hand move to the top you're wearing. He tugs it up, and over your head. The fabric catches for a second before he pulls it free, and tosses it aside.

His eyes drop to your chest, where your bra is, and Bucky stares at it like it offended him. Bucky's fingers are on you within seconds, touching, and grabbing your breasts through the material before the bra follows your top just as roughly — straps dragged down over your arms, until you're completely naked on his desk.

Then he's back between your thighs, gripping your hips as he starts humping against you again.

This time, there's nothing between you, and the hard bulge in his jeans. Your completely exposed, and obscurely wet slit drags against the rough fabric, leaving a dark, damp stain on the denim.

Bucky's so fucking hard it almost hurts to not feel him inside you just yet. You whimper, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to grind back against him.

Your hands slide down his chest, fingers already working at the edge of his T-shirt. You want to feel more of him — skin to skin, the warmth of his body pressed fully against yours.

But Bucky catches your wrists before you can get very far, pinning them lightly against the desk with a low warning sound.

"No," he mutters, jaw clenching slightly. "You don't get to decide. Is that still so hard for you to understand?"

You shake your head. Still, you manage to tug the fabric just enough to catch a glimpse of what's underneath — muscular, defined abs flexing as he keeps moving against you, and a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

The sight only leaves your hungrier. You try again, fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his stomach, but he doesn't let you go further, keeping full control.

Bucky had clearly had enough of you not listening.

With a low, frustrated sound he pushes you back so you're fully spread out on the desk. Your shoulders touch the cold surface, and your legs stay open around him. One of Bucky's hands presses lightly on your sternum to keep you there.

"Goddamn, you're so fucking stubborn…" he mutters under his nose, but loud enough for you to hear it.

He reaches down with his other hand, and finally unzips his pants. He shoves them, and his boxers down just far enough to free himself, and your breath catches at the sight.

He's thick — heavy, and flushed, and so big it makes your stomach flip. You almost drool looking at him, and your thighs tremble at the thought of feeling every inch of him stretching you.

Bucky gives himself one slow stroke as he looks down at you with dark eyes, pupils blown wide. He spreads the bead of precum over his length, then positions himself at your entrance.

The blunt head of his cock nudges against your soaked folds, and even the lightest touch is enough to make you whimper.

Bucky pushes inside you, but there's no slow stretch or careful adjustment. He drives forward in one hard thrust, and buries himself to the hilt, filling you so completely it punches the air out of you as your body is forced to take every thick inch at once.

The sudden fullness borders on too much. Your walls clench tight around him while he stays like that for a short moment, hips flush against yours.

He pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in, setting a rough, relentless pace that makes the desk creak beneath you.

You yelp at the first few thrusts, then the sound melts into loud helpless moans as he pounds into you. Every snap of his hips drives him impossibly deep, and you fucking love it.

Bucky looks completely lost in it. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are focused on the way your tits bounce with every move of his. His right hand is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other stays planted on the desk beside your head for leverage.

"Didn't know you're such a slut," he rasps between thrusts. "Always playing so shy, but you're actually just a whore, hm?"

"Mghhhh—" is all you manage, and the sound is punched out of you on a particularly hard thrust.

Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

"Oh yeah? Going dumb for that cock?" he smirks. "Can't form words now? You were so open for discussion just moments ago."

You just nod frantically, because he's right, and you can't deny it.

"’s good Buck—" you somehow moan out, although the rough pace has your thoughts scrambled.

His hand leaves your hip, and wraps around your throat instead. He doesn't squeeze it hard, but just rests his palm there while he keeps fucking into you without pausing for even a second.

Your eyes flutter shut from the intensity of it.

"Look at me," Bucky orders, and when you don't immediately obey, his fingers press tighter around your neck, making his message clear.

Your eyes snap open and lock with his.

"You're mine," he growls. "Fucking mine. I made you, and you're nothing without me. Do you understand that?"

"Yes! Yes, Bucky—!" Your hands clutch at his forearm, as he keeps you both filled and pinned.

The pressure builds fast. Heat coils tight, and low in your belly. Your walls start to flutter around him, and you realize that you're already right there, seconds from falling apart.

Bucky notices. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, as he leans closer.

"Don't you fucking dare come yet," he commands. "If you come before I say you can, I'll never fuck you again."

The threat sends a helpless shiver through you. Your eyes become glassy, as you try to force the building orgasm back down even as every roll of his hips may just sent you over the edge.

You try to focus, but your eyes drop down to the place where you're connected. You see how his cock is disappearing inside you, and the subtle bulge it creates low in your tummy every time he sinks all the way in.

The sight is almost too much. You cry out, not being able to hold it much longer.

"Bucky… I can't— I can't take it, I'm gonna—"

"You can," he growls, grabbing your face in his hand by the jaw, and squeezing it tightly.

You look completely fucked out like this — dazed like you're high on pure ecstasy, barely holding yourself together while you tether on the edge. Your lips are parted around soft, needy sounds, and it's so difficult for you to keep your eyes open.

"Please—" you beg, voice wrecked. "I'll be good, Buck… I promise you—"

Bucky laughs darkly, and the sound vibrates against your face, as he keeps fucking into you without mercy.

"Oh, I know you will."

Without warning, Bucky pulls out of you completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whine. You're confused, and your hips twitch back like they're trying to follow him.

Before you can even process the loss, he flips you over with firm hands. Your stomach hits the surface of the desk, and so does your face — checks pressed against the wood, as he plants one hand on the side of your head to keep you there.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk as Bucky kicks your legs apart just enough, then drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt again.

The new angle is much deeper, and overwhelming which makes you cry out, and Bucky starts fucking you in earnest. You're able to feel his balls slap against you, then a smack lands across your ass. The stinging blooms hot under his palm, leaving a red mark, and making your entire body flinch.

You're a mess beneath Bucky. Drool starts to slip from the corner of your mouth as your eyes go unfocused. Your body is already spent, trembling, and oversensitive, barely able to keep up.

Your current form seems to satisfy Bucky enough. He leans over, pressing his chest to your back.

"Go on. Come for me"

Fucking finally.

Your orgasm crashes through you so intensely it almost whites out your visison. A high-pitched moan leaves your throat as your whole body seizes around Bucky. Your walls clench while wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.

It's the best thing you've ever felt. It's more satisfying, and consuming than anything before, and it leaves you shaking, and gasping against the desk while Bucky keeps fucking you through it.

The way you clamp down around him is enough to push him over the edge too.

He drives into you one last time, and stays buried deep. A guttural groan rips from his chest as he comes.

You feel every hot pulse of him spilling inside you. Thick ropes of cum flood your cunt, and proceed to fill you up. The sensation makes another weak shiver roll through your spent body, as something primal, and satisfying settles in your chest at the feeling of being bred by him. You're more than happy to take everything he gives you, and keep it deep inside.

Bucky stays pressed against you for a moment longer, breathing hard, while his release slowly starts to leak out around his cock.

"Knew you'd come around."

.ᐟ extra sophie: if you got here, thank you so much for reading the fic! to be fair, the dynamics between reader, and Bucky in this fic were so fun to explore, and I hope I got to express well enough what I had in my mind, so let me know your thoughts about them!! and if you want to find out what drama is hiding behind the director, and the movie production, i'm more than happy to encourage you to read @iamthatonefangirl's upcoming fic "mean girls" which expands the plot of this silly little universe we created together <3

💌taglist: @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @firingstars @earthsmightiestbenders @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @pinksplace @itsjustemilygrace @akiyhara @angryoilslick516 @jai200700 @phantom-wolf-girl @shackoflove @buckybuckybuckysstuff @smorgaswhored @justwantsomeplums @norucking @g0reboy666 @midnightramyeoncravings

Peter had been avoiding you. 

Had been for days now, though it wasn’t ever anything direct enough to make it obvious to anyone who didn’t know him the way you did. There was always some excuse ready when you asked him to come over, some patrol running late or something he had picked up, his answers coming quickly before he disappeared again. You knew it had something to do with his senses. Everything had been heightened lately, sounds and smells and every slight touch reaching him stronger than they should, and Peter had already begun keeping his distance whenever it became too much.

A few nights ago, whatever had been building finally came to a head.

Peter had stopped by late at night, landing on the fire escape outside your bedroom window the way he always did after patrol. The familiar scrape of metal pulled your attention from the television, followed by the muted thud of his feet meeting the platform. Usually, he tapped on the glass even though you both knew you left it unlocked for him. Sometimes he would crouch there with his mask pushed halfway up, waiting until you noticed him, wearing that tired, crooked smile that always made it impossible to stay annoyed about the hour.

This time, he didn’t knock.

Instead, he threw the window open hard enough to rattle the frame, climbing inside with none of his usual care, one hand hooked over the ledge while the other held his side. His mask was crushed in his fist, his suit torn near his ribs and across one thigh, the dark fabric slick where blood had soaked through. More streaked across his mouth and jaw, already drying along his upper lip, while a fresher line ran from somewhere near his hairline and into his curls.

From the look of him, it had been a very long night. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath pulled in through parted lips before leaving him rough and uneven. Even after he straightened, his shoulders stayed tense, his mask still clenched in one hand while his eyes moved around your room without settling anywhere for long, passing over the bed, the desk, the window behind him, then finally landing on you.

“Peter—”

“I’m fine,” he said before you could ask, though the blood running down the side of his face and the hand pressed tightly against his ribs said otherwise.

You looked him over for another second, taking in the bruising already beginning to darken along his cheek and the slight tremble in his fingers, then turned toward your nightstand. You kept everything he needed in the bottom drawer now—the gauze, antiseptic, butterfly bandages and the painkillers he always claimed didn’t do anything, yet took anyway.

But before you could reach it, Peter started talking, drawing your attention back to him. He paced back and forth in front of the window, his movements restless as though standing still would only make whatever was happening worse.

“Something’s wrong.”

You stopped near the nightstand, watching him make another pass across the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, answering while the question was still leaving your mouth. “I don’t know, I just… something’s wrong.” The words poured from him jagged and loosely connected, each thought giving way to another. Scorpion. The fight. The cop. Peter stumbled over every piece as he tried to explain what happened, his breathing still too rough, his pacing growing quicker whenever a detail caught in his throat.

“I almost killed a cop.”

Peter stopped near your desk farther along the same wall as the window, staring down at his gloved hands, like he could still feel the force of what he had done sitting there.

“I almost killed a cop,” he repeated, softer this time, disbelief thinning his voice.

You tried to catch his eye, still struggling to piece together everything he had thrown at you. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Peter.”

“Just…” His face tightened before the rest could follow, a low grunt catching in his throat as his senses opened wider without warning.

The city crashed into him. Sirens several streets over, one set fading while another drew closer. Voices carried through the walls of the buildings surrounding yours, some clear enough to separate into words, others reduced to murmurs that still crowded together inside his skull. A couple argued half a block away. Pipes knocked behind the plaster while your neighbors shifted in bed, sheets dragging and old springs creaking beneath their weight.

All of it arrived with the same sharpness, every sound layered over another until there was nowhere for him to place any of it, including you. 

Especially you.

Your heartbeat pulsed above everything else, each beat carrying through the few feet between you as clearly as though his ear were pressed to your chest. He could hear your breathing change while you watched him, the slight catch at the start of every inhale, the softer release through your nose. The clean scent of your shower still lingered on your skin, soap and warmth clinging close, but underneath it was something sharper, sweeter, something his body recognized before his mind could force itself away from it.

Peter pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, fingers spread across his forehead as pressure gathered behind them. He knew the feeling now, the warning that came just before they changed, before the world sharpened past what he could stand.

You called to him as you rounded the foot of your bed and moved into the narrow space beside the desk, but your voice folded into everything else instead of reaching him. Sirens swallowed the first syllable, pipes struck behind the wall, someone laughed in the apartment below, and your heartbeat climbed faster with every step that brought you closer.

He wanted to answer you, to tell you to wait, not to come any closer, but each attempt was swallowed by the next sensation tearing through him.

You lifted a hand toward his arm, trying to steady him, but Peter’s fingers closed around your wrist while yours were still inches from touching him. He moved so quickly that the sudden stop nearly pulled you off balance, your body tipping toward him until you caught yourself with a short stumble. 

The grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but his fingers had already closed completely around your wrist, holding you there while every part of him strained against whatever had taken over.

“Don’t.”

His voice came out scraped thin and low, and when his gaze lifted to yours, black had already taken his eyes completely.

“Peter,” you said softly, his name carrying none of the fear he seemed to expect, only the worry that had brought you across the room in the first place.

The black pulled back almost as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes shifting into themselves until brown broke through again, followed by the whites around them. His gaze dropped immediately to where his hand was still wrapped around your wrist, and the sight of it seemed to cut through whatever had a hold of him. His fingers opened at once, releasing you so abruptly that your hand fell between you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” His breathing stayed rough, the apology doing nothing to ease the panic moving through him as he backed away from you and struck the edge of your desk. The impact rattled it behind him, but Peter barely reacted, already trying to put more space between you. “I have to go. I should go. You need to stay away from me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You stepped closer anyway, refusing the distance he had just fought to put between you. “You won’t.”

Peter looked at you, his brows drawing together as if he couldn’t understand how you could say it with that much certainty after what had just happened. His mouth opened, but his answer took a second to come, the words falling lower when they finally did.

“I almost killed someone tonight.”

“I know.”

“No, I…” He shook his head, the movement sharp with frustration as he tried to reach for an explanation that still wasn’t there. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what happened.”

“It was an accident, Peter.”

“You weren’t there.” His hand went back to his side as he moved closer to the open window, fingers twisting into the torn fabric there while he struggled to pull in a full breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was already done, and what if that happens again?” His voice thinned, the fear in it coming through. “I’m dangerous right now. I can’t control any of this. I don’t even understand what this is.”

You moved to close the space, reaching for him again, but Peter slipped through the open window and stepped backward onto the fire escape with another shake of his head. “No, stay back.”

The warning was still hanging between you when his face tightened, another rush of noise tearing through him from every direction. Peter covered his ears, his eyes screwing shut again as sirens, voices and passing engines crashed together inside his head, each one too sharp to ignore.

“Peter, wait.” You moved toward the window to follow him, one hand lifting toward the frame, but his wrist snapped forward as you started to climb through. A strand of webbing caught against the glass and pulled the window shut between you, the frame slamming down, followed by a second shot along the edge that sealed it in place.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained beneath the noise still ripping through him as he pulled the mask back over his head.

You called after him through the glass, your voice rising as you pushed against the window, but Peter was already moving. He stepped onto the ledge and threw himself away from the building, a web catching somewhere above and sweeping him into the night, carrying him farther from you with every swing.

The first night, you barely slept. Every siren that passed beneath your window had you reaching for your phone, checking for a call you knew hadn’t come, then opening the news instead. You searched through every alert and half-written post that mentioned Spider-Man, watching clips long enough to make sure none of them showed him falling, bleeding or failing to get back up. Between each one, you called him again, listening to the line ring until his voicemail answered in his place.

“Please just tell me you’re okay.”

You left the message softly, worry still outweighing everything else as you stared toward the window he had sealed shut. The webbing still clung to the frame, the strands stretched white against the glass, and the longer you looked at it, the more the image of his face returned. His eyes turning black. The fear in his voice. The way he had backed away from you as though you were the one thing he couldn’t risk being near.

By morning, he still hadn’t answered.

You called again before you got out of bed, then later while you were getting dressed, then once more when most of the afternoon had passed without a word from him.

“Peter, answer me.”

Your voice came out firmer that time, the worry still there but starting to wear thinner with every call he ignored. You tried telling yourself his phone was dead, or he was asleep somewhere, or maybe he had found somewhere safe to wait until whatever was happening with his senses passed, but none of those excuses held up for very long when hours kept passing and he still didn’t say anything.

Sometime that night, he finally answered one of your texts.

I’m okay.

That was all he gave you.

No explanation. No apology. Nothing about where he was, whether he was hurt or when he planned on coming back. Just two words dropped into the middle of everything he had left you carrying, like knowing his heart was still beating should’ve been enough to settle yours. It didn’t. 

You called the second you read it, only for the phone to ring until voicemail again. The confusion that had kept you worried began wearing thin after that, scraped away a little more each time your name lit up his screen without convincing him to answer. By the next day, you were no longer asking gently.

“One text, Peter? That’s seriously all you’re giving me after everything that happened? You know, I’m trying really hard not to be pissed at you right now, but you’re making that impossible.”

You ended the voicemail before you could say anything else, tossing your phone onto the bed only to grab it again a few minutes later when another notification came through.

Spider-Man. 

It was blurry footage someone had posted online, red and blue streaking across the screen as Peter dropped between two parked cars, then launched himself after someone farther down the street. Another video surfaced a few hours later, then another after that. Spider-Man swinging between buildings, stopping a robbery, throwing himself into the path of danger while strangers stood close enough to film it.

You should’ve been relieved. He was alive, still doing what he always did. Yet, every clip made your anger climb higher because he was still out there. Still fighting. Still putting himself near criminals, cops and crowds while insisting that you were the one who needed to stay away from him.

You made up your mind in a matter of minutes. The few days you had already given him were more than enough. You tried calling. Tried giving him time to calm down and figure out whatever was going on without pushing him, but that clearly wasn’t working, and watching him swing around the city while he ignored you had burned through whatever patience you had left.

So you went to him.

You didn’t care how late it was tonight or whether he wanted to see you, only pulled on your shoes and walked the few blocks to his apartment with your phone still clutched in your hand. If Peter refused to answer your calls, then you would make him face you another way.

Your knuckles met the wood of his apartment door once, then twice, the second knock harder than the first. You had already raised your fist again, his name halfway out of your mouth as you started to tell him to open the door, when it swung inward.

Peter stood on the other side, looking like absolute hell. The bruising along his face had darkened, a cut split one eyebrow and was held together by butterfly closures, and exhaustion sat heavy around his eyes. His hair looked like he had been dragging his hands through it one too many times. He seemed irritated before either of you even spoke, though it didn’t sit naturally on him. It was too tangled with the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the door and his eyes moved over you once before quickly finding somewhere else to land.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Not hello. Not an explanation or an apology for ignoring you. Just immediate resistance, as though he had spent every hour since leaving your fire escape repeating the same rule until he had convinced himself it was the only one that mattered. Stay away. Stay safe. Don’t let you close enough to make him want to let you in.

“Yeah. Well, I am,” you said, unable to keep the bite from your voice. You were done debating whether you were allowed to care about your own boyfriend. “You scared the shit out of me, Peter. You showed up bleeding, told me you almost killed someone, then left me standing behind a window you webbed shut. Which was a dick move, by the way.”

His eyes stayed on you, tired and guarded, and with the way he was looking at you, you expected him to say something back. To argue, apologize, tell you that you didn’t understand, anything, but he only stood there with one hand still wrapped around the edge of the door.

“I gave you space. I called you, I texted you, and you responded once like that was supposed to be enough before ignoring me again.”

Peter still didn’t answer, and after another second, you realized he wasn’t going to. Whatever he was holding behind that look, he had no intention of saying it out here.

You let out a short breath, your frustration pressing tighter beneath your ribs. “Are you going to let me in?”

Peter’s hand shifted along the edge of the door, his fingers tightening while the rest of him remained planted in the opening. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, like he was still trying to convince himself that keeping you in the hallway was somehow different from shutting you out everywhere else. His eyes moved over your face, tense and unreadable, before he swung the door wider with more force than necessary and stepped aside.

He kept himself rigid near the door as you passed, leaving enough space between you to make the distance feel intentional, every part of him held back from even the slightest brush of your body against his. It didn’t matter. The second you crossed the threshold, his senses found you anyway.

Your presence cut through the stale apartment, every breath and small shift of your body reaching him like you were standing much closer than you were. Having you there made everything worse in a way he still couldn’t explain. The rest of the apartment seemed to drop back as his senses locked onto you so hard there was barely room for anything else—which was exactly why he had been dodging you. Whenever they narrowed in like this, someone ended up hurt before he knew what his body was reacting to, and he wasn’t willing to find out what happened if the person standing closest to him was you.

You stepped farther inside, looking around as Peter shut the door behind you. The living room curtains were pulled tight even though it was already dark outside, blocking the streetlights and whatever movement passed below. Nearly every appliance had been unplugged, cords hanging loose near the outlets, and a few lightbulbs had been unscrewed and set together on a nearby table. He had been taking the apartment apart piece by piece, trying to get rid of anything that made noise or gave off too much light.

He was struggling. That much was obvious, and he had still decided to sit here and deal with it alone.

You turned back toward him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No, I’m fine.” Peter shifted near the door, barely looking at you as he corrected himself. “I’m fine.”

You knew he was lying as soon as he finished saying it. Reaching toward the counter, you moved to set your phone and keys down, but the second the metal touched the surface with a small clink, Peter winced.

His face tightened, one eye squeezing shut like the sound had struck somewhere directly behind it, and your hand stopped beside the keys. It had hardly been loud enough for you to think about, just metal touching a counter, something normal and forgettable, but it had bothered him.

That one little movement told you everything his lie didn’t.

Your anger didn’t disappear, but it changed as you looked at him, losing some of its heat beneath the sudden weight of how bad this actually was. You were still pissed that he had shut you out, still wanted to yell at him for deciding by himself that you were better off worried and ignored, but standing there inside the apartment he had practically taken apart to make bearable, all you wanted was to give him one second where everything didn’t hurt.

You moved closer, slow enough that he could stop you, and Peter’s attention caught on you immediately, the tension drawing tighter through his shoulders even though he didn’t step away. That surprised you more than it should have. He had been fighting this since he left your fire escape, and now he looked too worn down to truly keep doing it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, his voice lower now, strained by everything still crowding through him. “I told you to stay away.”

His brows pulled together, but he didn’t argue when you came close enough to touch him. Your hand settled on his arm first, nothing more than the warmth of your skin through his shirt. The breath that left him was uneven, but looser than the last, his body tipping almost imperceptibly toward your touch until he caught himself.

It wasn’t enough to fix whatever was happening, but you felt the change and followed it. Your palm moved along his arm and across the tight line of his shoulders until your fingers found the back of his neck. The tension there gave in small pieces, the muscles slowly loosening as your hand slid higher and found his face.

Peter fully leaned into it then, his cheek pressing into you as though his body had made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. His shoulders dropped by half an inch, some of the strain finally leaving them as you gave his senses one clear place to land instead of the thousands still fighting for his attention.

You kept going, one hand holding his face while the other returned to his arm, tracing back over his shoulder and up toward his neck. You touched him slowly, mapping him back into his own body one piece at a time while Peter stood there trying not to collapse into you.

He still wouldn’t look at you, eyes lowered somewhere between you as his forehead came down to yours, the contact light at first, then heavier when his body folded toward you by the smallest amount. It felt like he was split between two separate instincts, one still trying to put distance between you and the other pulling toward every place your hands touched him.

“You are everywhere,” he said, the words so low they nearly disappeared between you.

Your hand stilled at the side of his neck. “What do you mean?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. His forehead stayed pressed to yours while his breathing moved warm across your skin, something working through him that you couldn’t see, his mouth parting once, then closing again.

“I can feel you…” His words stalled as another sound dragged at his attention, his jaw tightening while he fought his way back to you. “Everywhere.” His breath left him rough against your skin. “All the time now.”

Your fingers traced a fraction higher along his neck, and Peter’s breath snagged at the motion, his body following before he forced himself still.

“Even when everything else is…” He swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut as the noise pressed in again. “Even when I can hear all of it, you’re still…” His forehead pressed harder to yours. “You’re louder.”

The meaning settled between you slowly, carrying a different weight now that you understood. It wasn’t only that every sound, movement and touch had become too much for him. His senses had fixed themselves on you through all that noise, following you inside it, pulling every part of you forward until nothing else could drown you out. He was already overloaded, and on top of that, his body had tuned itself to you so completely that being close made it harder for him to tell where the overwhelm ended and you began.

“I have an idea,” you said, your voice dropping between you as your thumb moved once along his cheek. “Let’s give you one thing to focus on.”

Peter didn’t fight you this time. He stayed there with his skin pressed to yours, breathing through the closeness while your hands held him in place. He nodded once, small and almost unconscious, the movement more instinct than anything he had thought through.

You closed what little space remained, both hands sliding fully around his face as you pulled him into a kiss. For a second, he only took it, his mouth warm but motionless while his fingers flexed once at his side. Then his lips parted slightly, and the restraint holding him there gave just enough for him to kiss you back. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, but it didn’t stay that way for long. His head tipped into yours, his mouth fitting more firmly with your own as a low sound worked its way from his throat.

The kiss pulled at him quickly after that. His breathing changed, each exhale heavier than the last, while the tension held between your palms shifted into something harder to contain. He leaned closer, chasing your lips when you moved against his, and for a few seconds he let himself have it, let everything narrow down to the pressure of your mouth and the warmth of your hands holding his face.

Then you felt him catch himself again.

His lips slowed against yours before they stopped, not all at once, but like he was forcing himself out of the kiss piece by piece. He stayed close when he broke it, his mouth still brushing yours with every uneven breath, forehead lowering to yours again while his body remained pulled toward you despite the restraint tightening back through him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words came out strained, carrying the same fear he had been trying to keep between you. 

“I know,” you said, your thumbs moving along the bruised edges of his face. “You won’t.”

Peter moved restlessly beneath your touch, angling his face away from the certainty in yours without putting any real distance between you. His mouth opened, voice turning rougher as your fingers held him there. “I don’t. I don’t trust myself.”

Your hand shifted along his jaw, tilting his face until he had no choice but to look at you. Peter resisted only in the slight tension that met your fingers, his eyes lifting to yours, dark and uncertain as they searched your face for some trace of hesitation. You held his gaze, letting him see there wasn’t any.

“I do.”

The words stayed between you while your hand slipped from his face and found his hand hanging stiffly at his side. His fingers twitched when yours closed around them, but he let you guide him forward, let you bring his palm to your hip and press it against the curve there. The contact pulled something taut through him, his fingers spreading, then tightening by degrees when you leaned into his hand.

Your lips found his again, slower this time, and Peter matched it before the kiss turned heavier. The restraint was still there in every measured kiss, in the way his hand stayed fixed at your hip even as his fingers flexed there, but when yours slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, something in him gave. His breath caught, rough and startled, and the hand at your hip tightened hard enough to drag you flush against him.

He moved like leaving any part of you untouched had become impossible, his palm sliding over your waist, tracing your side before moving higher across your back, with no direction beyond the need to keep finding more of you beneath his hands.

Every movement seemed to send the city another mile away. Traffic blurred beyond the windows, voices in the building thinned into something far off, and even the low sound of the building’s elevator moving through its shaft lost its edge as his attention fixed entirely on you. Your mouth. Your breath catching between one kiss and the next. The heat of your body pressing into his while his grip slipped from careful to possessive without him seeming to notice the difference.

Peter kissed you like he had been starving with your name in his mouth—like every day he had spent keeping himself away had only sharpened the need until it hurt—and you let him. Your hands twisted into his hair as his mouth left yours and moved along your jaw, his kisses growing messier by the time he reached your neck. He hardly seemed to care where they landed, his lips pressing just below your ear, then dragging lower while his breath spread hot across the skin he had already left damp. His grip tightened around your waist when your head tipped back for him, pulling you closer as his mouth found the quick beat of your pulse.

His senses zeroed in on something specific in your scent, something he still didn’t have a name for. You smelled good, but it wasn’t only the perfume fading from your clothes or the fragrance left in your hair. Something warmer rose beneath both, coming straight from your skin, the same thing he’d picked up the other night, only stronger now with your body pressed to his and his mouth open over your throat.

Whatever arachnid instinct had sharpened alongside his senses recognized it without asking him to understand. Peter wasn’t just kissing you anymore; he was drinking you in. His nose brushed along the side of your neck while his mouth returned to the quick pulse there, lips parting as every beat struck hot and frantic against them.

He could feel every reaction before you gave it sound, the flutter that moved through you when his teeth grazed your skin, the warmth rising where his hand spread across your back, the small shift of your body that pressed you more firmly into him. Each one found him cleanly now, stripped of the noise that had been tormenting him for days, giving him a stronger signal to follow. 

Peter’s palm dug deeper into your waist as his mouth closed over that sensitive point, rougher this time, and the breath that hitched in your throat went through him like a command, pushing him further.

Without warning, his hands swept behind your thighs and hauled you off the floor in one effortless motion. Your legs wrapped around his waist on reflex, arms winding over his shoulders to keep your chest pressed to his as he carried you toward the bed. His mouth stayed on your skin, working down your throat in hot, open-mouthed kisses and breathing you in between them while every hurried step pressed the hard rise of him between your legs.

Your back hit the mattress hard enough to bounce you once as Peter followed you down, already tugging at the clothes between his hands and your skin. You tried to help, lifting into him as he dragged your shirt upward, but Peter was moving too fast for either of you to make it graceful. Fabric tangled around your arms, your hands knocked into his, and his breathing sharpened as he fought it free, throwing it aside so he could get his mouth back on you. His lips moved from yours to your jaw, then the bare stretch of your shoulder while his hands kept working, rough and impatient as they stripped away everything still covering you.

His own clothes went just as quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt, but Peter was already wrenching it over his head, barely giving the rest time to hit the floor as he came back to you. There was none of his usual awkward fumbling, no nervous laugh when your limbs got in each other’s way, only the desperate need to get closer. He kissed you again the second there was nothing left between you, his mouth opening hot over yours while his hands finally met skin. They swept over your waist, closed around your thigh, dragged you farther down the mattress as though having you naked against him still somehow wasn’t close enough. His breath broke harshly across your lips as he lined himself up, then pressed inside.

There was nothing slow about it. Peter sank into you in one hard movement that pulled the air from your lungs and forced a low, strained sound from his throat. His forehead dropped to yours, fingers digging harder into your hip while the sudden stretch split through you, raw and immediate, making your body lock around him. The reaction went straight through Peter, his mouth finding yours again to swallow the sound you made as his hips started rutting into you. 

He fucked you like he was trying to drown in the one sensation that didn’t hurt, each thrust driving him deeper while his mouth stayed pressed to yours and his hands kept you pulled tight against him. He had denied himself this until the distance became another kind of pain, listening to your voice through unanswered calls and imagining the touch he had forced himself to avoid while every nerve in his body burned too hot inside him. Now your lips were under his, your fingers twisted in his hair, your body wrapped around every place that had ached for you, and the relief was already turning sharp at the edges.

The overload still threaded through him, coiled and electric, but now every sound that hit too loudly was dulled almost as soon as it reached him. A horn blared somewhere below, only to vanish into the broken way you said his name. The pipes knocked inside the wall, but your nails dragged down his back hard enough to leave heat behind, giving his senses something closer to hold onto. He could hear every shift in your breathing, every wet pull of his body moving inside yours, every small sound you tried to swallow into his mouth, and each one cut cleaner through the noise than anything else had. He even felt the smallest rise in your temperature where your skin met his, warmth gathering a fraction at a time across your chest, your stomach, the inside of your arms where they held him close, each change so slight you never would’ve noticed it yourself, but Peter caught all of it. 

It became too much and still somehow wasn’t enough. Peter answered every change in your body without thinking, pounding into you faster like he could keep coaxing more from you—more warmth, more sound, more of those filthy little reactions whenever he struck deep enough. Feeling all of you at once wore through what remained of his control, every tremor, every shiver, every breath sweeping across his face, until he stopped trying to escape the overload and gave himself to it instead, sinking further because now every part of it tasted like you.

The second your body started to settle into the rough pace, Peter slowed. One last deep stroke left you stretched around him, then he withdrew so abruptly the loss barely registered before his hand closed around your hip and turned you over. Your stomach hit the mattress, sheets twisting around you as he rolled you onto it, one palm pinning you in place while the other hauled your hips back to him. You’d hardly caught your breath when his weight covered you and he sank inside again, the angle wrenching a broken sound from your mouth as your back arched on instinct, your ass meeting his hips while he started fucking you all over again.

Peter leaned forward until his chest covered your back, skin hot and slick where it sealed to yours, then hooked one arm around you and drew you into him. His bicep locked across the front of your throat, thick at the hollow just below your chin, holding you exactly where he wanted while his mouth hovered near your ear. The position left you trapped between his body and the mattress, your back pulled flush to his chest as he drove into you harder, each thrust landing deeper from the way he’d folded himself around you. His grunts broke low beside your head while your moans spilled out underneath them, his breath hitting the shell of your ear in short, ragged bursts whenever your body clenched and dragged another sound from him.

God, you felt good. The thought tore through him somewhere between the sound of his cock fucking back into you and the way you cried his name in those thin, ruined breaths, your voice breaking each time his hips snapped forward. With your body wrapped hot and tight around him and your pulse hammering against his arm, the thing inside him that kept scratching for release finally had somewhere to go. It settled lower, meaner, turning relief into a hunger that cinched his arm tighter and drove his rhythm toward something brutal, his mouth grazing your ear while he fucked you like he needed to hear exactly how much of him you could take.

His free arm circled you next, crossing over the first until both locked you to him, closing your body into his while his hips kept driving forward with nowhere left for you to move. The pressure forced your back tighter to his chest and kept him buried along the same swollen place over and over, each thrust striking it so cleanly that your cries started breaking apart. You said his name once, then again, louder when the tension finally split through you, your legs locking straight before they broke into short, uneven kicks across the sheets. The orgasm flooded through you hard enough to make your whole body seize inside his arms, thighs trembling, hips jerking, your pussy clenching around him in pulsing waves while Peter held you there and kept fucking you through every second of it.

Even with your body shaking around him, he still wasn’t done. The release moving through you gave him more to feel, every tight pulse dragging over him, every fractured sound falling from your mouth landing right against his senses. The sensation turned his breathing rougher near your ear, but he finally dragged himself out, the loss drawing a wrecked sound from your throat as his arms loosened around you. One hand stayed at your hip while the other caught your shoulder, flipping you onto your back so quickly the room tipped around you. The mattress sank with his weight as he followed, settling between your legs and driving back inside while you were still catching your breath, the stretch tearing another ruined sound from you when your body took him again so soon.

Peter braced himself over you with both arms framing your head, his chest dropping close enough that each rough exhale reached your face. Then his hips started moving, driving into you with a pace that made the bed shift with each stroke, the headboard knocking softly into the wall while your body slid higher over the sheets. His mouth found yours in the middle of it, but even the kiss came apart under the force of how he was fucking you, teeth catching your lip, breath spilling between you, his mouth missing yours for half a second when a harder thrust jolted you both before dragging back over it.

Your hands landed on his shoulders, nails pressing into skin already marked from you, and Peter answered by dropping more of his weight over you. One forearm stayed planted beside your head while the other slid down your body, palm dragging over your waist until his fingers closed behind your knee. He pulled your leg higher along his side and hooked it over his hip, opening you wider for him without slowing, the shift changing the angle enough that the next thrust struck somewhere that made your whole body jerk. Your mouth broke from his on a sharp cry, and his face tightened at the sound, eyes dropping between you as he felt the way you closed around him.

That was all the encouragement his body needed. He rolled his hips lower on the next drive, grinding into you instead of pulling back as far, keeping himself buried while he worked over that same sensitive place from inside. The motion was slower for half a second, deeper in a way that made the pressure build instead of break, his pelvis dragging against you while his hand held your leg tight to his side. Then he pulled back only enough to do it again, each stroke forcing you open around him before ending in a rough grind that pressed every inch of him inside you.

He kept changing the rhythm by fractions, listening to what each adjustment did to your breathing, watching your lips part when he angled his hips slightly higher, feeling your leg tighten around him when he drove down and forward. Every stronger reaction pulled another one from him, a low grunt breaking near your mouth as he chased the spots that made your body seize beneath his.

You could feel how close he was in the tension running through his body, in the way his stomach drew taut over yours and his breath kept catching between clenched teeth, but he still wouldn’t let himself fall into it. Even like this, with sweat slick between you and that rougher edge cutting through every movement, Peter still had a hold on himself. You knew him well enough to see it. 

His rhythm would stutter for half a second, one broken thrust landing harder than the rest, then he’d drag it back under control and force himself into something steadier. His jaw stayed locked, the muscles along his shoulders trembling beneath your hands while his eyes squeezed shut, and you knew what he was hiding from when his lashes pressed tighter against his cheeks. The black was threatening to rise again. One side of him was clawing for more while the other kept every part of his body pulled painfully tight, terrified of what would happen if he stopped controlling each breath, each muscle, each filthy drive into you.

You reached for his face, palms sliding over the heat in his skin until your fingers curled along his jaw and pulled him down toward you. “Peter.” His eyes stayed shut, his hips still moving with that strained, measured force, so you said his name again and made him look at you. Brown showed first when his eyes opened, darkened around the edges by something deeper trying to surface, and the fear there was sharp enough to cut through the hunger twisting across his face. 

You held him there anyway, thumbs braced high along his cheeks while his body kept moving between your thighs. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head once, barely enough to count, like even that small movement might loosen something he couldn’t put back. His mouth brushed yours as he breathed, each exhale hot and uneven, his forehead dropping close while his grip tightened around your leg.

“You don’t know that,” he managed, though the words broke apart when you clenched around him and his hips jerked hard into you. You nodded against him, refusing to let him turn away, your hands keeping his face close while your lips moved softly over his. “It’s okay,” you told him, the words landing between one kiss and the next. “Let go.”

You were looking straight at him while you said it, your body spread wide for him, your mouth still touching his as you asked for the thing he’d been fighting to keep from you. Peter searched your face for hesitation and found none, only your fingers tightening along his jaw and the quiet nod you gave him when his breathing caught. His brows pulled together for half a second, something strained and almost disbelieving passing through his expression, and then everything changed.

His palm struck the headboard above you, fingers spreading hard over the wood as his hips drove forward with enough force to shove you higher across the mattress. The next thrust came faster, then another, whatever restraint he’d been holding finally splitting apart as he fucked into you with the strength he’d spent the entire night trying to keep buried. Your mouth fell open, each breath spilling into helpless sounds while your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, nails digging in as each snap of his body buried him as deep as you could take him.

The bed slammed under you, its wooden frame knocking against the wall in a violent rhythm that matched the pounding of his hips. The headboard struck once, twice, then kept hitting until the plaster cracked behind it and dust sifted loose along the edge, but Peter didn’t slow enough to notice. His arm stayed locked above your head, every muscle drawn taut as he fucked you harder, each impact traveling through your body until your breasts shook and your legs cinched around his waist just to keep yourself anchored.

You felt all of it, every brutal glide as he pulled back and every deep, punishing thrust that filled you again, his hips grinding into yours at the end of each one as though even that last inch mattered. The mattress shifted at your back, sheets dragging over your skin while Peter’s mouth found yours between ragged breaths, the kiss missing at first when another hard stroke knocked your head back, then met it again with teeth and tongue and the rough sound he made when you squeezed around him. He was finally letting everything through, all that impossible strength turning each movement sharper, fuller, until there was nothing in the room except the bed striking the wall and the wet, filthy rhythm of his body driving into yours.

His pace broke without warning, one deep thrust holding him against you while his whole body went rigid above yours. A wrecked sound tore from his throat as he came, hips jerking hard into you again while his fingers pressed deep enough into the frame to splinter the wood under his palm. His face tightened through it, mouth falling open near yours, and when his eyes lifted they were already changing, the brown disappearing into black until the darkness swallowed them completely.

Peter realized it almost immediately. You saw the exact second pleasure gave way to fear, his body still trembling over yours while those blackened eyes searched your face for the reaction he’d been expecting since the first night. He waited for you to tense, to recoil from what he’d finally let you see, to understand why he’d begged you to stay away, but you only tightened your hands behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Your mouth met his without hesitation, soft for half a breath before opening wider, catching the rough exhale that left him while your fingers pushed into his hair and kept him close.

This was what he’d tried to outrun, and he’d been wrong.

You saw the black in his eyes, saw the change he feared would make you look at him differently, and you didn’t treat him like a monster. You kissed him like he was still Peter because he was. Your arms drew him closer as his weight settled over you and his hips kept grinding through the last uneven pulses of his release. The slow pressure dragged over the place he’d already worked raw until your second orgasm spilled through you, your body closing hard around him as his name slipped from your mouth and into the kiss.

Peter felt every part of it. The sudden heat spreading through you, the sharp tremor running down your legs, the helpless way your nails caught at his shoulders while your body tightened around him in wet, pulsing waves. He held you through it with his forehead pressed to yours, those dark eyes fixed on your face as the terror he’d carried for days found nowhere left to stand. You weren’t scared. You weren’t enduring him or trying to calm him down. You wanted him exactly like this, still wrapped around him while your breath shook against his lips and your body kept drawing him deeper whenever the aftershocks moved through you.

The realization met every sharpened sense at once, cleaner than the noise outside or the damaged headboard creaking beneath his hand. Your pulse wasn’t racing with fear. Your scent had only grown warmer, richer, threaded through with the same desire that had pulled him to your throat in the first place, and the arms around his neck weren’t trying to hold him back. They were pulling him closer.

His body had been trying to tell him that from the beginning. Every time his senses cut through the rest of the city to find you, every time your voice rose above thousands of others or your touch gave all that noise one place to settle, it hadn’t been choosing a target. It had been reaching for an anchor. He had spent all this time afraid to touch you, forcing himself to stay away while every part of him remained painfully aware of what he was denying himself, never realizing he had been running from the one thing trying to bring him back.

Something in him settled around that truth while something else rose to meet it. His mouth found yours as his hips began to move, slowly at first, then with a gathering force that filled the room with heat, the creak of splintered wood, and his name breaking apart in your mouth again and again.

© anon-188 - est. 2025 | please do not repost, copy, translate, or recreate my work in any form.

• taglist: @nnd-oma @pinksplace @theworstwolvie

if you want to be tagged in my future posts, comment or message me! i’m happy to do it! :) just let me know if you want all works or just for specific characters <3

• links: masterlist | wattpad | tip jar 🫙 (support my writing!)

note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.

Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.

That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.

He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.

Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.

His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.

He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.

“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.

You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.

You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.

He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.

You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.

“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.

You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.

He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.

He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.

His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.

He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.

He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.

Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.

He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.

“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.

Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.

He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.

He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.

He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.

“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.

He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.

You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.

He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.

He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.

You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.

You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.

He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.

“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.

He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.

You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.

“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.

“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.

You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.

“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.

His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.

“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.

He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.

His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.

He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.

He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.

You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.

He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully. 

Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.

“Were you expecting company?”

She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.

“Oh. Right.”

A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day. 

Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”

“W-what?” 

“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered. 

“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?” 

Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.” 

His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“ 

“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.” 

He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“

You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.” 

His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger. 

“…Seriously?”

You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.” 

His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.

“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.” 

You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?” 

“I forgot.” 

“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.

You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost. 

Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.

The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.

You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately. 

Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off. 

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?” 

He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.” 

“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“ 

You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago. 

The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?” 

You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again. 

“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.” 

“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.” 

“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch. 

“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”

You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement. 

“Yes, can we?” 

“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.” 

“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet. 

The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.

“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”

“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.

“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.

Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”

”It is more like possession."

You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.

Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”

You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs. 

“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”

Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”

“I’ve seen your belly button.”

All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered. 

“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”

“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”

The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.

”You’ve scared him off.” 

“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.

Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.

News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last. 

 The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????” 

You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything. 

“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “

“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”

You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.

“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”

“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”

“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”

“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”

You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”

He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”

“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing” 

“Oh? That’s it huh?” 

“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to. 

Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”

“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.

Instead, silence answered you.

The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity. 

You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.

I’m at your office. Where are you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

running 2 get food

Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.

do u want blini

wait no dumplings

there's an ice cream cart do u want 

of course u want why do i ask

Then another.

I'll get them all brb

there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country 

You couldn’t help smiling. 

thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea 

Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.

yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time 

Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.

You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.

By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.

A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.

So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.

”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.

“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself. 

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”

“I’ll just wait here.” 

“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.” 

“Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”

He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”

“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”

”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.” 

“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.

He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.

It was then your eyes caught the scar.

Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.

He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”

One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.

”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.” 

“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.” 

“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?” 

He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.

You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”

“Y-Yeah…”

The word caught somewhere in his throat.

A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.

His eyes betrayed him.

For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.

“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.” 

“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.

“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”

Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”

Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view. 

“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated. 

“Do you shoot webs from other places?” 

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”

A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“I said that’s a shame.”

“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”

For a long second he simply stared at you.

“What? I like spiders too, you know?”

Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.

“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.” 

“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?” 

He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you. 

“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”

Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.” 

He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.

For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.

“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?” 

“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.

The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.” 

“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?” 

He shakes his head, “I try not to.” 

You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.

“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek. 

“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric. 

You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” 

“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced. 

Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones. 

“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing. 

“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch. 

“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.” 

He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins. 

“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?” 

“I-“ 

“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“ 

One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it. 

He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?” 

You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth. 

One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits. 

“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit. 

“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.” 

Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist. 

“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.” 

“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”

There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically. 

In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you. 

He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt. 

There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd. 

“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.” 

Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.” 

“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out. 

“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs. 

“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you 

Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh. 

You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.

“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.” 

“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again. 

When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“

”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.” 

“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm. 

“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.

“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.” 

“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time. 

You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you. 

“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.

“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him. 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“ 

“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.” 

He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his. 

“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…” 

“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs. 

“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.

He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.” 

“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened. 

“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.

That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name. 

You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again. 

“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.” 

The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries. 

“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.” 

“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.” 

“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you. 

“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.” 

“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. 

The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.

note: i am so hungry, and i hope this will also make you all full of peter. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

Walking home alone with too much alcohol in your system makes the city streets feel a little less lonely at night. You stumble slightly over the curb while you check your phone for the time. Spiderman is out there swinging between the buildings somewhere above you. You know he exists without ever trying to follow where he goes. Seeing him on the news occasionally is enough for you. You keep walking down the sidewalk until footsteps drop from the rooftops above you. Tonight feels like an ordinary walk home before someone bumps right into you. Peter is fighting bad headaches that won’t go away no matter what he tries to do about it. His arachnid genes are acting abnormally lately and pushing past his human side in ways he can’t control. He spends his nights searching for a cure because the animal instincts keep taking over his thoughts. Stress makes the biological changes worse tonight since his mind is already exhausted, and seeing MJ kissing another man at her housewarming party earlier today makes it worse.

Watching her with someone else triggered something feral inside him, and it doesn’t help that no one remembers who Peter Parker is anymore. His arachnid instincts take over as he drops over the street before he bumps right into your path. Organic web shoots directly from his wrists instead of mechanical shooters before it wraps around your waist. He grabs you with him to swing around until both of you are up on a rooftop. You don’t know Spiderman personally for him to do that so you think you are in danger as he lands on the roof. The spinning motion, together with the drinks in your stomach, creates a terrible feeling by the time you reach the top of the building. You immediately bend over to throw up all the alcohol in your stomach right onto the roof. He watches you puke before he lets out a loud laugh. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand while he just looks at you and shakes his head.

That first night didn’t end up so terrible because Spiderman brought you home safely after you threw up on the roof. He even apologized for grabbing you off the sidewalk before he left you outside your building. Running into him once feels like a simple coincidence when you think about it the next morning. He knows he doesn’t mean to keep doing it, but he saw you walking home alone weeks later and decided to give you another ride across the city. Happening twice is already something unusual, yet a third or fifth time tells both of you that this is no longer an accident. He can’t control the urges yet since he hasn’t managed to suppress his arachnid genes. Everything that happened on that first night opened his eyes to the idea of trying again. He isn’t actively searching for another girlfriend, though he feels open to the possibility now. He doesn’t understand why his arachnid side feels so protective over you whenever you are out late at night.

He isn’t stalking you by any means, yet his senses alert him whenever someone gets too close to you on the street. He has no idea why his biological instincts react so strongly whenever you walk home alone after a night out. The urge to check on you keeps happening without any clear explanation. Maybe he even programmed your details into E.V so his tech tracks you whenever the cameras catch you walking by yourself. E.V notifies his mask display whenever you leave a building late at night so he can make sure the streets are clear. He tells himself it’s just a safety measure to keep you out of trouble. You never actually saw each other face to face during any of those times E.V watched over you from above. He waited up on the roofs while you walked down the pavement. You only knew he was around when he decided to drop down to pick you up for another ride home. Those repeated trips across the city happened several more times over the past few weeks.

Neither of you talks about why he keeps showing up whenever you are out late. His arachnid side feels satisfied whenever he drops you off safely at your front door. He never fails to bring you home after you finish drinks with your friends. Tonight tests his patience because the alcohol in your system makes you act way too clingy. You wrap your arms around his shoulders instead of holding onto him normally while he takes you above the street. You press your face into his neck right over his collar. He tries to ignore the way you rub your nose against him as he moves between the buildings. “Don’t move around so much up here,” he grunts while he checks the distance to the next roof. You ignore his warning before you inhale the scent of his suit right against his throat. Your mouth opens against the material as you leave small pecks along his neck. He tenses up when your teeth bite down on him through the fabric.

His senses are already too sensitive tonight, so your mouth against his neck distracts him. His web misses the next building after your teeth catch him by surprise. “F-fuck- what are you doing?” he curses as he brings you closer against his chest. Both of you almost fall before he shoots another web to find support and avoid touching the ground. “You smell good,” you mumble against his throat while your teeth nip at him again. He manages to get both of you across the rest of the blocks without falling again. He lands on the floor of your balcony before he sets you down. You refuse to let go of his shoulders even after your feet touch the ground. His arachnid side reacts badly because your mouth keeps trailing over his neck. “Stop biting me,” he warns you as his hands hold your waist. He backs you toward the wall of your apartment while his breathing turns ragged behind his mask. “Mmm- no,” you say before you tug him closer by his shoulders.

He looks down at you with his chest heaving while he tries to control his urges. He raises one arm while he keeps you against the wall of the balcony. A line of web shoots from his wrist toward the knob of your balcony door. It sticks to the handle before he pulls his arm back to slide the door open. He wants you inside because standing out here makes everything too complicated. You ignore the open door while you keep your arms around his shoulders. Your hands leave his shoulders before you reach up toward his mask. You try to pull the red fabric up over his chin so you can look at his face. His right hand leaves your waist before his fingers wrap around your wrist to stop you from lifting it higher. He pushes your hand away from his face while he looks down at you. “Don’t do that,” he warns you as he shoves your wrist back down between your bodies. You try to reach for the mask again with your other hand, but he blocks you easily.

“I can’t let you see me,” he tells you while he keeps your hands away from his head. The alcohol in your system makes you stubborn, so you push your hands against his chest in frustration. You hate that he stops you every time you try to see who hides behind the mask. “That’s not fair,” you complain while you try to wiggle your wrists away from his fingers. He keeps you against the wall while your feet kick slightly against the floor. “You always pick me up and bring me home, but you won’t even show me your face,” you whine as you bump your forehead against his shoulder. He watches you throw a tantrum before he finally lets go of your wrists to guide you through the open balcony door into your living room. He swats your hands away whenever you try to touch his chest again. He walks you backward across the floor while he watches your face. “You’re too drunk tonight,” he tells you as he tries to keep some space between your bodies.

You ignore his warning before you wrap your hands around his arms. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” you complain while your fingers caress the fabric of his sleeves. He tries to shake you off, but you refuse to let go of him. You look up at him while he keeps walking you backward across the room. “Don’t you want a reward for keeping me safe?” you ask him while your hands move up to his shoulders. He shakes his head immediately before he tries to remove your hands from his suit. “You need to sleep,” he answers while he pushes you toward your bedroom hallway. You hate that he keeps rejecting you after everything he did for you tonight. You stop walking backward so you can look up at his face. He pulls the bottom of his mask up just enough above his chin to leave his lips exposed so he can catch his breath. You stare at his mouth while he tries to get you to move again.

You lean forward quickly to try to kiss his lips. He catches your shoulders with his hands before your mouth can touch him. He pushes you back away from him while he turns his head to the side. “No,” he warns you as he holds you at arm’s length. You stumble backward into your bedroom while you look at him in disbelief. “Why won’t you let me thank you?” you whine before you try to step toward him again. He acts quickly by shooting a thick line of web around both of your forearms to bind your wrists together behind your back so you stop grabbing him. You stumble back a step until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit down. His hands reach for your ankles before he starts taking your shoes off your feet. He tosses your shoes aside while he tries to ignore the way you keep staring down at him. You spread your legs wider apart on the edge of the mattress to get his attention.

He tries to ignore what you are doing while he drops your second shoe onto the floor. You lift your right leg before you place your foot right on his shoulder. You use your leg to pull his shoulder closer toward the bed. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your knees. “Why are you acting like you don’t want me?” you whine while you pout down at his mask. He lets out a loud sigh before he leans forward between your knees. He drops his forehead right against your thigh with his shoulders tensed up. The mask is rolled up above his chin so his mouth is uncovered. His exposed lips touch the fabric of your pants while he rests his head on your leg. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave tonight,” he warns you as his chest rises against your knees. You feel his breath through your pants while he keeps his forehead on your thigh. He tries to control his arachnid side before he does something he can’t take back.

You feel the web that binds your arms together behind your back. The alcohol makes you bold, so you lean your chest closer toward his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you tied the rest of me up with your web,” you tease him while you nudge his shoulder with your foot. He lifts his head from your thigh to look up at your face. His jaw tightens after he hears what you want him to do. “Jesus- don’t give me ideas like that,” he mutters before his hands reach up to hold your hips. He pulls you closer to the edge of the mattress until your thighs surround his chest. He refuses to back away from you now that you invited him closer. “I can’t do much with my arms tied up anyway,” you tease him while you look down at his exposed mouth. He looks at your face before his hand reaches up to grab your ankle. He removes your foot from his shoulder and sets your heel down onto the floor between his knees. “Are you really going to leave me here like this?” you ask him before you nudge his side with your leg. He shakes his head as he kneels on the floor in front of you.

“This is some freaky shit you’re doing tonight,” you joke while you watch his jaw tighten. He keeps looking at you like he is trying to figure out how far you are going to push this. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he warns you while his jaw tightens behind his mask. He keeps his head down as he tries to ignore the way you lean toward him. “If you won’t untie me, then at least help me get my pants off,” you complain while you tilt your chin down at him. You don’t really care about changing your clothes tonight. You only want to make it look like you need help so you can see how far you can push his patience. He looks down at your lap before his thumbs touch the waistband of your pants. He knows you are trying to mess with him, but he refuses to back away from the bed. “Come on, do the belt first,” you chuckle while you wiggle your hips slightly on the mattress. He looks up at your face while he kneels on the floor between your knees.

You watch him hesitate before he reaches for the front of your waist. Both of his hands move to the belt around your pants so he can undo it for you. He removes the belt from your waist. He drags the strap free while you keep your attention on his exposed mouth. He drops the belt onto the floor before his hands return to the sides of your waist. “You took the belt off, but you aren’t going to unzip them?” you complain while you shake your head at him. You start pulling your wrists apart behind your back while he kneels in front of you. “What the fuck is that about?” you ask him while you try to push your hips forward on the mattress. You manage to tear through some of the web around your hands even though it doesn’t come off all the way. You keep pulling your wrists apart while you wait for him to answer you. He hears the web tearing behind your back while he kneels between your knees. He doesn’t try to stop your hands from moving because he is just letting you have your fun.

He ignores what you are doing behind your back while his thumbs move to the top of your pants. “Just stop moving for a second,” he tells you before his fingers pop the button open. He pulls the zipper down until your pants open wide at your waist. You spread your legs wider on the edge of the bed so he can take them off. You wait for him to lean closer, but he surprises you by moving away instead. He crawls backward on his knees two steps away from the edge of the mattress. He pushes your knees together with his hands before he grabs the waistband of your pants. He pulls the pants all the way down your legs in one motion until they slide off your ankles. You smirk down at him because he stripped them off you so easily. “You can look,” you tease him when you notice him turn his head to the side. Your smirk grows bigger as you watch him avoid looking at your red panties. “I’m trying really hard to be responsible here,” he mutters while he looks away from you.

He keeps his eyes away from your waist while he drops your pants onto the floor beside him. “You don’t always have to be the good guy,” you tease him while you wiggle your knees on the edge of the mattress. You pull your wrists apart harder behind your back while you wait for him to look at you. “They match your suit,” you point out as you lean your chest forward. He turns his head back toward you before his eyes drop down to your red panties. He doesn’t mean to stare, but your words make him look anyway. “I knew you wanted to see,” you laugh while you keep working your wrists apart behind your back. He shakes his head at you while he kneels on the floor between your feet. “You’re not helping my case here,” he groans before he looks up at your face. You stretch the last strands of web behind you while you watch him hesitate. “Take them off,” you tell him as you tilt your chin down at him.

His jaw tightens while he tries to ignore what you want him to do. “It won’t hurt anyone if you do,” you add while your shoulders twist on the bed. His human side wants to back away so he doesn’t take advantage of you. His arachnid instincts fight harder against him because every second near you makes him want to stop holding back. He keeps his mouth shut while his hands hover over his knees. You force your wrists apart until the web snaps behind your back. You bring your arms forward so your hands sit in your lap. The web still covers your fingers and wrists, but your arms are finally free. You grin down at him while you show off what you did. He scoffs at your face because you look so proud of yourself. “You know I let you do that, right?” he asks you while his mouth almost forms a smirk. You ignore his excuse before you rest your hands against your thighs. “I’m stronger than you thought,” you boast while you look down at his exposed lips.

He shakes his head while he reaches forward to touch your knees. You lift your hands to grab his mask again, but he tilts his head back away from your reach. “Keep trying that, and I’m going to tie you to the bed,” he warns you while his hands move up from your knees to your waist. He looks up at your face before his thumbs hook over the waistband of your red panties. “Yeah? With your web?” you smirk down at him as you open your knees wider against his sides. You ignore what his hands are doing at your hips before you grab the bottom of your shirt. You pull the top over your head in one motion and toss it across the bedroom floor. Taking off your shirt leaves you sitting on the mattress in only your underwear and your bra while he kneels between your feet. “Jesus- I told you to stop making this worse,” he mutters while his jaw clenches below the rolled fabric of his mask. You reach your hands behind your back to undo the clasps of your bra so you can take it off too.

He raises his right hand before a line of web shoots from his wrist right onto the center of your bra. He yanks his arm backward so the web snaps the clasps open behind you and pulls the bra away from your chest. He catches the bra with his right hand and throws it into the corner of the room. “I told you not to be stubborn,” he warns you while he drops his right arm back to your waist. You cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself because you didn’t expect him to strip you like that. Your face heats up while you look down at his exposed mouth in surprise. You look up at his eyes through the mask and think they look like they are turning black. You blame the dark room and the bad lighting for making his eyes look so strange. He knows it isn’t the lighting because his arachnid genes are fighting harder to push past his human side. His animal instincts want to take over now that you are sitting unprotected in front of him.

Both of his hands return to your hips before his thumbs hook into the waistband of your red panties. You push his hands away from your waist before you crawl backward toward the middle of the mattress. He gets up from the floor while he watches you get to your feet on the bed. You hook your thumbs into the sides of your panties to push them down your legs. You kick the red fabric off your ankles before you throw it right at his chest. “I can take them off myself,” you tease him while you stand naked in front of him. He catches the underwear with one hand before he lets it drop onto the floor. He tries to avoid looking right between your legs, but his arachnid side takes over. He raises his wrist before a line of web hits your stomach. He yanks his arm backward to pull you off the mattress and into the middle of the bedroom. The web lifts you up so your feet leave the floor. “What the fuck- are you serious right now?” you laugh while you kick your legs in the air.

He ignores you before he lifts his other wrist to send another web around your right forearm. He attaches the other end to the ceiling so your right arm stretches above your head. He casts more web across your waist before he connects the ends to the walls to keep you in place. The web holds you high enough so your hips align with his waist. You yank your free left arm around to see what he will do about it. He releases another line of web around your left wrist before you can swing at him again. He pulls your left arm upward before he attaches the end to the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Both of your arms spread wide open above your head while the web wraps down to your elbows so you can’t pull your hands down. “Are you going to fuck me like this, spidey?” you tease him while you try to wiggle your hips against the web. He watches you test the hold before he shakes his head at your consistency in trying to get into his pants.

“You wanted me to tie you up,” he grunts before he sends more web across your chest and hips. He attaches the ends to the walls around you until you have nowhere else to go. Your legs dangle in the air while your feet hover above the floor. He aims his wrist at your right leg to put web around your thigh before he lifts your knee up to the side to connect the end to the wall. “Like what you see?” you tease him while you look down at where his eyes drop. He ignores your joke before he raises his left wrist to release more web around your left calf and ankle. He pulls your other knee upward and attaches that web to the opposite wall so your legs spread wide apart. The web bends your knees back until your feet hang high off the bedroom floor. Your entire body hangs in the center of the bedroom right at his hip level with your knees bent back. The web covers your forearms before it wraps around your waist to hold your body up in the air.

Your bent legs hang open so your chest and your cunt are exposed to his eyes. He steps right between your spread knees while he looks down at your waist. You can’t move your limbs away while he stands right in front of you with his mask rolled up above his mouth. “You’re not so talkative now,” he mutters while he looks at your face. You try to wiggle your hips against the web, but it holds you tight in the air. His suited hands reach toward your thigh where the web wraps around your leg. His hands trail slowly over the web while you watch his mouth open slightly. “What’s wrong, spidey? Are you going to leave me here like this?” You laugh as you push your hips forward. His hand leaves your thigh before his palm slaps hard against your exposed cunt. “Ah-! F-fuck-” you gasp while your thighs flex against the web. He watches you react to the slap while his head tilts to the side. “I told you to stop testing me,” he warns you before his hand rests against your inner thigh.

He lifts his left hand between your legs before he presses his covered palm right between your legs. He rubs his palm over you while you try to push your hips forward to meet his hand. The web around your waist holds you in place so you can’t grind against his palm. “Is this what you want?” he asks you while his fingers trace over your wetness. You nod at him while you pout down at his exposed mouth. “You can’t tie me up like this and not give me anything,” you complain as your knees pull against the web. He hums at your answer before he rubs his palm harder against your cunt. “Nnngh-” you gasp while you try to close your legs, but the web keeps your knees apart. He watches your mouth open while he keeps working his hand between your thighs. You try to move your hips again, but the web holds your waist in the air. “You’re really asking me to do this?” he asks you while his teeth clench below the red fabric.

He slows his hand down between your thighs while he waits for your answer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to do all night,” you answer while you look down at his face. He stops rubbing your cunt before he pulls his hand away from between your legs. He takes a step back from your feet before he turns around so his back faces your body. He reaches for the shoulders of his suit and starts pulling the fabric down his chest. You watch him peel the top half of the suit off his back while he stands in the middle of the room. “What about the mask?” you ask him as he pushes the suit past his waist. He keeps his back turned toward you while he steps out of the bottom half of the suit. “The mask isn’t coming off,” he tells you while he drops the suit onto the floor. He wears only his boxers and the red mask over his head before he turns around to face your spread knees. He brings his right hand back between your legs without the suit in his way anymore.

He brushes his middle finger down your folds while his thumb presses against your clit. You bite your lower lip and try to wiggle your knees, but the web around your hips stops you from moving closer. He raises his left wrist and shoots another band of web around your right thigh to stop you from moving around. “Ah-! Why did you do that?” you whine as the web wraps tight around your leg. He ignores your complaint before he slips two fingers inside your cunt. “You look adorable tied up in my web like this,” he tells you while he watches your mouth open. You try to push your hips forward to take more of his fingers, but the web holds you back. “Yeah? Adorable enough to actually fuck?” you tease him while you look down at his face. His lips curve up into a smile below his mask before he pushes his fingers deeper inside you. “Nngh-! F-fuck-” you gasp as his fingers move inside your wetness. He watches your chest rise and fall while he keeps his hand between your thighs.

“You’re so desperate tonight, you can’t even wait five seconds,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside your entrance. He pushes his hand deeper between your legs while you look down at his mask. “You’re still holding back on me,” you complain while you try to move your knees against the web. He steps closer between your spread legs and brings his face right next to your neck. His exposed lips press against your throat before he speaks against you. “I’m only doing this for your own good,” he whispers while his fingers work inside your cunt. It’s been years since the last time he touched someone like this or actually had sex with anyone. That’s the main reason he’s been holding back as much as he can all night. His arachnid side wants to swallow his human genes so his animal instincts can take control over his actions. He knows he’s on the edge of breaking if he keeps touching you like this.

He pushes his fingers deeper between your thighs while he listens to your breathing change. You squeeze your cunt tight around his fingers while you look at the top of his head. “So do you want me just to moan spidey all night since I don’t know your real name?” you taunt him as you try to move your hips. He pushes his thumb hard against your clit before he drags his tongue across your neck. “Haaah-! m-mfffh-” you gasp as his mouth leaves your throat before he lifts his head to look at you. He licks his own bottom lip while he thinks about whether he should tell you or keep quiet. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers inside your cunt while he stares at your face through the mask. You look up at his covered face where only his mouth shows below the red fabric. “Don’t you want to hear me moan your actual name?” you ask him before you squeeze your cunt around his fingers again.

You can’t push your hips forward to get his hand deeper because the web holds you in place. He sighs through his nose while his jaw moves under the mask. “Peter- you can call me Peter,” he mutters while he curls his fingers inside you. There are thousands of guys named Peter in New York, so you wouldn’t know who he really is anyway. He knows that if he ever takes the mask off to show you his face, then he will just have to keep you by his side so you never tell anyone. You hum when you hear his name while he keeps moving his fingers between your thighs. Your clit starts to throb against his thumb, so you close your eyes and let your mouth fall open. “Mmn- ahhnn-” you breathe out while your head tilts back against the air. He lifts his left hand away from your side and brings it up to your chest. His palm cups your exposed breast while his fingers roll your nipple between them.

He squeezes your breast while his other hand works inside your wetness. “You really know what you’re doing with those hands, Peter,” you tell him while you open your eyes to look down at his mask. He scoffs under his breath because he knows you’re just trying to talk him into fucking you now. Hearing his name from your mouth sends a rush straight down to his cock, so his arachnid side reacts before he can stop it. An embarrassing but small amount of web shoots out from his wrists. “Looks like someone else can’t hold back anymore,” you tease him while you laugh at the white string on his wrist. He pinches your nipple hard before he drops his hand away from your chest. “Ah-! sh-shit-” you gasp while he reaches his hand down to the front of his boxers. He grabs his cock right through the fabric while he stares up at your mouth. “See? I told you that you were just as desperate as me,” you laugh while more slick coats his fingers inside your cunt.

He sighs through his nose before he slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers. He strokes his cock inside his shorts while he watches you try to close your legs. “Stop playing around and take those off,” you complain while you watch his hand move under the fabric. You try to wiggle your hips forward to reach him, but the web keeps you in place. “You want it so bad? Come over here and get it,” he teases you while he keeps his fingers working inside your wetness. You glare up at his masked face because your arms are stretched above your head. “Oh, that’s right... You can’t move because you’re tied up,” he mocks you while he curls his fingers inside your cunt. He watches you try to pull your knees together against the web. “Nngh-! p-please-” you whine out while your hips try to push against his hand. He never stops pumping his fingers between your thighs while his other hand strokes his hard cock inside his shorts.

You shake your head at him because he won’t do anything besides finger you. It frustrates you that you can’t even wiggle your knees away from his touch. “Poor baby... Are you getting impatient?” he laughs while he looks at your pout. He pushes his fingers deeper between your wet folds while he watches your mouth open. “I hate you so much,” you mutter while your cunt squeezes around his fingers. He smiles below his rolled-up mask before he slows down his hand between your legs. “Mhm, you’ve been good enough for me tonight,” he tells you before he pulls his hand out of your cunt. He lifts his wet hand up to his mouth to lick your slick off his fingers. He watches your cunt clench around emptiness while he uses both hands to push his boxers down his hips. He kicks the shorts off his feet away from him across the bedroom floor. You watch him stand naked in front of you with only the red mask covering the top of his head. “Never fucked someone like this before, Peter?” you taunt him while you look down at his cock.

You arch your back against the web while he steps closer to your spread thighs. “Never had someone tied up like a toy without their legs around you?” you ask him while your knees pull against the web. His exposed lips curve into a smirk because he knows you always have to be a smart-ass. He steps closer to your spread legs before he slips his right hand through the web to hold your leg. He uses his free left hand to guide his hard cock right between your thighs. He rubs the head of his cock up and down against your wet folds without pushing inside you yet. “Hah- wait- P-Peter-” you gasp out while he slides his length over your clit. He looks down at your face while you try to push your hips forward against the web. “Shh- quiet down for me,” he whispers before he starts to push his cock slowly between your lips. His left hand guides him inside until his length is deep enough to fill your cunt before he drops his hand and stops pushing forward.

He brings his hand up to your face while you tilt your head to rub your cheek against his palm. “Mmf-” you whine while you lean into his hand. He watches you through the white lenses of his mask while you close your eyes to bite your bottom lip. He looks at the way your face reacts to him opening you up, and he likes seeing you tied up for him. He pushes his hips forward again to slide the rest of his cock inside you. You breathe through your open mouth once he pushes all the way inside your cunt. You open your eyes to look at his covered face because you want to see what he looks like right now. Your eyebrows knit together while tears start to gather in the corners of your eyes. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan while you feel him push your cunt wide open. He squeezes your thigh before he leans forward to rest his forehead against your neck. He starts thrusting his hips back and forth while the web holds your body up.

“You take me so well,” he grunts against your throat while he picks up his pace. He brings his hips back so only the tip of his cock is inside you before he slams himself forward to bury himself deep again. You try to move your knees, but the web forces your legs wide open. “P-peter… please, let me see you-” you beg him while he thrusts fast and hard inside your cunt. He ignores what you asked before his teeth bite down onto the side of your neck. “I told you no- jesus-” he mutters against your throat while his hand squeezes your thigh tighter. He moves his other hand from your cheek to the back of your head so he can tangle his fingers in your hair. He forces your head back while he keeps pumping his cock in and out of your cunt. You cry out against his shoulder while his hips slap against your thighs with every thrust. His lips trail up from your throat to your jaw before he presses his mouth against yours. You close your eyes while he kisses you hard enough to force your teeth apart with his tongue.

He bites down on your bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth and lets it go to spit right onto your lips. “Mmmph- you’re so-” you moan after he does that, and his tongue licks your lips. He pulls his face back to look at you before his right hand reaches down to snap the web around your right thigh. He pulls your freed leg up against his side so your knee rests beside his hip. The new position lets him push his cock deeper inside your cunt while he holds you close against his body. He watches your face through his white lenses while he keeps moving his hips forward. His left hand rests tangled in your hair behind your head to keep you in place. Your cunt clenches tight around his cock, and his fingers pull back on your hair hard enough to make your scalp burn. His shaft throbs inside your wetness while he watches your mouth fall open. “Do you want your other leg wrapped around me too?” he asks you while his hips slam into your thighs.

You nod at him while you try to move your left knee against the web. He keeps holding your right thigh with his right hand while he raises his left wrist to shoot two fresh bands of web over your arms. It gives your arms more support in the air before his left hand snaps the web around your left calf. He guides your left leg over his waist so both of your thighs wrap around his hips. He grabs both of your hips with his hands while you float in the middle of the room. “You know how good you look right now?” he asks you before he thrusts deeper inside your cunt. His fingers dig so hard into your hip that it hurts your flesh like he wants to devour you. “Nngh-! o-ow- Peter that hurts-” you complain while your hips rock against his cock. He looks down at your face while he slows down for a second. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he tells you while his thumbs push harder into your waist. He leans in closer to your ear to bite it, but it’s just an excuse to be closer to you.

“You’re going to take it like a good girl,” he whispers before he lifts your legs off his waist and puts your ankles up onto his shoulders. He looks down between your bodies to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet cunt. His enhanced hearing picks up every single noise in the bedroom while he speeds up his thrusts. He listens to the wet squelching of your cunt and the loud slap of his hips against your thighs. Your ragged breaths are loud in his ears while he pushes his cock all the way to his pelvis. He holds your ankles on his shoulders while his hips work faster inside your wetness. His fingers caress up and down your calves while he thrusts deep inside you. You get closer to the edge every time he pushes all the way in. You don’t tell him you’re about to cum, but he feels the way you pulse around him. The wetness drips down his shaft while you squeeze him tight. You need to hold onto him while the pleasure builds, so you tug hard against the web around your arms.

“I need you- p-please let me hold you,” you whine while your toes curl against his shoulders. He turns his head to the side to bite down hard onto your calf. He pulls his cock back until only the tip is left inside you before he slams all the way deep again. He fucks you so hard that the web around your body starts to break. The broken pieces weigh you down, but the rest of the web holds you up in the air. He moves his hands away from your legs to tear right through the bands around your waist. His arms wrap tight around your body while he brings you against his chest. “I need you right here with me,” he grunts before he buries his face into your neck. He thrusts deep enough to reach that spot inside your cunt, and it makes you cum instantly. “Nngh-! o-oh god-” you moan while your wetness coats his cock. He feels you cumming around him and his arachnid instincts take over his head. His enhanced strength makes it effortless for him to walk forward and break right through the remaining webs to carry you.

You wrap your arms around his neck before he walks both of you toward the bed without ever pulling his cock out of you. He gets onto the bed so he can lay you down on the mattress and hover over you. Shredded web clings to your arms and your thighs. “You came around me so fast,” he mutters while he looks down at your face. You nod at him before he slowly starts to thrust inside your cunt again. Your hands leave his shoulders to grab the bottom edge of his mask. You push the fabric all the way up over his head to see his face finally. It scares you because his eyes are pitch black instead of human. You open your mouth to react, but he grabs both of your wrists with his hands. He pins your arms down hard onto the mattress beside your head. “Come on- you wanted to see me so bad,” he smirks while he stares down at you. You try to pull your hands out from under his palms, but he keeps smirking at you.

“You’re not even human- you’re a d-demon,” you gasp while you stare up into his black eyes. He ignores what you called him before he thrusts his cock deep into your cunt. “Ahhhnn- f-fuck-” you moan out loud even though you just tried to insult him. He watches your mouth fall open while he keeps his body pressed over you. “Shh- it’s just me,” he mocks you with fake sympathy while he holds your arms down on the bed. He raises his wrists to shoot web right over your forearms to bind them to the bed so your arms are spread wide open again. “You have such playful hands,” he tells you before he lets go of your wrists. He gets up onto his knees between your spread legs before his left hand grabs your waist and his right hand reaches up to grope your breast. “Are you scared of me now?” he asks you while his fingers squeeze your nipple. You shake your head quickly on the pillow, but he smirks down at you from his knees. “You really should be,” he tells you while his right hand squeezes your breast. He pushes his cock deep into your cunt, and his fingers play with your nipple.

His left hand slides down your side to reach between your legs. You try to twist your bound wrists against the mattress before his right hand leaves your chest. He raises his right wrist to shoot an extra layer of web right over your hands. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll shut your mouth for you,” he warns you while his left hand finds your wet clit. He pinches your clit hard enough to make you whine. “Ah-! nn- please-” you beg him while you shake your head on the pillow. You don’t want to piss him off because he keeps staring at you with those black eyes. You spread your thighs wider for him in response, and he takes a deep breath. “That’s a good girl,” he tells you while a smirk forms on his face. He slams his hips forward with more force, and his left thumb rubs back and forth over your clit. He doesn’t care that you just had an orgasm minutes ago because he keeps rubbing exactly where you are most sensitive.

“Mmf- hahh- it’s too much-” you cry out while your cunt clenches around his cock. His right hand goes right back up to your chest to grab your other breast. He squeezes the soft flesh while his hips slap against your thighs. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he grunts while his thumb flicks over your tight nipple. You want to touch his body badly, but the webs keep your hands pinned to the bed. “Nngh- let me hold you- p-please, Peter,” you beg him while you twist against the web. He looks down at your wrists, and he keeps thrusting into your wetness. “If you want to touch me, then just break free,” he challenges you while he keeps his hands on your body. You stop struggling because you know exactly what he will do if you manage to escape. “Nn- you’d just tie me down again,” you complain while your hips rock up to meet his thrusts. He chuckles above you before he leans all the way down over your body.

He pushes his mouth right against yours for a quick kiss, and he trails his lips down your neck. He moves over to the breast that he neglected earlier to drag his tongue right across the tip. “Oh god- haaah-” you moan out loud while his wet tongue licks your nipple. He moves his face back a few inches to look at you again. “You can try to break free all you want because I don’t bite,” he whispers before he drops his head back down. He wraps his mouth all the way around your nipple, and he bites down hard on the sensitive peak. “F-fuck- ahhhnn-!” you scream out while your back arches off the mattress. The bite makes your cunt squeeze tight around his cock. You thrust your hips up against him while he sucks on your breast. He grunts out loud before he shoves his hips forward to push you deeper into the mattress. He thrusts his cock as deep as he can go while he keeps his teeth pressed into your nipple. His mouth works over your bud while his left hand rubs your wet clit.

His right hand squeezes your other breast before his cock slams deep into your cunt. Having all his attention on your sensitive body pushes you over the edge again. You tear your wrists right through the webs to free your hands from the mattress. You throw your arms around his shoulders so you can tangle your fingers into his hair. You drag your nails down his back while your hips thrust up to welcome every deep pound inside your cunt. “Fuck- yes- mmn- right there,” you moan out loud while you arch your back off the bed. He sucks hard on your breast to take whatever he can get from you. He slams his hips forward faster to match your needy movements. The thought of breeding you takes over his head. He wants to pump all of his cum as deep as he can reach inside your cunt. He feels his balls tighten because he gets closer to cumming with every hit. “I’m going to fill you up so much,” he grunts against your chest before he bites your nipple one more time.

He lifts his mouth from your breast to leave wet kisses up your neck until he reaches your shoulder. He sinks his teeth right into the curve of your shoulder before he pulls away to look at your face. He watches your eyes roll back while his left hand pinches your clit and his right hand pinches your nipple. He rubs his thumb faster over your wetness while he shoves his cock all the way to the base. “You feel so fucking good around me, don’t you?” he praises you before he leans all the way down. He pushes his mouth against yours to force his tongue past your lips. You open your mouth for him so he can taste you while his hips slap against your thighs. “Mmmph- ahhh-” you whine right against his mouth while you kiss him back. The urge to cum gets too close for him to think straight. He doesn’t even notice that his fingers slow down on your clit or how his thrusts become sloppy.

He can feel his cock throb deep inside your wetness. He knows he won’t last another minute before he cums inside you. He bites down hard on your bottom lip until he tastes blood on his tongue. He keeps his teeth there the exact moment his cum starts shooting deep inside your cunt. “Mmf- f-fuck-” he groans against your lips while he empties himself inside you. He leans his forehead against yours while his hips keep moving. He feels how close you are to another orgasm, so he slows his movements down to be gentler. You push his face away to tug on his hair until he opens his eyes. You look up at his face to see that his eyes are normal again. He realizes he is finally back to normal. He moves his hand away from your clit to rest his palm on the mattress beside your neck. He continues to roll his hips between your legs before he leans his forehead against yours again. “I- I’m sorry,” he whispers over your mouth.

You close your eyes to caress his back while you listen to his heavy breaths. “Why are you sorry?” you ask him while your hips move with his thrusts. He takes a moment to catch his breath before he answers you. “I was too rough earlier, and I wasn’t myself,” he mumbles right against your lips. Hearing that makes you bite your bottom lip before you grind your hips up against his cock. You breathe hard against his mouth to share his air before you lean up to kiss him. “I can handle you just fine,” you tell him between soft pants. He moves his face away from yours after he hears that. He wonders if someone can actually take that side of him without getting hurt. His left hand squeezes your chest gently while his cock pushes deeper inside your cunt. He closes his eyes as he feels the wetness coating his shaft. He wants to give you a second orgasm, so his hand balls up into a fist to twist the bedsheets beside your head.

He takes his time to slide all the way out before he pushes back in. “Haaah- oh god- yes,” you whine out loud while your cunt squeezes his cock. You cum hard around him, and he throbs inside you the exact second he feels it. He drops all his weight onto your chest to hide his face in your neck. “That was my first time letting that part of me out,” he whispers against your collarbone. You trace your nails over his shoulders to comfort him. “Let’s hope it was worth it,” you tease him while you wrap your arms around his back. He shivers against you, and his cock twitches deep inside you. He drags his teeth over your collarbone before a ragged exhale leaves his mouth. His body melts completely against your chest, and he refuses to pull out. You let your fingers wander down his sweaty spine while he nuzzles your neck. “More than worth it,” he mumbles back.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-six © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

Frank is great husband.

Not in the grand, movie-worthy gestures. Not because he remembers every anniversary without checking the calendar. Not because he buys expensive jewelry or plans elaborate date nights. Frank is great because he pays attention. He notices. He notices when your favorite cereal is getting low and replaces it before you realize it's gone. He notices when you've had a rough day before you even say hello, because your shoulders sit just a little tighter.

He notices when you haven't been sleeping, and somehow you always wake up to fresh coffee already brewing and your favorite blanket tucked around your feet. He notices when your shampoo changes.

When you get a haircut. When you've picked at your nails because you're anxious. When your smile isn't reaching your eyes. He notices everything. Which is exactly why, after six years of marriage, he got tired of pretending your period "snuck up on him."

Because according to you— "You've got one week every month where you act shocked I'm bleeding."

So… Frank fixed the problem.

It started innocently enough.

He downloaded one of those period tracking apps. Not for himself— For you.

At first, it was purely practical. He'd quietly glance at the calendar every few days.

Three days before your period? Your favorite chocolate would mysteriously appear in the pantry. The expensive dark chocolate you always refused to buy because "it's ridiculously overpriced."

The heating pad would already be plugged in beside the couch. Ibuprofen would magically rest on your bedside table. The good pads—not the cheap emergency ones—would already be stocked beneath the bathroom sink.

You never had to ask.

He'd even stop at the bakery before work to grab those ridiculous raspberry pastries you always claimed cured cramps.

"They don't cure cramps," he'd grumble while handing you the little paper bag.

"They make me less homicidal."

"Same difference." Eventually, it became almost frightening.

"You've been craving salt all day."

"…How do you know that?"

"'Cause you've eaten half a jar of pickles."

"I always eat pickles."

"Not while glaring at 'em." He'd rub your lower back while you cooked. Wordlessly refill your water bottle. Cancel plans without making you feel guilty. He'd simply say—

"C'mere." And you'd melt into him because somehow… Somehow… He always knew exactly what you needed. You never questioned it. You just assumed Frank had developed some supernatural husband instinct.

He let you believe that.

Because admitting he'd become emotionally invested in a menstrual tracking app felt… deeply uncool.

There was only one problem.

Actually— One enormous, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore problem. The app didn't just track your period. It tracked everything.

Including— Ovulation.

The first time a little notification popped up saying:

High fertility window begins tomorrow.

Frank stared at his phone for a full minute.

"…Huh." He clicked it. Read the explanation. Read it again. Then Googled it. Then read three different medical articles because he didn't trust the first one. By the end of the night, he knew exactly what basal body temperature was. He knew what cervical mucus was. He knew sperm could survive up to five days. He knew the odds of conception during your fertile window. He knew entirely too much.

And suddenly… The app wasn't just reminding him to buy chocolate anymore. It was quietly counting down the days until the week he'd been dreaming about for years.

Because Frank wants a baby.

Ever since he said, "I do", and kissed you once declared husband and wife, he has not dropped the issue of family.

Not in an overbearing way. Never pressuring. Never demanding.

Just… Hopeful. Painfully, adorably hopeful. Every time he sees a father carrying a sleeping toddler over one shoulder, his expression softens. Every time he walks past the tiny clothes section in Target, he slows down just a little. Every time one of your friends announces they're pregnant, he spends the drive home talking about names.

And to be fair, you had tried for a baby. You've wanted to be a mother since you married Frank, finally having settled enough in your life to be able to see yourself taking that step.

But with no luck.

For months. Then a year. Then another.

At first, it had been exciting. You'd grin every time you bought another pregnancy test. Frank would wait outside the bathroom pretending not to pace. Every month he'd hear the wrapper crinkle.

The bathroom door open.

Your quiet, "…Not this month." He'd kiss your forehead.

"Next month." Always next month. Until eventually… Next month started hurting. The negative tests got shoved into the bottom of the bathroom trash instead of ceremoniously thrown away together. You stopped talking about names. Frank stopped lingering in the baby aisle at Target. Neither of you stopped wanting it.

You just… Stopped expecting it.

Still… Frank never deleted the app. He couldn't. It had become part of his routine.

Chocolate. Heating pad. Pads. Ibuprofen.

And… Those little green circles.

Hope, packaged into calendar notifications.

Months later— You're out with friends.

A rare Friday night. Karen insisted everyone needed to leave the house. Matt had somehow been convinced. Foggy was already halfway through his second beer.

The table is loud. Comfortable. Filled with the kind of laughter that only comes from people who've survived too much together. Frank has an arm slung lazily across the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes your shoulder every few minutes.

You lean against him while Karen tells some ridiculous story involving Foggy, a parking ticket, and three pigeons. Frank's phone vibrates. He almost ignores it.

Almost.

Then he glances down.

Peak fertility predicted today.

Frank freezes. He clears his throat. Looks at you. Looks back at the phone. Looks at you again.

"…Honey." You blink.

"Hm?"

"…You wanna head home?" The entire table goes quiet. You frown.

"…We just got here."

"I know."

"You ordered appetizers."

"I know."

"They haven't even arrived."

"I know."

"So…"

"…We could eat at home." Foggy slowly lowers his beer.

"…Frank."

"What?"

"…Are you dying?"

"No." Karen narrows her eyes.

"Did something happen?"

"No." Matt tilts his head.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"You look… motivated." Frank coughs.

"I just thought…"He looks at you again. "…Maybe we could...Leave." You squint at him.

"…Right now?" He nods eagerly.

"Yes, fuck yes, let's leave. Right now."

"Frank-" Frank gets up, and throws a couple of bills on the table.

"For the appetizers. Sorry guys." He grabs your bag for you and softly tugs on your wrist, like an insistent child begging to leave. You get to your feet, throw your friends an apologetic look, and struggle to catch up with your husband as he drags you along behind him.

You barely make it through the restaurant doors before you start laughing. Not a polite little giggle either. A full, helpless laugh that makes you stop walking because Frank Castle—your very serious, very intimidating husband—is currently speed-walking through the parking lot like someone is chasing him.

"Frank." He doesn't slow down. "Frank."

"What?"

"You are aware you're dragging me behind you, right?" He finally looks back. And the expression on his face almost makes you laugh harder. Because he looks guilty. Which is absurd. This is the man who once walked into a room full of armed men without blinking. But apparently abandoning mozzarella sticks because his wife is in her fertile window?

That's where he draws the line.

"I'm not dragging you."

"You absolutely are."

"I'm walking."

"With my hand attached to yours."

"Yeah."

"At a pace normally reserved for escaping explosions." Frank opens the passenger door for you.

"You coming or not?" You cross your arms, pretending to consider it.

"Hmm. I don't know. I might go back inside. Foggy looked devastated." Frank stares at you.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"A little?" You smile.

"A lot." He shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Get in the car."

"Frank."

"Get in the fucking car, mama."

"And why would I do that ?" He sighs, leaning against the car door.

"So i can take you home and fuck you so good that stick shows two lines instead of one." He holds open the door. "Shall we ?"

You've never climbed into a car so fast.

Frank barely waits for the door to slam shut before he's wrenching the gearshift into reverse, tires spinning loose for a second before finding purchase. You fumble with your seatbelt—he doesn't even bother—and the two of you lurch out into the dark, the restaurant's golden light fading behind. He grips the wheel, knuckles white, but his left hand never stops roaming: it floats from your thigh, squeezing, up under your skirt, where you can feel the rasp of calloused skin, the insistent heat of him. The whole car hums with it, sticky and electric and absolutely ridiculous. He doesn't say a word. Just drives, jaw set, eyes ahead, hand under your skirt and fingers feathering the inside of your thigh, getting bolder each mile. It's barely ten minutes before his fingertips slip higher, and he finds you already soaked through, the whimper of surprise that escapes you making him smirk, just a little.

"Jesus, baby," he mutters, voice low. "Didn't even make it home." He doesn't sound disappointed. He doesn't sound like he plans to wait, either. Frank's breathing is already different in here. You hear it, that low steady rumble that means he's barely holding himself back. You watch his jaw work, a tic starting and stopping at the hinge. The ride home is supposed to take twenty minutes, but you have a hunch you're not making it that far. Frank makes it two blocks. He brakes at the red light, stares straight ahead, then turns to you so hard the seat creaks. There's a question in his face—like he's about to say something important, but the words get lost somewhere in the thick gravity between you. He just watches. For a moment. Then he leans over, catches your chin in his hand, and kisses you. It's not sweet. It's not movie-worthy, either. It's desperate, like he can already taste you in the back of his throat. You feel yourself burn for it. The light turns green and Frank pulls away just enough to breathe.

"Can't wait," he says, voice a gravel road of want. "Not even a little." He takes the next right, a hard, fast turn that flattens you against the door. The car lurches into the empty lot of an old bank, tires crunching ancient glass and gravel. Frank kills the engine but leaves the radio on, like some part of him still needs the normalcy of soft rock in the background while everything else in him is ready to tear something open. He unbuckles your seatbelt, his hands already shaking. Not from nerves. From restraint. You're not sure who moves first, but suddenly you're both crawling over the console, a tangle of knees and hands and the friction of denim on denim. He hooks your hips, lifts you into his lap so you're straddling him, the tight space of the driver's seat making everything closer, hungrier. Your back bumps the wheel, and the horn lets out a quick, embarrassed yelp, but neither of you laugh. Frank fists the hem of your shirt, pulls it up with one hand while the other curls around your thigh, squeezing hard enough you think you'll wear the imprint tomorrow. You shiver. He's not even inside you yet, but every part of you is already stretched wide, already tuned to the single desperate note of his need. He kisses you like he's trying to eat the entire past year of missed chances, tongue hot and insistent, beard scraping your cheek. You grind down onto him, feel the obscene bulge in his jeans, hard as a brick and twice as intimidating. Frank’s belt buckle never stood a chance. It’s the fastest you’ve seen him get out of any piece of clothing, and you both nearly topple the cup holders wrestling his jeans down around his thighs. He hisses through his teeth when your hand curls around him—Jesus, he’s hot and heavy, and you swear he twitches in your palm, rutting helplessly against your fist. He grabs your wrist, not to stop you, just to anchor himself, like he’ll fly apart if he doesn’t.

“You sure?” He says it into your neck, words muffled and already fraying at the edges. His cock is leaking onto your wrist, painting the inside of your arm, and you can barely breathe for how much you want him.

“Obviously,” you whisper, and reach down to hook the crotch of your underwear aside. He manhandles you until your tits are pressed to the steeringwheel, your ass on display for him. Frank barely gets the tip inside before you’re already gripping the steering wheel so hard your knuckles ache. He’s big, always has been, but this? Bent over the dashboard, skirt bunched stupidly around your hips and his cock splitting you open from behind, it feels like the first time all over again. You can hear yourself—those needy, helpless noises you never let anyone else hear—and Frank can too, because he lets out a ragged,

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” and presses in another inch, just to see how much you’ll take before you break. You’re shaking, forehead mashed to the cool plastic. The stretch burns, but in the way you crave, and you whine for him, teeth sunk into the sleeve of your own sweater. He’s so far inside already, you can feel the blunt pressure nudging up against your cervix. You clench down, greedy for more, and Frank huffs a fractured laugh.

“You’re gonna milk me dry, you know that?” He sounds ruined. The pride in his voice, though, that’s what makes you melt. He thrusts a little deeper, and your thighs tremble, slick already running in hot rivulets down to the backs of your knees.

“Frank—” you gasp, because the whole length of him is still only halfway in, and you don’t know how much more you can take. You want to be good for him, want to take all of it, even when it feels like you’re being split in half. He kisses the side of your neck, tongue tasting salt and perfume, grip circling your waist tight enough that tomorrow will be a gallery of fingerprints.

“You can do it, baby. C’mon, let me in. You know you want to.” You do, more than anything, so you rock back, trying to impale yourself. The move surprises him and suddenly you’re flush, his hips grinding into your ass, and the stretch is a white-hot line up your spine, dizzying. You sob out something desperate, and he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing every sound.

“You’re perfect,” he growls into your ear, voice gone gravelly. “So fucking perfect for me.” He fucks you just like that—slow at first, like he wants to memorize every inch of you, then faster, harder, until the whole car is rocking, windows fogged, your breath a latticework of moans and pleadings. You whimper, try to nod, but you’re caged between the steering wheel and his body, nowhere to go but forward. He’s not gentle. He’s never gentle when he gets like this, but there’s a tenderness in the way he kisses your neck, the way his thumb ghosts over your exposed spine, like he’s apologizing for every brutal inch he forces inside you.

“You like this?” he says, and it’s not really a question. It’s a warning, maybe, or an admission. You nod, frantic and helpless, forehead bumping the horn again. The noise startles both of you, and you stifle a giggle, which immediately turns into a moan as Frank sets a hard, punishing pace. The car rocks with you, his thighs bracketed tight around your own, hands gripping your hips in a way that promises bruises.

“Jesus,” he grits, “feel how deep I am? Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last.” His breath is in your ear, hot and desperate, and you can feel how close he is, the way his whole body is shaking behind you.

“You’re gonna take all of me. Yeah? Let me fill you up, just like that.” You moan, head tipping backwards and onto his shoulder. The stretch is obscene. Frank isn’t even trying to hide how much he loves it, every sharp intake through his teeth, every muttered, “holy fuck, look at you,” another ripple of want up your spine. You think you might die in this car, impaled and slowly rearranged until there’s nothing left but the way you pulse and grip around him. You brace against the dash, fingers splayed, searching for leverage that doesn’t exist. Frank's hand is all the support you get—one palm locked around your hip, the other inching up under your shirt, squeezing and kneading until your skin burns. When you arch, desperate for anything, he slides his hand up your back, not gentle at all, shoving you down—closer, tighter—until your chest smears condensation across the steering wheel.

“You good?” He asks, and you can’t tell if he’s all the way in, or if you’re just delirious from the way the world narrows down to the throbbing pressure inside you.

“God, yes, Frank- ” you breathe, but you can’t finish, not when he snaps his hips just a little, driving the last inch home. Your eyes squeeze shut. You feel it everywhere.

“Attagirl,” he grunts, and the pride in his voice makes you want to sob. “Knew you could take it. Knew you’d be perfect.” He’s not moving yet, just holding you open, letting you feel every millimeter of him. You don’t realize you’re whining until he shushes you, soothing, thumb stroking circles into your hip. Every thrust is a new kind of fullness, a new angle that scrapes something raw and perfect inside you. You peek over your shoulder and catch him watching, his face all hungry and wrecked, and the way he’s staring at the place you’re joined makes your knees nearly buckle. The pleasure is so sharp it’s almost a threat.

“Jesus, look at you,” he rasps, “you’re fucking swallowing me, sweetheart.” Your head swims. You don’t even recognize the noises in your own throat, not until he leans over you, mouth at your ear.

“Bet you feel me up in your guts, huh?” You nod, frantic, and he rewards you with a savage snap of hips that makes your eyes roll. You can feel everything—every throb, every twitch, every molten inch. He keeps you bent, one hand wrapped around the front of your throat now. Frank’s hips stutter, and he groans, deep and guttural, like he’s gone feral. He slows, using his weight to pin you, the head of his cock grinding in circles against that impossible spot that always makes you see stars. The car’s tiny, and the air’s gone thick with sweat and your own wild, animal noises. You can smell both of you, messy and raw, and the thought of it—of how you’re rutting like teenagers in a borrowed car—nearly sends you right over. He grinds deeper, impossibly deeper, and you gasp, fingernails raking black trenches into the faux leather steering wheel.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he pants, voice hoarse from holding back. “You feel that? Feel how perfect you are for me?” He arches, locking his elbows into the seatback, and you swear the whole center console creaks. He’s not gentle about it, not even pretending to be, but every rough thrust lights you up. Your thighs start to shake, knees knocking the dash, and you can’t even pretend you’re not about to break apart for him. You sob,

“Frank, please, fuck, I’m—” and he cuts you off with a hand over your mouth, not to shush you, but so he can feel the desperate wet heat of your breathing against his palm. He ruts up into you, relentless, and you clench down, greedy for every inch.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “God, you’re filthy. Letting me fuck you like this. You love it, don’t you? Love knowing you’re gonna be dripping with me for days.” You writhe, pressing back as far as you can, and he rewards you with a hard slap to your ass. The sound echoes, sharp and obscene, and you choke on your own moan. You go boneless at the echo of his palm, the humiliation of it licking up your spine—God, you want more, you want all of it, you want Frank to carve new fingerprints into your skin and leave them there, permanent tattoos the shape of love and hunger. The last time he was this rough, the entire right side of your body had a bruise shaped like his handprint for a week. You’d worn it like a secret under your work clothes, fingers sneaking down during boring meetings just to feel the edges of his claim. He’s rutting now, really rutting, cock punching up deeper than you thought possible, and it’s not even the pain that does you in, it’s the pride in his voice, the way he sounds like your pleasure is some sort of holy thing he’s worshiping. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head up, forces your eyes open so you’re staring at your own wrecked reflection in the rearview mirror. Your face is flushed, jaw slack, eyes tearing up from the intensity.Frank holds you there for one long, trembling second, gaze locked in the mirror, and the world shrinks to the fogged glass, the desperate clutch of his hands, the bright, stupid ache between your legs. Every inch of him inside, pushing you to the brink, and for a moment, all you can do is whimper. The steering wheel digs into your ribs, that silly, plastic horn badge pressed cold and insistent against your sternum, and still he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs quake, not when your breath snags sharp in your chest. Frank is relentless. He’s always relentless. But there’s something new in it tonight, some raw, scraping edge. He rocks his hips in tight, punishing little thrusts, and the car is full of it: the sharp slap of skin, your muffled, uneven sobs, and over all of it, Frank’s voice, rasped and wrecked and so, so proud.

“Fuck, you take me so good. Didn’t think you’d get all of it in, sweetheart, but you always prove me wrong.” His mouth is at your cheek now, teeth and beard scraping, and when he moves his hand from your throat to your mouth, you let him. You’re too gone to do anything else. He presses two fingers over your lips, thumb dragging slow over your chin, and every sloppy, gasping sound you make vibrates against his hand. He loves it. You can feel it in the way he pulses thick inside you, the way his breath comes harsher, almost pained.

“Gonna make you mine, baby,” he mutters. “Gonna keep you full. Not letting you up until I’m leaking out of you.” You whine for it, because that’s what he wants, and you want it too, embarrassing as it is. Want him split you open and keep you messy, want the soreness tomorrow, the impossible fullness now. He grinds in deeper, rolling his hips with a slow, evil drag, and the friction lights a fuse in your belly. The world starts to blur at the edges.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “You feel how fucking deep I am?” All you can do is nod, breathless and shaky, and he rewards you with another hard snap. It’s too much and exactly right, and the words tumble out before you can think:

“More, Frank, please—” He laughs, a low, wrecked sound, and pulls you upright, back flush to his chest. The pressure changes, angle sharper now, and when he bounces you on his cock, you see white for a second, vision flickering. His hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place while he just fucks up into you, deep enough you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Look at you,” he says. “Look at how pretty you are. All open for me. Nobody else could ever fill you like this, huh?” You shake your head. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to. The pride in his voice, the claim, the feral need to make you his—it does something to you. Something embarrassing, something you’ll think about for days after.

“That’s it,” he says, voice thick and shredded. “You see what you do to me? What you make me?” His hand slides up, thumb circling your clit, and you spasm, every muscle locking down. “Take it. All of it. Every goddamn inch.” You realize he’s talking you through it—not just to see if you’ll break, but because he wants you to be proud of it, too. Frank Castle’s big, everyone knows it, but the way he looks at you now—like you’re the only person who could ever handle him, the only one who could possibly fit—sets something molten and dangerous loose in your chest. He grunts,

“God, your pussy’s choking me. You’re perfect. You’re better than perfect.” You’re close. Dangerously, humiliatingly close. Frank feels it, too, because his hips start to stutter, rhythm going ragged. You throw your head back, searching for air, and he grabs your chin, turns your face to the mirror so you have to watch yourself come apart.

“Give it to me, baby,” he demands, and you do, with a strangled sob. The orgasm rips through you, white-out and all-consuming, and for a split second, you lose sense of everything but the hot, pulsing pressure inside you. Frank’s not far behind. He buries his face in your shoulder, bellowing something raw and wordless as he jerks you down the last half-inch, holding you flush to his lap while he empties himself inside. The heat is immediate, the fullness overwhelming, and you’re still milking him when he finally slumps back against the seat, arms banded around your waist.

He moans your name like a litany, like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.

He doesn’t pull out. Not even a little. He keeps you mashed down over the steering wheel, cock still pulsing inside you, like he thinks you’ll leak any of him out if he lets go. It’s possessive and sweet and a little desperate. You love it. You’d let him keep you here forever if he asked. Eventually, he moves, just enough to wrap both arms around your middle and pull you into his lap, cock still buried inside. You whimper at the friction and the obscene stretch, but he just shushes you again, rocking you gently while you both try to remember how to breathe. He nuzzles at your neck, beard scratchy but strangely soothing.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it. You nod, still floating, and wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Best shortcut ever,” you mumble. He huffs out a laugh, shaking under you, and you think maybe he’s more wrecked than you are. Neither of you moves to clean up. Your thighs are tacky, slick with both of you, and you can feel the way his spend leaks around the seal of your cunt, dangerously close to spilling onto the seat. Frank finally manages to get his hands to work, and he adjusts your hips so you’re sitting heavier on him, cock still locked inside.

“Gotta keep it in,” he says, not quite joking. “Don’t want it to spill out." Your heart stutters, and you whine at his words, head falling forward, pussy twitching. He kisses your shoulder, pulling you closer to him and shifting his hips upward so he fully seals himself in you.

You cry out, hips rutting down on him.

"Shh, baby. Gotta get ya home, hmm ?" He mutters, slowly shifting you so that your body rests on his shoulder while your hips stay firmly locked over his. Frank’s hand never leaves your thigh, and you don’t think he’s letting go, not even to shift gears. He stretches your skirt down just enough to hide the evidence, but you’re still speared open on his cock, leaking his spend with every twitch of your body. The drive home is reckless—Frank makes every light, takes every turn sharp enough that you gasp and clench around him, earning a broken rumble from his chest. He smells like sweat and sex and some faint note of aftershave, and you think, in the miserable, sticky press of his lap, that you could live here forever. He parks crooked in the garage, barely inside the lines, and throws the car into park. There’s a moment where neither of you moves, like you’re waiting for the world to reorient. You peek up at him, and he’s already watching you, pupils blown wide, pink smeared across his lips where you’d bitten him. The heat in his stare makes your knees want to fold, if they weren’t already trembling in his lap.

“Not done,” he says, like the thought is a surprise to him too. “Wanna keep you full, ‘kay?” You nod, because of course you do, and he threads your fingers together, steadying both of you. Slowly and steadily, he lifts you off of him. But he doesn’t let you all the way off—just enough to feel the suction, the heat, the way your walls want to cling and keep him. His head lolls back, and he groans, like he’s undecided if the ache is better than the release. You try to slide off his lap, but his grip tightens on your thigh, pinning you to him.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Not yet.” He fumbles behind you, reaches for something in the backseat, and comes up with his leather jacket. He drapes it around your shoulders, tucks your hair out of the way, then wedges his hand between your legs, two thick fingers pressing up into you, plugging the mess he’s made. You gasp—he doesn’t even flinch. Just holds you there, filled and clamped tight, while he tucks himself away with his other hand. The car door thuds open, and you realize, with a sick thrill, that he’s going to make you walk all the way to the elevator like this.

“Frank—”

“Don’t spill,” he says, like you’re a can of beer and not a person, and then he’s out of the car and lifting you in his arms, bridal style, your legs wobbling around his hips. The world feels fuzzy, far away, like nothing exists except the careful press of his fingers, the obscene slickness running down your thighs. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in sweat and the sharp tang of ozone from the parking garage. He’s moving fast, and you’re half-convinced you’re dreaming. The elevator is mercifully empty. Frank keeps you pinned with one arm, the other still holding you plugged and tight, and you hear yourself panting in the dead fluorescent light. The doors close, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection: hair wild, lips swollen, skirt hiked up indecent. Frank meets your gaze in the polished steel, and his smirk is pure, unfiltered pride.

“What if someone sees?” you whisper, but the words are weak even to your own ears. He shrugs, the motion jostling you higher on his chest.

“Let ‘em. Want everyone to know you’re mine.” The doors open on your floor, and he carries you down the hall, bootsteps echoing in the linoleum hush. Your apartment door’s barely closed before he’s pushing you up against it, hips slotting between your thighs. His fingers never leave you, but now his mouth is on your neck, your jaw, kissing you like he’s starving. He sets you down, finally, on your back on the bed, and you immediately draw your legs up and hug them to your chest the second he slowly removes his fingers from your sopping cunt. Frank’s hands go gentle the instant you hit the bed. He doesn’t let you curl up, even when instinct tries to take over. Instead he slides in behind you, knees bracketing your hips, careful as he smooths shaking hair away from your cheek with the flat of his hand. You’re still leaking, embarrassment hot and thick in the cradle of your thighs. He doesn’t rush to clean you up, just runs his hand up and down your spine, humming low in his throat, a resonance you feel beneath your ribs. He stays pressed to you, shielding your body with his. The aftershocks rattle you, tiny, shivering spasms that make your calves knot and your hands grope for fabric. You find the collar of his shirt, twist it between slippery fingers. He lets you clutch, lets you breathe, lets you ride out the stupid, trembling come-down while he spoons himself around you. It’s disgusting and perfect and you don’t want to move ever again.

“Little shake you got,” Frank whispers, voice barely a rumble. “C’mere.” He bends his legs, folds you tighter against himself, tucks your head under his chin like you’re something breakable. You feel his heartbeat, slow and heavy, right next to your ear. You make a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and he smiles into your hair. His thumb paints lazy circles into the small of your back. It’s not enough to calm you, but it helps. You realize you’re crying, just a little, and when he feels the tremors hitch up, his grip only gets steadier.

“Shh, baby, got you. I got you,” he says, and you believe him because you don’t have a choice. He’s everywhere, so big it seems impossible you ever existed in a world where he wasn’t. Your skirt’s still rucked around your waist, your panties somewhere on the floor, and your knees are pressed up so high your thighs tremble with the strain.

Frank kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then your eyelids, soft as a benediction.

“You did perfect,” he praises, voice gone sweet as honey. “Knew you could take it. Knew you could do it for me.” You want to say something, but the words get lost on your tongue.

All you manage is “Frank,” and he makes a pleased noise, like your voice is enough. He doesn’t move until your breathing evens out, and even then, he works slow.. Frank hushes you, runs his fingers up your thigh, and uses the pad of his thumb to push in the worst of the drip. You shudder at the sensation, at the certainty that you’re not just ruined, you’re marked.

“Stay here,” he orders, a command as gentle as a lullaby. He peels himself offthe bed, tugs the sheets up around your shoulders. The mattress dips as he disappears into the hall, the soft shush of his bare feet on the wood floor. Light flickers on in the bathroom, and you hear water running, maybe the rattle of pill bottles. Frank comes back with a damp washcloth, a glass of water, and a look on his face that makes your chest feel too full. He kneels next to the bed, one knee pressed to the floor, and just looks at you for a second. Like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece. He drags the rag down your thighs, slow and careful, gathering the worst of the mess, but he skips your pussy at first, like he’s saving it for last. He presses the cold glass into your palm, wraps your fingers around it, waits until you take a sip before he moves on. Your hands are shaking so bad you almost spill, but he’s there, steadying your wrist, thumb drawing circles over your pulse point.

“Easy,” he says, and you want to hit him for it, but also you want to curl up and live in that word, have him say it again every morning for the rest of time. He sets the glass down, brushes your hair off your forehead, and kisses the tip of your nose. Makes a face about it, too, because he’s a sap in private and he knows it. You want to laugh, but you’re still too raw, every part of you vivid and sore and alive. Then he gets to work cleaning you up, and it’s not delicate, but it’s honest. He wipes the slick from your thighs, his calluses dragging rough and perfect over your skin, and finally, finally brings the washcloth between your legs. He’s slow, like he’s memorizing the way you twitch at the touch, the way you try to clamp your knees together and can’t, not when he’s got them bracketed with his other arm. It feels more intimate than the fucking, somehow—this simple, necessary act, his head bowed over you, not saying anything. He pats you dry with the hem of his own shirt, like nothing in the world could be less urgent than making sure you’re comfortable. When he’s satisfied, he tosses the cloth onto the floor, climbs up behind you, and draws you into his chest. He wraps both arms around your waist, one big palm over your ribs, the other down between your thighs, holding you together, keeping you full like he promised. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, just listens to your breath even out, the shudder in your chest thinning into something calmer.

You drift, floating in the strange, humming space between sleep and wanting more.

-------

Ping !

Your phone buzzes on the desk, and you grit your teeth, trying to ignore it.

Ping!

Your phone buzzes again. You stare at it. Then at the ceiling. Then back at your computer screen.

Because you already know. You already know exactly who it is. And you already know exactly what he wants. That morning, you woke up still tangled in Frank and so deliciously sore you genuinely considered calling in sick.

Frank had made breakfast. Actual breakfast. Eggs, coffee, toast exactly the way you liked it. And then he had stood there in the kitchen, mug in hand, looking unfairly pleased with himself while he tried every possible argument to convince you to stay home.

"You could call."

"I can't call."

"You could."

"My boss would kill me."

"Your boss doesn't scare me."

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot intimidate my boss."

"I could."

"You won't." He had just looked at you. And that was the problem. Because Frank Castle had a way of making you believe he could probably intimidate anyone if he really tried.

Still, you had left. Because your boss was already annoyed enough that you had disappeared early yesterday. So now you were sitting at your desk, pretending to work, while your phone kept lighting up.

Ping! You finally grab it.

Frank: You busy?

You stare. You type.

You know I'm at work.

Three dots immediately appear.

Frank: That wasn't my question.

You bite back a smile. Of course it wasn't.

You: What do you need?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Frank: You.

You close your eyes.

"Unbelievable." Your phone buzzes again.

Frank: I'm outside.

You freeze. Slowly, you look toward the window. Sure enough. There he is. Frank Castle. Standing outside your office building with coffee in one hand and that expression on his face. The one that says he knows exactly what he's doing. The one that says he has absolutely no shame. You immediately text him.

You: Why are you here?

A moment later:

Frank: Brought you coffee.

You narrow your eyes.

You: You drove all the way here for coffee?

The typing bubble appears.

Stops. Appears again.

Frank: And to fuck my wife.

Your assistant pushes your office door open.

"Miss Castle ? Your husband's here to see you." Your heart skips a beat.

Frank is here. At your office.

You don’t even have a chance to compose yourself before you hear the heavy footfalls, the scrape of his boots on institutional carpet. You try to keep a straight face—try to look busy, important, like the kind of respectable professional who does not, in any universe, have her husband show up in the middle of a workday with fuck me written all over his face.

You stand. Smooth your skirt. Cough, just for effect.

Frank ducks through your doorway and the temperature in the room goes up about ten degrees. He looks too big for the office—shoulder to shoulder with the cheap beige walls, looming over your little particleboard desk like a bear in a dollhouse. He’s wearing the jacket you love, the one that smells like cedar and motor oil, and he’s holding a paper cup from the good place down the street. You try to scowl.

“Frank, what are you—”

“Coffee,” he says, and sets it on your desk like a peace offering. He walks over to you and grabs you by the waist, pulling you into him. He kisses your temple, and your whole body lights up like a firework. "Hi, baby." He hums. And there it is. That stupidly soft voice. The one nobody else gets. The one that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him.

You try. You really do. You try to maintain the professional expression you had prepared. The one that says I am a serious person with a serious job and my husband cannot just walk in here whenever he feels like it.

But then Frank smiles. And you're done.

"Frank."

"What?"

"You cannot just show up at my office." He looks genuinely confused.

"Why not?"

"Because I work here."

"I know."

"You can't just appear."

"I brought coffee." You glance at the cup on your desk.

"That's your defense?"

"Good coffee is a strong defense. And also the fact that the app told me this morning that we had to get our baby making on."

"Ew, gross. Don't call it that." You huff, kissing his jaw. "Besides, Frankie, I have a meeting." Frank’s hands are already in your hair, mouth pressed hot and greedy to your neck, before you can get out another word. His palm fits almost too well to the back of your skull. You squirm, twisting just enough to see if the door actually latched behind him, and—of course—it didn’t. You hiss through your teeth and try to put a hand to his chest, but he just grins into your skin and gives a little snort, like he knew you were going to try and is delighted to wrestle you for it. Frank doesn’t fuck around. Not when he’s like this, not when his phone’s told him you’re at peak fertility. He lifts you up so you’re sitting on the edge of your desk, skirt bunched around your hips. The familiar weight of him pressed between your thighs has your head spinning, and you’re suddenly, sharply aware of every glass wall in this office. You tug at the lapels of his jacket, trying to pull him in close and hide as much of yourself as possible. He likes that. You can feel him grinning against your jaw.

“Should we close the door or give your coworkers a show ?” The question is a dare, and it’s not even a fair one. Frank’s voice is so close it grazes the shell of your ear, warm enough to make your whole scalp prickle. He’s already got a hand under your skirt, thumb pressed against the spot at the very top of your thigh that always makes your knees try to buckle—except there’s nowhere for your knees to go, so you’re just perched, trembling, on the edge of particleboard hell. You reach around him, fumble behind your own back until you hear the blessed click of privacy. Two seconds later and Frank has you splayed on the desk, hips canted up so the heels of your feet dangle uselessly in the air. The first time he touches you, it’s electric. You gasp, twisting your face into the crook of his neck, and he grins, palming you through your underwear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and you want to say it’s because you’re afraid of being caught but that would be a lie so big it’d get you fired on the spot. You’re shaking because Frank, who brings you chocolate and painkillers and the expensive pads, now has his fingers pressed just right, just like he knows you need. Which, of course, he does. You bunch the front of his jacket in your fists and try to breathe through the pounding in your ears. You can see yourself in the blacked-out surface of the monitor, and it makes you want to hide, except you want to see him more. The way Frank looks at you—like there’s not another human being in the building, like you’re the only thing worth noticing in the world—makes your insides turn to syrup.

“Frank, I really do have a meeting—” you manage, but the sentence disintegrates when his fingers push the crotch of your underwear to the side. He slips one thick finger into you and you audibly choke, scrabbling for something to say that isn’t just a whine. The stretch is ridiculous, obscene, and you know he’s going to make a meal out of it, tease you over dinner tonight with some filthy comment about how you always need to be warmed up for him, how greedy you get when you’re ovulating. The thought makes your cheeks blossom with heat. Frank feels it, too. He thumbs your cheekbone, gentle, like he’s proud of you for blushing.

“You want me to stop?” he murmurs. You shake your head, shameless, and he rewards you with a second finger, scissoring them until you’re biting your own sleeve to muffle the noise.

“You gotta be quiet, baby,” he says, but there’s not a speck of real concern in it. He’d probably be thrilled if the entire boardroom heard you come. He crooks his fingers and you arch so hard you nearly knock the coffee cup off the desk. It teeters, and he grabs it in one fast motion, sets it safely out of range, then goes back to working you open. You can feel everything. The thrum of your pulse beneath your tongue. The ache at the edge of your thighs where his belt buckle digs into your skin. His thumb circles your clit with military precision, and your hips buck up into his palm, involuntary. You want to be annoyed at yourself for how easy it is, how you melt for him every damn time, but it’s impossible. You’re so full of him, there’s no room left for ego. He doesn’t linger. Frank’s never been a patient man, not when it comes to you. He unzips himself, pushes his jeans just low enough, and you can’t help but stare. You’ve seen it a thousand times, but every single time you wonder how the hell it’s going to fit. Frank is an animal. Or maybe he’s just a man who’s lost all sense of boundaries, decorum, or the difference between a desk and a bed. He fists his cock, stroking it once, twice, and you feel the head of it paint a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. He’s so thick you can’t even close your knees. He’s so hard it looks like it should hurt, the tip swollen and angry, already smearing you with his mess. Your stomach flips, equal parts terror and pride, because you know you’ll never get all of it in, but you’re going to try. For Frank, you’d try twice. He lines himself up, the blunt head just teasing at your entrance.

“Breathe for me,” he says, and you do. Slow in, slow out, like you’re bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office. He pushes in, just the tip, and it’s spark and burn and stretch so good you arch off the desk, hand flying to clamp over your mouth. Frank doesn’t stop. He never does. He notches another inch and you whimper, legs shuddering, the edge of the desk digging into your spine. He’s so fucking big.

“That’s it,” he whispers, “you can take it. You always do, baby.” He’s not even halfway in and you’re already stuffed to the gills, belly tightening with each slow, deliberate thrust. He strokes your hair off your face with the same hand he uses to steady your hip, so gentle it almost makes you cry. The other hand’s got a death grip on your thigh, keeping you splayed. He nudges in deeper and you make a noise that would mortify you outside this office, but here, with Frank, it just makes him smile.

“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me.” The words go straight through your brainstem and set every nerve on fire. You want to be good. You want to let him all the way in, even if it splits you. He pulls back, drags the whole thick length out until just the head stays nestled inside, then slams home, inch after inch, and you feel the air leave your lungs— Frank’s hand comes up, covers your mouth again, like he knows you’re about to scream.

“You gotta keep it down,” he teases, “or do you want them all to hear how well you take it?” He’s thrusting now, slow but hard, every movement rocking you back on the desk. It’s a war between heat and pressure and the desperate need to feel him bottom out. He’s wrecking you in the best way, making you wet and messy and so, so full. You lock your ankles around him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He takes it as an invitation, grinds deeper, enough that you feel the base of him slap your clit, enough to make your whole body spasm. He leans over, mouth by your ear, breath warm and ragged.

“You know why I’m doing this, right?” he says, voice dark and low. “You know what I want.” You nod, frantic, because you do know. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he rasps. “You always get like this. Just for me.” He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the cramped office, and Frank’s jaw tightens.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, right in your ear. “Let ‘em listen.” His cock is too big for this, for you, for the universe, but you want all of it, want to take it just to prove you can. He knows it too. You catch your own expression in the blacked-out monitor—wrecked, eyes blown wide, lips parted—and he does too, because he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your face to the screen, makes you watch yourself. The humiliation is electric.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So pretty. So fucked out. You see how you swallow me, baby?” He’s not wrong. You can feel it, the obscene stretch, the way your body gives to him and then clamps down, greedy and trembling. Every thrust is another wet sound, another staccato shock up your spine. You bite his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark, and he just laughs, rutting in deeper, using your own body weight to pin you to the desk. He’s leaking everywhere, can feel it slick and hot inside you, and you know you’re going to drip for hours after. That might be the point. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulls you flush until you’re impaled, nothing left but the wet slap of hips and the rattle of your own breath against the walls. The desk squeaks. Your thighs ache. Frank’s breath is a furnace at your ear, his grip like iron around your hips. You barely register the jumbled mess of reports and keyboard jammed under your back; there’s only the grind of his cock, the way the whole world narrows to the impossible stretch inside you and the filthy things he’s muttering into your hair.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, rhythm stuttering. “Gonna put a baby in you, right here at your desk.” He nips your earlobe, and your legs jerk tight around his waist. Frank loves to say shit like that, always has, but today there’s a fever in it—a hungry, almost desperate edge. The app, you remember, the little blue dot on his phone. He is so fucking determined. Your skin prickles. You wish you could be cold, but you’re burning, every inch of you tingling with the need to come.

He ruts harder, the slap of hips against you turning wet and obscene. You want to say something sharp and clever but the only thing your mouth can do is whimper. Frank bites the inside of his cheek and hisses through his teeth, clearly fighting not to blow too soon. “You take it so good,” he grunts, “no one else, just you.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, and fuck if his pupils aren’t dilated to hell. “Tell me you want it.” He’s not asking. You nod, gasping, and his smile is pure evil. He angles up, cock grinding against that impossible spot inside, and you clamp down so tight you see stars.

“Oh fuck- Frank-”

A knock at the door.

“Miss Castle ? Are you alright ?”

Fuck.

Your assistant.

You expect Frank to stop, but he doesn’t. He doubles down, thrusting into you harder. Your eyes roll back as another knock errupts from the door. Frank slowly pinche syour hip to get you to focus.

“Answer her.” He hums. You squeeze your eyes shut, clawing at the edge of the desk like you can anchor yourself to reality. “Yeah! I’m— I’m fine!” you manage, all in one high, strangled breath.

“Are you sure?” the voice at the door asks, muffled but insistent. Frank’s thrusts slow, grinding you full instead of pounding you, and he leans his cheek to yours until you can feel the tickle of his five o’clock shadow on your skin, the way he’s trying not to laugh. You hate him. You love him. You want to die.

“I’m fine, Carol,” you croak. “Just— just a minute, please.” Frank kisses your temple, all mock sympathy, and you glare at him. He mouths, You’re so cute, and then fucks you so deep your toes curl and your vision goes white for a second. You bite the heel of your own hand to keep from crying out. There is an eternal, echoing silence, in which the two of you listen for footsteps. Nothing. Then a whisper:

“You’re evil,” you hiss. Frank just grins, all teeth, and slides his hands around your hips, flipping you around. You land , chest pressed to your desk. He bends you over the desk, your chest pressed to the fake wood, your ass bared to the windowed world, skirt rumpled at your waist. You feel obscene, legs splayed and trembling, and you know if Carol comes back there’s nothing to hide behind. Frank doesn’t let you think about it long. He shoves back in, the stretch even sharper at this angle, and you slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the racket you want to make. Frank’s grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hipbones, pulling you onto him as he pistons in and out. You’re not even trying to be quiet anymore—every stroke makes the desk thump against the wall, and you can feel the mess of yourself leaking down your thighs, soaking the lace of your panties.

“God, you’re a fucking mess,” he grits out, voice rough. “You love this, don’t you? Getting ruined at work for me.” You nod, cheek smashed against an upside-down spreadsheet, drool smearing the page. You can’t say a word, not when all the blood in your body is in your clit, not with Frank inside you like this, fucking you open in the middle of your own office. He’s not going to last long, not with the way you’re squeezing him, but he’s determined to finish the job. He slips a hand under your stomach, finds your clit, and circles it in time with his thrusts. You come so hard you nearly black out, legs kicking off your own shoe and knocking the coffee onto the floor. You don’t care. You sob into the desk, biting your own wrist, and Frank just keeps going, pounding you through the aftershocks. The flat of the desk digs into your sternum. You gather fistfuls of printer paper and cling for dear life, hair wild across your face, mouth open for air you can’t seem to trap. Frank’s hands are on your hips, grip iron and unyielding, and he doesn’t bother with ceremony. He’s meaner from this angle—meaner in that he’s not pretending you have a prayer of composure. You arch, a soundless scream, and pray to any and all gods that your assistant has a meeting to run to. He picks up the pace, and the clatter of your body against the furniture becomes its own dialect. You’re so close it feels inevitable, like coming up on the crest of a rollercoaster—the world tilting bright and sick.Frank’s thrusts come fast, greedy, determined—it’s all pulse and friction, the room a blur of office supplies and fluorescent glare. Heat rakes up your spine. You’re aware, distantly, of the mess you’re making, the way slickness streams down your inner thighs, saturates the edge of the desk, the sticky-sweet smell already thick in the air. Frank grunts, low and guttural, not even trying to hide it. You want to say something smart, but the words slice in half on your tongue, replaced by animal noise.

He buries himself to the hilt, and for a second the world tunnels down to the dizzy throb in your gut, the impossible stretch, his hips shuddering against the backs of your thighs. The desk rattles. You wonder if anyone in the hall can hear, if Carol is still standing at the threshold with an expression like she’s never heard a woman’s voice before. You don’t care. You want him to keep going, to grind you under the weight of everything he wants to give.

Frank’s fingers slip, fumbling, then find your jaw and wrench your head back just so. He kisses your spine, open-mouthed and hot, all teeth and pride. His voice is a thunderclap against your skin.

“Right there, baby. That’s it. Perfect,” he pants, and then, softer, “You’re gonna take every drop for me, yeah?” Your pulse stutters. You try to answer, but your mouth is full of the taste of your own skin, the cotton sleeve you’re biting to keep the screams inside. He fucks you hard enough to force the air from your lungs, hips rutting so deep you see stars. The growl in his chest tells you he’s teetering, and you dig your nails into the cheap laminate for dear life.

He thrusts one last time, impossibly deep, and stays there, shuddering. You feel it, the heat flood inside, thick and primal and so, so full. You clamp down, greedy, desperate to catch every drop, and Frank hisses, the sound a curse and a prayer all at once.

"Fuck, mama , ” He stays, cock twitching, until you can feel the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out around the seal you make together. You’re ruined, soaked straight through, and you love it. Frank doesn’t let go. He bends over you, weight pinning you to the desk, lips brushing your hairline. He breathes you in, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and you shiver at the rawness of it.

“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice thick, and the words wrap you up, settle in the hollow of your chest. His hands are softer now, palm smoothing over your ass, massaging circles into your hips like he’s proud of himself for making you come apart. You relax into it, boneless, let him hold you together. He pulls out, cock dragging slow, and you whimper, the emptiness a different kind of ache. Frank lingers, gaze heavy on the obscene mess pooling between your thighs. He smooths a hand over the small of your back, an almost courtlier gesture, as if to apologize for the way he’s just wrecked you. His breathing slows. He thumbs the edge of your skirt, tugs it down just enough to cover the curve of your ass. He grins at the way you twitch when his fingers brush the sticky heat leaking down your legs. Then, like he’s always done this, Frank crouches. He pushes your skirt up again, grabs your ruined panties at your knees, and peels them off in one slow, deliberate motion. The cool air hits your skin, makes you gasp, and he looks up at you through thick lashes, cocky as hell. In one practiced gesture, he balls the sodden lace in his palm. Instead of pocketing them as humiliating evidence (as you expect, as he’s done before), he pushes two fingers through the gusset, then presses the wad right back between your legs. You yelp, twisting, but he cups your mound with his whole hand, holding the makeshift plug in place.

“Gotta keep it in, princess,” he huffs, voice smug with pride. He presses the panties up into you until you can feel the damp cotton wedge deep, an embarrassing, almost suffocating pressure. He lets go and stands, towering over you, hands braced on the desk’s edge. For a second he just looks at you, head cocked, like he’s memorizing the way you look bent and trembling and stuffed full. He bends over you, kisses your spine, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. His lips are soft, reverent, so at odds with the brutality of a minute ago that it nearly undoes you. He nips your ear.

“You’re gonna strut into that meeting smelling like me,” he says, just barely a whisper, “and you’re gonna sit there and pretend you’re not dripping with my cum.” He bites your shoulder, gentle now, like a promise. You try to push off the desk, but your legs are barely attached.

“Woah, baby. I got ya.” Frank scoops you under the knees, half-lifting you to set you back on your feet. The friction jars the plug of panties deeper and you nearly fold, knees buckling, but his hands warm your waist, steadying you. He does a slow, tender sweep of your hair, tucks it behind your ears, then thumbs the streak of ink on your cheek where your face mashed the spreadsheet. You expect him to gloat. Instead he worries at your collar, straightening it with the same care he uses when buttoning you up for a funeral.

“You okay?” he asks, voice dropped soft and serious. You nod, still chewing your lip. He presses your chin with a knuckle, makes you meet his eyes, and you see the nerves there, tucked under the smirk. That’s the one real ache: the way he worries he might go too far, that you’ll hate him for it. So you kiss his jaw, deep and sure, and he smiles so hard it cracks his careful, mean mask. Frank finds your shoe, crouched like a knight, and slides it on your foot. He kisses your ankle, all courtly, then stands to his full height, shoves himself back into his jeans with a wince and a curse. The wet patch at your crotch is a fucking lighthouse beacon, but you arrange your skirt, try to look like a person who has never in her life been railed against office furniture. Frank is watching, pleased, openly staring at the twitch in your legs. He leans in, nuzzles your neck, and murmurs,

“So proud of you,” like he’s reading your mind, like he knows you need to hear it after all that. He kisses you, this time slow, lingering, and it’s honey after the burn.

“You’re gonna be late,” he says, and tugs the lapels of your blazer for effect. You melt a little. He gives your ass a sharp, proprietary slap. You choke on a laugh; he beams, teeth all wolf. “Go on, then, boss lady.” He says it with a crisp, mocking salute, and you want to punch him and kiss him for it, both at once. You stumble to the door on legs made of static, the whole lower half of you raw and hot and leaking in a way that’s going to haunt you through at least two agenda items and a quarterly report.

You open the door a crack—no Carol in sight, thank Christ—and risk a glance back. Frank’s already perched in your rolling chair, feet up on the desk, arms folded behind his head like a king who just conquered a country. He winks. You mouth,

“Asshole.” He points to his chest and shrugs, as if to say, Who, me? You drift down the hallway in a haze, pulse throbbing in every joint. The fabric of your skirt clings to the back of your thighs, still tacky with sweat. The panel conference room is already half full. You shuffle to your seat, smiling at the team, nodding too fast.

Your boss does not meet your eye.

By the time you get home that evening, you have already decided exactly what you are going to say.

You have a speech prepared.

A very serious speech.

A professional speech.

One that will remind Frank Castle that your workplace is, in fact, a workplace. Unfortunately, Frank ruins your preparation the second he opens the door. Because he is standing there in sweatpants, barefoot, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Don't." He blinks.

"Don't what?"

"That face."

"What face?"

"The face where you know exactly what you did." Frank tries to look innocent. It does not work.

"Coffee was appreciated."

"Frank."

"You were happy to see me."

"Frank."

"You smiled."

You point at him.

"You showed up at my office."

"Yeah."

"You walked into my office like you owned the place."

"I brought coffee."

"You keep saying that like it excuses everything."

"It was good coffee." You stare. He stares back. And then, annoyingly, you both start laughing. Because this is what happens with Frank. You can be angry. You can be determined. You can have an entire argument ready. And then he looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen, and suddenly you're fighting a losing battle.

"You are impossible."

"I know."

"You embarrassed me."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." He steps closer, still smiling.

"You liked it." You open your mouth. Then close it. Because unfortunately… He has a point.

"You are so annoying."

"That's not a denial."

"Frank." He grins. And you hate that you love that grin. "You're lucky I love you." He rolls his eyes and walks over, grabbing all your things from you. He kisses your forehead.

"Go rest. Any woman that's gotten fucked as well as you have needs her beauty sleep." You slap his chest.

"Frank ! Not funny !"

------

The barbecue is exactly the kind of afternoon Frank pretends he doesn't need.

Which means, of course, he loves it.

Micro's backyard is loud in the best way. Kids running through the grass. Music playing low from the old speaker near the patio. The smell of grilled food hanging in the air.

For a man who spent years living like every day might be his last, moments like this still catch Frank off guard.

Normal. Safe. Family.

You sit beside him with a drink in your hand, laughing while Sarah tells you a story about something ridiculous the kids did earlier. Frank has one hand resting on your knee, absentmindedly tracing little circles with his thumb. He doesn't even realize he does it anymore. It's automatic. Like breathing.

Then— Ping.

Frank's hand stills.You notice immediately. Because you always notice. You glance over.

"Frank?" He looks down at his phone.

And there it is.

That familiar little notification. The one that makes your heart jump.

His eyes flick from the screen to you. Then back. You narrow yours.

"What?"

"Nothing." You immediately know that's a lie.

"Frank." He clears his throat.

"Can you give me a minute?" You stare at him.

"Why?" He doesn't answer quickly enough. Your eyes widen. "No." A tiny smile pulls at his mouth.

"What?"

"Frank Castle."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look you get right before you do something completely ridiculous." He looks around the yard.

Then at Micro. Then back at you.

And you already know.

"Absolutely not." Frank stands.

"Micro." Micro looks over.

"Yeah?"

"I need a favor." Micro immediately looks suspicious.

"That sentence has never ended well." Frank nods toward the kids.

"Need you to start something." Micro blinks.

"Start what?"

"Anything." You cover your face.

"Oh my God." Micro looks between the two of you. Then at Frank. Then back at you. And slowly, realization dawns.

"Oh. Gross." Frank just raises an eyebrow.

"Please." Micro sighs.

"I cannot believe I'm helping you with this."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing." You laugh despite yourself. And before you can protest again, Frank is already taking your hand.

"Come on." You let him pull you toward the house, shaking your head.

"You are unbelievable."

"I know."

"You planned this."

"No."

"Frank."

"Maybe." You stop at the back door.

"You recruited Micro."

"I asked for assistance."

"That's the same thing." He smiles. He drags you up the stairs and into a room. The door shuts behind you with a thud. You barely get out a “Frank—” before he's got you pressed against it, the lock clicking into place above your shoulder. His mouth is at your ear, hot breath sending a stutter down your spine.

“You wanna be loud, or you wanna be fast?” His voice is low, that rumbling scrape that never fails to get you. You can't help the tiny huff that comes out of you, neither answer forming in your mouth before his hands are on your hips, hauling you up like you're nothing. You wrap your legs around him because you have no choice, his palms already sliding under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach. Goosebumps, everywhere.

“Frank—” He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue forceful and impatient. He's moving you, stumbling a little, until your back hits what can only be a dresser and you hear shit clatter to the floor. You let him devour you. Let that big rough hand tangle in your hair, fingertips grazing your jaw, your pulse beating fast against his thumb. He gets your jeans off with record speed, almost rips the fly as you both stumble onto the bed. The laugh that leaves your mouth is just for you, a private thought about how goddamn insatiable he can be, even at his softest. He kneels—always dramatic, always a little bit of a showoff. He wants you spread out for him, thighs open as wide as you can make them, panties pushed to the side. Frank looks up at you, and the sight should make you feel self-conscious, but it doesn't. His stare is heavy, greedy. Like he's starving. He stands, yanks his own jeans down just far enough. His cock is hard, already dripping, as he lines up, still supporting all your weight with those ridiculous arms. He pushes in with a groan that’s almost a growl, splits you open slow even though you know he wants to fuck you into next Tuesday. You dig your nails into him, trying to muffle the noises you make in his shoulder. Someone could be walking by, or worse, Micro’s weird neighbor could peek in the window, but you can't care enough to make yourself stop. Frank is everywhere—the smell of him, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth when he kisses you again. He pushes in, deep, and you swear you can feel it in your goddamn lungs. His hands shake a little, holding you tight so you can't wiggle away, and you see in his face that he's desperate for just one thing: to finish inside you. To fill you until it takes. You whine at the stretch. For the past two days, all you and frank have been doing is fucking like bunnies. Your cunt is sore and overstimulated, and Frank pauses mid push. Frank’s forehead rests against yours as he breathes through it, his breath going ragged when your walls pulse around him. You’re wetter than you expect, the soreness edged with something sharp and sweet, and Frank stays inside you and just lets the moment hang.

“You gotta tell me if it’s too much,” he says. His words go all gravel and heat, but there’s a nervousness underneath it. He’s not as good at hiding it as he thinks. You try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-choked gasp.

“You gonna start being gentle now, Frank?” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he nudges in slow, deliberate.

“I could—if that’s what you want.” He shifts, and your brain whites out like a camera flare. You clench on him.

“I want—” You don’t know what you want. The world narrows to the thick grind of him, the heat blooming in your belly. “Don’t stop. Please.” Frank’s gaze slides over your face, fifty shades of feral and worshipful.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he croons. He lets you have it then, bracing your hips with one meaty hand and the other pinning both your wrists above your head, just to show you he can. He’s careful not to bang your head on the headboard , but he fucks you so deep you might cry. He ruts into you slower, watching the way you take all of him, that little line between your brows every time he hits the sweet spot.

“That’s it. Take it,” he says, palm stroking over your bare stomach, fingers splayed as if he could feel himself through your skin. “Bet you can feel me right here, huh?” He presses down, makes you feel it, and you clench around him, your walls fluttering with every thrust. He grins, almost tender, but he’s not slowing down. Outside, the sounds of the barbecue continue. Familiar voices, the crash of a soda can, a burst of laughter. It makes you squirm. Any one of them could come in. Frank’s eyes bore into you. He must know what you’re thinking, because he picks up the pace, driving in deep and hard enough to steal your breath, like he wants to finish before anyone comes looking for you both.

“Tell me,” he grits, voice splintering on the upstroke. “Tell me you want it.” He’s past rational—he wants to breed you, ruin you, make you full. He’s said it before, but lately it’s become a little bit of a fixation. He’s read enough of your internet search history to know you want it too.

“Want you to knock me up,” you gasp, arching your hips, trying to take every inch. “Want you to make it stick—fuck, Frank—” He groans, open and desperate, a sound you feel right in your bones.

“S’gonna take,” he hisses. “You’re gonna take all of it. All of me.” And you do—he pounds it into you, hips jerking with a force that’s as much relief as it is hunger.He fucks you like his whole heart is in it—like this is an act of worship, not just hunger, and every twist of his body is a yes, yes, yes. You can’t move, pinned under him, wrists captive and bruised and perfect. His cock slams in, so thick you feel split, and each thrust grinds your pelvis into the mattress. The world narrows—Micro’s blue-gingham guest sheets under your ass, Frank’s chest pressed so tight it’s almost crushing, sweat collecting in the lines of his neck. His mouth finds your pulse, sucks a mark over it, possessive. He mutters shit too:

“Gonna breed you, babe, gonna fill you so good, bet you’ll leak for hours—” His hips shiver, and you squeeze him, wanting that, craving the idea of it. It’s stupid how close you are, how little it takes. Just his voice and his cock and his need, and you’re right there, floating just above it, about to crash. Frank grunts and lets go of your wrists, throws both arms around your waist, manhandling you so your socked feet drape over his shoulders.

“Get it all,” he growls, and ruts in, cock so deep it’s a cry, “Take it, c’mon, that’s it—” Every time he bottoms out, Frank grinds his hips, angling to catch on the spot inside you and split you open until the ache is a promise more than a threat. He plants sloppy, reverent kisses along your jaw, like he can map all the ways you unmake him. His hands, always a little too big, cradle your hips and drag you flush so you can't even pretend to escape the drag of him; all that muscle and bone holds you with a possessiveness that’s more terrifying than comforting, except you’d never admit how much you crave it. You can’t help the way your thighs quiver, how your toes curl in the air. It should be embarrassing how easy he pulls sounds out of you—each whine, every desperate gasp—but Frank eats them up, lets the noise drive him harder. You get off on the way he looks at you, so wild and hungry, like he could swallow you whole and still not be satisfied. He gets even deeper somehow, the angle brutal as his hand slides up to splay over your belly again.

“Right there?” he mutters, and you nod, the words not even a possibility. He shifts, pinning your knee to your chest, your other leg cocked up on his hip, squeezing tight against his ribcage. The new angle is a curse, a blessing; each thrust has you seeing stars, the pressure enough to threaten tears. You arch into it, shameless, greedy. Frank groans, the sound guttural and ragged:

“Fuck, you’re perfect. Made for me.” The tension ratchets up between your legs, white heat flickering out of control. The mattress shakes, the headboard thunking faintly against the wall in time with his thrusts. You gasp for air.

“Don’t stop, don’t—”

“Not gonna,” Frank says, voice frayed at the edges. He leans in, teeth scraping your jaw, then your neck, marking you because he wants it to be obvious. Wants everyone to know you’re his. Your back arches and he presses your thighs tighter to his chest as he ruts into you faster. You hang there, stretched and wrung out, as Frank jackhammers into you—every muscle in his arms tensed, jaw set so hard the vein in his neck pulls tight. Sweat beads on his brow, slips down to drip onto your skin, and you’d lick it up if you could reach. You barely realize you’re crying out, a stuttering, choking sound, but Frank must like the way it sounds because his cock twitches inside you. Frank can’t hold back. He wants you bred—wants to make sure you’re so fucking full it seeps out for hours, maybe even days. He gives up every ounce of patience, starts pounding, hand clamped almost bruising on your hip so every thrust lands right on the mark. He buries his face in your shoulder, letting out the lowest, filthiest groan you’ve ever heard—like he’s fighting not to shout the house down. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes so dark they might as well be black.

“Say it,” he grits, and you know exactly what he means.

“Want you to make me pregnant,” you gasp, barely holding yourself together, “need you to knock me up, Frank, please—” His whole body shudders. He slams in once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, cock pulsing hot inside you in a way that feels fucking volcanic as your pussy spasms around him, your orgasm crashing over you. He stays deep, grinding like he’s trying to push every last drop inside, not letting up for a second.

“That’s it,” he whispers, deliriously proud, “stay there, mama. Just like that.” He’s almost chanting it, like if anyone can will it into existence, it’s him. He holds you like that for a minute, still buried, your legs still around his shoulders, neither of you willing to break the seal. Your whole body floats, light and boneless.

“Think that did it?” he asks after a while. You let out a laugh, throaty and weak.

“We’re at a barbecue, psycho.”

“World keeps spinning,” he says, with that rough affection, like there’s not another single thing that matters. You feel it, the small bubble of safe inside the big bad world, and the way he doesn’t ever let go of you, not completely. Frank moves slow when he pulls out, almost reverent. You cry out at the feeling, your thighs calmpung shut, and he kisses your calf.

“M’sorry, baby.” Frank stays close, protective, almost sheepish as he brushes the hair off your damp cheek. He looks down at the bed, then at you, and an embarrassed little half-smile quirks the edge of his mouth. Like he thinks he’s gone too far, but he’s never going to apologize for it. You catch your breath, reach up, pull him down for a slower, less frantic kiss. You can feel him softening between your thighs. Warm and heavy, a lazy afterglow. That’s when you spot the little black bag on the nightstand, and you groan.

“Did you seriously bring that here?” Frank shrugs.

“Can’t be leaking my stuff all over Micro’s guest sheets. Man’s got enough trouble in his life. And I want you to stay nice an' full.” You snort.

“You’re an asshole.” He grins, all teeth and wolfish pride, and reaches over to unzip the pouch. The plug—sleek and silicone, absurdly girthy—catches the lamplight. It’s both ridiculous and, weirdly, a little thoughtful. Because of course Frank would rather keep his mess inside you than on the bedsheets. He kneels between your legs, big hands gentle for the first time all afternoon. There’s a weird, domestic tenderness to the way he slides the plug in, his thumb circling the rim as if he’s petting a cat. You gasp, head back, muscles fluttering around the sudden fullness. Frank’s hands linger, testing, making sure you’re comfortable before tugging your panties back up and smoothing the hem over your hips.

“Perfect,” he mutters, kissing your thigh as if he’s signing his work. “Could eat you up like this.”

“Didn’t you just do that?”

“Never enough.” He offers you his hand. You almost laugh again, because outside the window you can hear the faint wail of a child, the drone of a lawnmower starting up, the world’s least subtle cue that people are waiting. Frank tosses you your t-shirt. You catch it one-handed and glare at him, only half joking.

“Even your aftercare is overkill.” He’s already zipping his jeans, looking satisfied.

“You love it.” You don’t say it, but when you slide your arm through his and let him pull you upright, the way he steadies your hips makes your heart sweet and soft. You both pad down the hallway like nothing happened. Frank keeps his hand at your back, thumb rubbing lazy circles, like he needs to hold on just a little longer. When you reach the end of the hall, Sarah and Micro are in the kitchen, fake arguing about what constitutes ‘overcooked’ for a hot dog. Micro spots the two of you and raises an eyebrow.

“You guys get lost up there?” Frank says,

“Bathroom,” at the exact same time you say,

“Nope.” Sarah’s eyes flick to you, linger, then she just gives you the world’s tiniest approving nod and turns back to the food. You try to act casual. But every shift of your hips, every tiny squeeze inside, you’re reminded there’s more of Frank than usual between your legs.

-------

It's about two months later that you wake up, sick to your stomach. Frank is sound asleep beside you, snoring away. You clutch you stomach, pressing your lips shut.

You won't throw up.

This will just go away.

Quietly, you grab your phone and climb out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind you for extra measure.

You won't throw up. This will just go away. That is what you tell yourself. Because you've had mornings like this before.

Stress. A bad meal. A stomach bug. Anything. Anything except the one thing your brain refuses to say out loud. You grip the edge of the sink, waiting for the wave to pass.

It doesn't. A few minutes later, you're sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to breathe. Your phone is still in your hand.

And then— Ping.

You almost drop it. For a second, you just stare. Because you know that sound.

You know that app. The same app Frank has been quietly checking for years.

The same app that has brought chocolate, heating pads, and hopeful glances at calendars.

You open it without thinking.

And your entire world stops.

Your period is 8 weeks late.

You stare at the words. Once. Twice. Then again.

"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper.

Because no.

Because you've seen this before.

You've hoped before.

You've gotten excited before.

You've stood in bathrooms with shaking hands and a tiny piece of plastic that eventually told you it wasn't happening. You can't let yourself believe it, Not yet. Not until you know. Your hands shake as you pull open the cabinet. You don't even remember buying the test. Maybe you bought it months ago and forgot. Maybe some tiny, impossible part of you never stopped hoping.

You take it. And then you wait.

And waiting might be the hardest thing you've ever done. Because suddenly the whole house feels silent.

The entire world feels silent.

Then— Knock. Your heart jumps.

"Baby?" Frank. You quickly wipe at your face even though you don't know when you started crying. "You in there ?" And that's when your stomach lurches and you scramble to the toilet.

You barely make it.

The test sits forgotten on the counter as you drop to your knees, one hand gripping the edge of the bathtub, the other tangled in your hair.

And immediately—

"Baby?" Frank's voice changes. The sleepy warmth disappears. The concern is instant. "Are you throwing up in there ?"

"I'm okay, Frankie. Go back to sleep." You rasp, gagging on the words. There is a pause. A very Frank pause. The kind where you know he doesn't believe you.

"Open the door." You gag again, lurching for the toilet. The door handle rattles. "Shit, baby- Please."

The panic in his voice makes your heart ache. Because Frank doesn't scare easily. You have seen him walk into situations that would make most people turn around. You have seen him bleed and shrug it off. You have seen him stare down things that should have broken him. But hearing you sick behind a locked bathroom door? That scares him.

"I'm okay," you try again. It comes out weak. Unconvincing. And Frank knows.

"Baby." The way he says it makes your eyes sting. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just scared. You close your eyes, one hand still gripping the edge of the bathtub.

"I said I'm okay."

"The fuck you're not. Let me in before I break this goddamn door down."

You almost laugh.

Almost.

Because that is such a Frank thing to say.

The man who has survived gunfights, explosions, and more broken bones than either of you can count is seconds away from kicking your bathroom door off its hinges because he heard you get sick. Another wave of nausea hits. You barely manage to turn before you're sick again. On the other side of the door, Frank goes completely silent.

The silence lasts barely a heartbeat.

Then—

"Baby?" His voice cracks. Not with anger. With fear. "Talk to me." You rinse your mouth as best you can, tears burning behind your eyes.

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

"I'm just sick."

"I know you're sick." His palm hits the door softly. "I can hear you." Your chest tightens. "Please…" Another pause. Longer this time.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Almost pleading.

"Honey… please open the door." You have heard Frank Castle beg exactly once in your life. It was years ago. And now you're hearing it again. Not because he's afraid for himself. Because he's terrified for you.

"I can't help if I'm standing out here." Your hand drifts to the lock. Then stops. Your eyes land on the counter.

The test. You forgot about the test.

Your heart begins to pound. With trembling fingers, you reach for it.

You almost don't look.

You almost set it face down and open the door first. But something makes you turn it over.

Two pink lines. You blink.

No. Your vision blurs with tears. You wipe at your eyes and look again. Still there. Two lines. For a second, your brain refuses to process it. After years of negatives... After months of trying not to hope… After convincing yourself every symptom meant nothing…

Two lines. A sob escapes you before you can stop it.

Outside, Frank hears it. His entire world stops.

"Baby?" The panic in his voice spikes instantly. "What happened?" You can't answer. Another sob tears out of your chest.

"Baby!" The doorknob rattles violently. "Mama , open the damn door!" You hear him trying the handle again. Harder this time. "Please." Another shake. "Please, sweetheart." His breathing is uneven now.

Fast. Panicked.

"If you're hurt—"

"I'm not." Your voice breaks. "I'm okay."

"No, you're crying."

"I know."

"Open the door." You press your forehead against the wood for a second, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands won't stop shaking. Neither will your tears.

You unlock the door. The second it opens, Frank is there.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Hair messy.

Still wearing the shirt he slept in. And completely terrified. His eyes immediately scan over you.

"What happened?" You can't answer. You're crying too hard. His face changes instantly.

"Oh God." He reaches for you carefully. "Are you hurt?" You shake your head.

"Are you sick?" You shake your head again. "Baby, talk to me." His hands cup your face. Gentle. Careful. Like you're something fragile. "What is it?"

You look at him. At the man who has waited with you. The man who has held you through every negative test. The man who always said next month even when he was scared it might never come. And with shaking hands, you hold up the test. For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

For a second, Frank doesn't understand.

His eyes flick to the little white stick in your trembling hand. Then back to your face. Then down again. His brow furrows.

"What…?" His voice is barely above a whisper. You can't make the words come out. You just hold it out a little farther. Frank takes it carefully. Like it's made of glass. Like one wrong movement might change whatever is written there.

He looks down. One line. Then— His breath catches. His eyes widen. He looks closer, blinking once, twice, as though his vision is playing tricks on him.

"…Baby?" Your lip quivers. He looks up at you so quickly it almost gives him whiplash. His expression is pure disbelief. "Is this…" You nod before he can finish. Tears stream freely down your face.

"I think…" Your voice cracks. "I think I'm pregnant." Frank just stares. The bathroom is completely silent. Neither of you breathes. He looks back at the test. Then at you. Then back again. His hands begin to shake.

"No…" The word isn't denial. It's awe. "No…" He laughs once—a tiny, broken sound that immediately turns into a sob. "Oh, sweetheart…" He covers his mouth with one hand, still clutching the test in the other. His eyes never leave it.

"We…" His voice gives out. He tries again. "We did it?" You nod, crying even harder.

"I think we did." Frank's eyes immediately snap back to you.

"No." He gently takes your face in both hands. "We're not saying 'I think.'" His forehead rests against yours.

"We're calling the doctor." You let out a watery laugh.

"Okay."

"We're getting blood work."

"Okay."

"We're making sure you're okay."

"Okay."

"We're—" His voice breaks completely. He closes his eyes. A tear slips down his cheek. "Oh, God…" You have seen Frank angry. You have seen him devastated. You have seen him fearless. You have never seen him like this. He laughs through his tears, almost unable to get the words out.

"We're having a baby." This time, there's no question. Just wonder. You nod.

"We're having a baby." He laughs and picks you up, spinning you around.

"I told ya. I fuckin' told ya, baby !" He laughs, kissing your face. "I knew all that baby-making was gonna pay off." You laugh.

"Please don't call it that."

taglist !