moonie☾

You roll your eyes, affection for the sweet man momentarily drowning out your painful insecurities. Once you're behind the bathroom door, though, the dam breaks.

All your worst thoughts flood through, sweat pricking at your brow. The shape-wear you shoved yourself into just hours ago is too tight, suffocating as you peel your dress above your head, wiggling the pinched fabric down your hips.

Once your skin is free of its confines, you can breathe a little easier. It's stolen from your lungs once again, though, when you slip your dress back over your head.

The satin clings to your tummy in a way that makes you cringe, a low wince slipping through your teeth. You pinch at the loose skin, sucking in and turning every which way in a sad attempt to flatten your stomach.

Why did you have that second helping of pasta? Why did you agree to dessert? Why would Jack ever be attracted to someone like you?

Tears slip past your ducts, and you hold your head parallel to the ground in an attempt to preserve your makeup. You catch your arms in your periphery, the extra jiggle in them as your shoulders shake, a gasp escaping your throat.

Do detox teas work in 30 minutes?

You don't have time to Google your absurd question, as a knock comes from outside.

"You okay, baby? Heard some heavy breathing in there, you're not sick are you?" Jack's sweet voice rings out, and your heart aches.

Sick in the head, maybe.

"No, I'm good," your voice comes out shaky, and utterly unconvincing.

Jack picks up on it, because of course he does, with a sassy huff.

"You sure? Can I be of service in any way, doll?" He pushes, and for some reason, that name snaps something deep within you.

"Don't call me that," you hiss, and he's silent for a moment.

Guilt and regret flood you in equal parts, burning deep in your belly like poison.

"I'm sorry," he responds, and you just cry a little harder. "I'm going to come in though, okay? It's very obvious you're crying, and I can't have that. This is your warning, alright?"

He waits a second before turning the knob, sliding across the threshold, brows furrowing when he sees you in such a state.

"Honey, what is it? What's wrong? Anything hurt?" He jumps into doctor mode, if only for a moment, while he gets underneath you to scan your face.

"Hm, pretty as ever," he muses, pinching your wet cheek.

You sniffle, arms coming up to cover your stomach. He knows this move, has picked up on all your little signs in the short time you've been dating, a small coo escaping his lips at the action.

"Oh, honey, you're overthinking that meal, aren't ya?" He asks, and it's so matter of fact that it makes you cry even harder.

"Oh, shh, shh, shh," he whispers, stroking your hair and peppering kisses to your scalp. "You're okay, I got you, you're so beautiful."

"Stop lying to me, Jack," you babble, throat scratchy and voice hurt. "I saw the way our waitress was looking at you, y'know?"

He takes a step back at this, clearly surprised. You keep going.

"In fact, I see the way all girls look at you when we go out, the way they look at me," you mumble, avoiding eye contact.

"Yeah?" He prods. "And how's that?"

"Like they can't believe you'd be with someone like me," you answer, punctuating with a pitiful laugh. "Hell, I can't believe it most days."

"What are you saying to me right now, baby?" He asks, and you roll your eyes. "Don't give me that. What are you trying to tell me?" He demands, and it's embarrassing how easily you fold.

"I'm saying that you could be with anyone in the entire world!" You throw your hands up, gesturing to your curvy frame. "But you chose me? Why? I just don't understand what you see in me, is all."

You trail off at that last bit, crossing your arms over your body once more. He's not having any of it, hands immediately coming down to remove them.

"What?" Is all he manages, a sad whisper reluctant to leave his lips. "You don't understand what I see?" He laughs, though nothing about his tone is humorous. "Baby, you're half my age!" He exclaims, and you roll your eyes.

"No, I'm serious, do you know how scared I was to ask you out on a date? Robby had to talk me off the roof, I'm serious," he insists, and you swat at his arm, remembering the day.

A new EMT at PTMC had flirted with you, and as Jack described him, he was younger, fitter, and more…age appropriate. He'd come rushing to you, had told you that the thought of you with someone like that scared the living shit out of him; you'd told him you weren't interesting in that. Only him.

So why is it so hard for you to understand that this is a two way street?

"Can I help you understand?" He asks, taking your hand. "Please?"

You nod, letting him take you from the bathroom to his bedroom, where he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. You stand in the doorway, watch for a minute as he undoes the mechanisms of his prosthetic, carefully sliding it off and resting it on the side of the bed.

He uses his palms to scoot himself back, not too far, but enough to open a spot for you between his knees. You take it, slotting in like a perfect puzzle piece. His hands start low, fiddling with the hem of your pink dress.

"'s this okay?" He murmurs, and you whisper a breathy, 'yes'.

He doesn't lift it up, rather continues to work his hands up the fabric, pinching your thighs and massaging your ass. Resting his head against your tummy, he peppers kisses there, and your face heats.

"Jack, you don't-" you try to move his head out of the way, discomfort an ever present third in this relationship. "You don't have to do this just because I was sad, I'm a big girl, I'll get over it."

He chuckles, it's sardonic, almost a little mean as he continues to kiss your plush skin.

"I know you are," he mumbles into you. "That's not what this is about. This is about me taking what I want. Y'gonna let me do that? Or are you going to keep doing this lil' shy girl thing?"

Your stomach burns at his words, jaw dropping in surprise.

"Jack-" you exclaim, a gasp wrestling from your chest as he pulls you further into him. "Oh!" You moan, throwing your head back and finally letting yourself lean into his touch.

"There she is, thaaaat's my girl," he coos, finally pulling your dress up over your head.

Your tits bounce as they're freed from the fabric, your tummy spilling over the waistband of your panties, just a little.

His eyes glaze over at the sight, and you cup his cheeks in your hands. He can't take his eyes off your body, and you have to fight the instinct to run away, to hide.

"So fucking beautiful," he grumbles, pushing his face deep into your tits.

You gasp as his hands follow suit, grabbing at your skin, kneading them, enclosing his own head between them. You can't help but giggle, trying to separate yourself from him.

"Jack! You're gonna suffocate!" You chuckle, but he just holds you closer.

"Perfect way to go, stop interrupting me," he quips, latching onto your nipple now.

A sweet 'oh!' leaves your lips, fingers coming up to scruff and tug on his hair. He groans at that, the vibrations around your peak sending shockwaves straight to the apex of your thighs.

"Prettiest fucking body I've ever seen, you don't even know," he breathes out, switching his attention to your other breast now.

Spending some time there, he moves his lips lower now, lifting you with ease so he can better access the swell of your tummy. His hands and lips are all over, kneading and massaging what you've always imagined to be your worst feature.

You tell him so, and he just shakes his head, a sardonic chuckle leaving his lips.

"'s fucking insane, baby. Thought you were my smart girl, hm?" He asks, looking up at you.

You nod, tears filling your eyes. He smiles at the sight, his thumb coming up to brush them away.

"Not a very smart thing to think, that you're anything other than a fucking goddess," he whispers. "Not smart at all."

He scoots back some more, holding his hand out for you to straddle him. He pulls you to him by your hips, his hands sliding lower until they reach your ass. You're thankful you at the very least had some foresight to put on a cute pair of panties.

They're not entirely a thong, but a pretty, seamless pair that slides between your cheeks anyways. He groans, bites down on your shoulder at the sight of them.

"God, you have all this back there and have the nerve to be insecure?" He asks, finding purchase on the real estate of your skin.

He grabs at it, kneads like dough, even leaving a few slaps there. You whine at that, and he groans, the way your skin jiggles rolling his eyes back.

"Jesus fucking Christ, want you over my lap. Now," he orders, and you scramble.

Your tummy and tits press up against his soft duvet, your hips settling on his lap. Heat blooms warm in your belly as he rubs a hand over your skin, a soft, "good girl," falling from his lips.

You whimper, arching your back into his touch. He chuckles, and it's almost mean as his hand cracks down on your skin.

"Jack!" You squeal, lurching forward. He just grips your waist, strong hands holding you in place.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tsks, giving you another slap in punishment. "Stay still, yeah?"

You nod, and he smacks you again.

"Yeah?" He repeats, firmer, stronger.

"Yeah," you blubber, wiggling into his harsh touch.

"Good girl, that's my sweet girl," he mutters, dropping another slap onto your cheek.

You squeeze your eyes shut, wetness dripping down your thighs. You can feel his hard length beneath you, and you don't feel so embarrassed, knowing he's turned on, too.

Wiggling your hips into his crotch, he chuckles, coos a bit before cracking his hand down once, twice, three more times. You whine, though you arch into his touch all the same.

"Okay, okay, we can be done," he secedes, and you huff out a breath. "C'mon, up, thatsagirl," he purrs, settling you upright on his lap once more.

He massages your raw skin as you get comfy, leaving one last little smack before pulling his cock out.

You swallow thickly, helping him lift his shirt over his head, as well. He's so pretty, his buff, rugged frame threatening to swallow you whole. Darting your tongue out, you wet your lips before leaning back into him.

He kisses you with a fervor you have no chance of resisting, shoving his hand between you. His coarse fingers collect your wetness, bringing it up to your clit with slow circles.

It feels incredible, your tummy already tightening at the pressure. Your lips form a cute 'o', a small moan escaping them. He splays a hand across your lower back, pulling you further into him.

"I know, feels good, doesn't it, pretty girl?" He asks, and you whine. "D'ya think you can take me like this? Think you're wet enough? Or d'ya need my fingers to split you open, first?"

As delightful as his fingers sound, you think you'll die if you go another 10 seconds without his cock.

"I'm wet enough, I am- oh God, please!" You whine, thrashing your hips for more friction.

He cuts your writhing off with another sharp slap to your ass, and you throw your head back in a whine.

"Y'gonna stop being a brat so I can fuck you properly?" He asks, lining his tip up with your entrance.

You nod, tears pricking your eyes at the pure desperation.

"Good," he mumbles, poking his tip into you.

Your jaw goes slack, ever the stretch, no matter the lubricant.

"Yeah, yeahh," he draws out, pulling you down even further onto him. "That's it, 's a lot, isn't it? Big dick for my sweet girl, hm?" He asks, getting you seated fully.

You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut as you adjust to his size. When you try to move, though, he stops you, his big hands once again controlling your actions.

Your head whips up, eyes glassy, lips pouty. He cocks his head to the side, faux-pity lining his features. You rake your nails across his skin, reveling in the goosebumps that erupt on his skin.

"Jeeeesus," he groans out, taking a deep breath to maintain his composure. "What did I say about bein' a brat? Get comfortable, y'gonna hurt yourself if you try to move so quickly."

Your heart flutters at his casual dominance, the way he takes over your decision making. It makes your head go fuzzy, your hips wiggling in his grasp.

"God, you're fuckin' pushin' it, aren't ya?" He asks, swatting your backside once more.

"'m sorryyyy," you whine out, sounding nearly drunk of him already. "Just feels too good, need more, please."

He relents at that, relief flooding through you when he says, "Fine, but go slow, and be careful."

You listen, because of course you do, rocking your hips every so slightly.

"Good, gooood job, baby, s'nice, huh?" He coos, and your tummy turns at his words. "Nice and full of me, hm?"

You nod, desperate and shaky as you lift yourself up, just slightly, to drop back down.

"That's my girl, body looks so fucking beautiful riding me like this," he mutters, and you bury your face in his neck.

"Nuh-uh," he tsks, pulling your hair to get you to look at him.

You whine, and he pouts at you.

"Ooh, that hurt?" He asks, and you nod. "Mmm, sorry, angel," he replies, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

His hands grip your ass once more, helping you move up and down on him like an expert. You babble around him, utter nonsense flowing from your lips at the intense pleasure.

"Jack-Jackie-ooh! Oh, it's so good!" You whine, breath hitching as he hits your sweet spot.

"Yeah, that's the spot isn't it? Makes you feel so nice every time I hit it," he inhales sharply. "And I do hit it every time, don't I?" He calls for reassurance, and you wonder how much of it is for him and not you.

"Every time, Jackie, fuck me so perfect every time," you whine, pushing him back onto the bed to gain more purchase above him.

He flops back in surprise, eyes going wide as you press two delicate hands on his chest. You resume your bouncing, this time with much more fervor. Your skin prickles as you feel your orgasm build, the warmth in your tummy has been brewing for too long, you're starting to grow desperate.

"God, this fuckin' view," he groans, hands gripping your love handles. He squeezes the extra skin there, thumbs running over the chub. "So perfect, baby, gonna dream about this for years."

You giggle, picking up your speed, just a little.

"Y'know, you can always just ask me to fuck you, don't have to dream about it," you tease, earning you another spank.

"I guess I can, can't I?" He muses, arms coming up to rest behind his head.

"Mmhm," you coo, circling your hips to get friction onto your clit. "Comfy?"

"Incredibly," he replies, and your eyes shine with love. "Gonna cum for me?" He asks, and you're reminded of the task at hand.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the burning sensation in your stomach hard to ignore, growing more impossible each second. You nod, brows furrowing in desperation.

His lips collect in a whistle as he drags his thumb between your legs. He rubs, and it's nearly immediate, how your orgasm takes over. Arching your back, lightning shooting through you as the first wave washes over.

Your orgasm comes in a million little explosions, fireworks popping through your veins, tightening your pussy around Jack. This spurs his own release, as he releases inside you, a raspy "good girl," falling from his lips.

Trails of fire litter through you as you both come down, the throbbing of his now softening cock like a reward for your hard work.

"That's it, thaaat's it, good job, honey," he mumbles as you pulse around him, limp body flopping into his chest.

His large hands creep up your back, rubbing soothing circles on your sweaty skin. Chests heaving together, he slowly lifts you up and off of him, where you both groan at the sudden emptiness.

"Baby, will you grab me my crutch so I can go to the restroom 'n clean you up?" He asks, a bit of red tinting his cheeks at the request.

"Honey, of course," you say, leaning over to the opposite side of the room. "But I can always go myself, you know?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he cuts you off with a wave of his finger. "Don't want hear that, you know that, hm? What did I say about being a brat?" He asks, hoisting himself up.

"Hmmm," you pretend to think, resuming your spot on the bed. "Not sure, you're going to have to remind me later."

He growls, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing one last sloppy kiss to your lips.

𑣲⋆

The steam from the hot tub coiled upward into the cool evening air, little tendrils of vapor that caught the glow of the rooftop string lights and turned them soft, hazy. You’d positioned the tub years ago so it faced west toward the city skyline, toward the Avengers compound in the distance if you squinted and tonight the view was doing its job. Manhattan glittered like a circuit board, all gold and white and flickering red from the tower beacons.

Your phone buzzed on the cedar decking beside the tub.

On my way. Ten minutes out. You have the files?

No emojis. No banter. Very on-mission energy from Peter Parker tonight.

You let the message sit for a full three minutes before responding, using the time to adjust the jets, to let the bubbling water massage the backs of your thighs, to touch up your lip combo in the reflection of your phone screen. The brown liner was still crisp.

The gloss sat perfect in the center of your bottom lip, catching light. Your wispy lashes fanned against your cheeks when you blinked down at the screen, and you smiled slow, private— before tapping out your reply.

I have what you need. Come to the roof. I’m in the hot tub.

Three dots immediately. Then they stopped. Then they started again.

The hot tub?? I’m coming about the Jean Grey intel. This is serious.

So am I, you typed back. And so is the intel. Door’s unlocked. Bring a towel if you’re shy.

You set the phone aside and sank a little deeper into the water, your shoulders kissed by steam, your curly flip-over grazing the nape of your neck. The water temperature sat at exactly one hundred and one degrees, perfect for loosening muscles, for softening tension, for making someone forget why they walked through the door in the first place.

Peter Parker had been in and out of your orbit for two years now. On and off, as you’d described it to your journal never quite dating, never quite strangers. A gravitational pull that kept yanking you back toward each other every few months when a case overlapped, when intel needed sharing, when he swung through your window at midnight with a gash on his ribs and that sheepish, I know I should’ve called first expression. He was brilliant.

He was maddening. He was twenty-three years old with the weight of the goddamn world strapped to his shoulders, and he still somehow found time to remember that you took your coffee with oat milk and two sugars.

But the on-and-off rhythm had tilted three weeks ago. A late-night argument about his recklessness.

Your refusal to hand over classified data without proper clearance. Words that cut deeper than either of you intended. He’d called you impossible. You’d called him a liability to himself. And then he’d disappeared into the city skyline, and you hadn’t heard from him since.

Until this morning.

I need your help. It’s about Jean Grey.

And now here you were. In the hot tub. Because if Peter Parker wanted to treat you like an information vending machine, he was going to have to work for every byte of data.

The door to the roof stairwell creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“You’re not wearing a towel,” you said.

“I— no. I’m wearing the suit. I thought this was a business meeting.” Peter’s voice had that slightly strained quality it always got when he was trying not to sound flustered. Footsteps on cedar, careful and light. “You’re literally in a hot tub.”

“Literally.”

“With… is that a mimosa?”

The glass flute sat on the tub’s lip, condensation sliding down the stem. “Orange juice and prosecco. Want one?”

His silhouette moved into your peripheral vision. He was in the red-and-blue suit, mask and all, the web pattern catching the string lights in a way that made him look like something out of a fever dream, muscle definition that the spandex did nothing to hide, lean athletic lines from shoulders to hips to thighs. He’d gotten broader since you first met him. The boyish edges were sharpening into something harder. More capable.

The mask’s white eye lenses narrowed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestured at the hot tub. At you. At the mimosa and the city skyline and the slow, deliberate way you lifted the glass to your lips and took a sip without breaking eye contact.

“The whole… thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You set the glass down. Trailed your fingers through the bubbling water. “You said you needed Jean Grey intel. I have it. We’re meeting.”

“We’re meeting in a hot tub.”

“Is there a problem?”

Peter exhaled, a sharp little sound that the mask’s speakers picked up and broadcast. He reached up, thumbs hooking under the edge of his mask, and peeled it off in one clean motion. Brown hair stuck up in seventeen different directions. His cheeks were flushed, and not from the steam. “You’re impossible.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“Three weeks ago.”

“I remember.”

His eyes met yours. Dark, warm, a little tired around the edges. He hadn’t been sleeping, you could tell, the faint purple smudges beneath his lashes telling stories he’d probably never volunteer. But there was something else there too. Something that flickered when his gaze dipped below the waterline, traced the silhouette of your body through the steam, and snapped back up to your face like he’d been burned.

“The intel,” he said.

“The intel,” you agreed.

Neither of you moved.

“There’s a protocol for information exchange between Avengers-adjacent operatives and independent intelligence contractors,” Peter said, and it was such a transparent attempt to regain control of the situation that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“Standard Form 7-B. Digital transfer preferred. Encrypted channels. Not…this.”

“Mm.” You lifted one leg out of the water, propping your heel on the tub’s edge, letting the jets churn against your calf. His throat moved. You watched it happen. “See, the thing about Standard Form 7-B is that it’s tedious. And I’ve had a very tedious week. So I thought we might negotiate more… directly.”

“Negotiate.”

“You ask questions. I answer them. Every answer costs you something.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “I’m not playing games with you.”

“Then you don’t get the intel.” You sank back into the water, arms spreading along the tub’s rim, head tilting to expose the line of your throat. The brown lip gloss shimmered. Your lashes caught the light.

“And Jean Grey remains a mystery because you don’t want to play games.”

Silence.

Then a sound, half groan, half laugh. Peter dragged a hand through his hair, and when he looked at you again, something had shifted in his expression. The tiredness was still there. But so was the recognition.

The understanding that this was happening whether he liked it or not.

“What kind of games?”

“Easy ones.” You crossed your legs beneath the water. “I’m not cruel.”

“You’re a tease.”

“That’s different.”

A beat. He knew it was different. You could see him recalibrating, his scientist-brain slotting variables into place, adjusting parameters. He’d come here expecting a transaction. He was realizing it was going to be something else entirely.

“Fine.” Peter set the mask down on a cedar bench.

“First question. Is Jean Grey the Phoenix?”

“Yes and no. She’s a host. The Phoenix is separate.

They’re… entangled.” You traced the rim of your mimosa glass with one wet finger and watched his eyes follow the movement. “That’s your first answer. Now you pay.”

“What’s the price?”

“Suit off. Join me.”

Peter looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached for the spider emblem on his chest and pressed the release mechanism. The suit slackened instantly, nanotech fibers loosening their grip, and the sight of him peeling spandex away from his collarbones, his chest, the ladder of his ribs was so familiar and so foreign all at once that your thighs pressed together beneath the water.

He’d changed in three weeks. More definition across the shoulders. A new scar on his left hip, thin and pink and still healing. His cock was soft against his thigh as he stepped out of the suit, and you didn’t let yourself stare, but you noticed. You always noticed. He was proportional and cut, and the water was going to do interesting things to your self control.

Peter climbed into the hot tub without grace. One leg, then the other, a splash that sent water sloshing over the side and sank onto the bench opposite you.

The jets churned between you. Steam rose. His chest was flushed pink from the heat already.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Getting there.” You lifted your mimosa. “Question two.”

“Where is Jean Grey now?”

“Westchester. Xavier’s school. She’s been there for six months under observation.” You sipped.

Swallowed. Set the glass down. “Price: you tell me why you really showed up tonight. And don’t say the intel. You could’ve gotten this from anyone else.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. His hands were beneath the water, and you could see his arms moving slow, restless motions, palms gliding over his own thighs maybe, or gripping the edge of the bench. “The intel was a reason.”

“Not the reason.”

“No.”

“So?”

He met your eyes. The steam was making his hair curl at the temples. “I missed you.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread outward, warm and slow and dangerous.

You didn’t let your expression change. But your heartbeat had picked up, and you knew if he was paying attention. And he was always paying attention. He could probably sense it. Spider-sense or not.

“You missed me,” you repeated.

“Three weeks is a long time.”

“You could’ve called.”

“You could’ve called too.”

Fair point. You didn’t acknowledge it. Instead you reached for your mimosa and finished it in one long swallow, the prosecco bubbling against your tongue, and when you set the empty glass aside, Peter had shifted closer. Not by much. Maybe six inches. But six inches in a hot tub is a negotiation all its own.

“Third question,” you said.

“What’s the price this time?”

“Still negotiating.” You let your voice drop, let it go softer and smokier the way you knew he liked. “Ask.”

“Is Jean Grey dangerous?”

“Unbelievably. She could crack the planet in half if the Phoenix fully manifests. But she’s also the only person keeping it contained. So she’s dangerous the way a nuclear reactor is dangerous. Necessary. Volatile. Terrifying.” You paused. “That answer’s worth two prices.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just made that rule.”

“And I stand by it.” You smiled, and Peter’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and the water suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. “First price: you tell me something true. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m scared all the time. Not of dying. Of failing. Of letting someone down because I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, good enough. Tony used to say I had a hero complex. He was wrong. I have a—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I have a worth complex. Like if I’m not useful, I don’t deserve to be here.”

The vulnerability hit you like a blade between the ribs. You’d known Peter for two years. He’d never said that. Not to you. Not to anyone, you suspected.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Second price?”

You pushed off your bench and moved through the water, slowly, deliberately, letting the jets buffet your hips, your belly, your breasts. Your one-piece was black and cut low in the front and lower in the back, and you felt his gaze track the movement like a physical touch. When you were close enough to touch his knee with yours, you stopped.

“Kiss me.”

Peter’s breath caught. “That’s the price?”

“That’s the price.”

“I thought we were—” He gestured vaguely between your bodies. “On one of the off cycles.”

“We were. We’re not anymore.” You tilted your head.

“Unless you don’t want to.”

His hand came out of the water and found your jaw.

His fingers were wet and warm and slightly pruned from the steam, and they spread along the curve of your cheek with a gentleness that made your stomach clench. The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against your skin, webslinging calluses, rough and permanent. And when he drew you forward, the water seemed to part around you, offering no resistance, as if the universe itself was conspiring to close the distance.

The kiss started soft.

His lips brushed yours like a question, tentative, almost shy. Two years of on-and-off and Peter Parker still kissed like he was asking permission.

You answered by catching his lower lip between yours, drawing the kiss deeper, and the sound he made a low, helpless noise from somewhere in his chest. It sent heat cascading down your spine.

Tender, you thought. He’s always tender first.

And then he wasn’t.

Something unlocked behind the kiss. His free hand found your waist beneath the water, fingers splaying across the wet fabric of your swimsuit, and he pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, the heat of his chest pressing against your breasts. The kiss turned open-mouthed and urgent, tongues sliding, teeth grazing your lower lip. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders muscle and bone and slick-wet skin and the jets continued to churn around you, indifferent, mechanical, completely at odds with the way your pulse was hammering in your throat.

Peter pulled back just far enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. “More questions.”

“You haven’t earned them yet.”

“I kissed you.”

“One kiss. I need more.” Your fingers traced down his chest, following the center line of his sternum, nails scratching lightly through the sparse hair. His stomach contracted. His cock twitched against your inner thigh, half-hard now, growing, a weight and a warmth that you chose not to acknowledge yet. “Tell me what you want, Peter.”

“I want the Jean Grey intel.”

“Bullshit.”

“I want—” He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were on your hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of your pelvic bones through the swimsuit. “I want you to stop pretending this is a business transaction.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“You’re doing it right now.” His voice had gone lower, rougher, the way it always did when he was getting frustrated. Not angry. Just frustrated. Wound up.

“You’re sitting in my lap in a hot tub, and you’re acting like you’re handing me intel, but we both know you could’ve emailed me the file. You wanted this. You wanted me here. So stop.”

The words landed like a challenge.

You lifted your chin. “Make me.”

Peter’s expression shifted. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger, not exactly. Control. The kind of control he wore in the suit, facing down threats that would make lesser people crumble. But this wasn’t a threat. This was you. And he was looking at you like you were a puzzle he’d just figured out how to solve.

“Okay,” he said.

And then his hands were under your thighs, and he was standing.

The water sluiced off both of you in sheets, spilling over the edge of the tub, and you made a sound, half gasp, half laugh as Peter stepped out onto the cedar decking with you cradled against his chest.

The lift was effortless. Superhuman strength applied with surgical precision, one arm supporting your back, the other hooked beneath your knees, the classic bridal carry executed like he’d been planning it all evening.

“What are you doing?” You squirmed, not trying to escape, just registering surprise. Your legs kicked once, a token protest. “My apartment is downstairs.”

“I know.” He was already walking toward the stairwell door, the cedar cool under his bare feet, water dripping from both your bodies and leaving a trail across the decking. “You said make you. I’m making you.”

“This isn’t—”

“You wanted a negotiation.” Peter nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried you through into the dim stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flickering on overhead. Your body angled slightly toward his chest, thighs draped over one arm, your curly flip-over brushing against his bicep. “You set the terms. You set the prices. Now I’m changing the venue. That’s allowed.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You’re not kicking.” His voice had a smile in it, even if his face stayed serious. “You’re not telling me to put you down. You’re gripping my shoulder like you’re afraid of falling, but you know I won’t drop you.” He descended the stairs, each step smooth and sure despite the slickness of his wet feet. “So you didn’t agree to it, but you’re not stopping it either. Which means you want to see where I’m taking this.”

Your heart was beating in your throat. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t wrong about any of it.

“Where are you taking it?”

“Your bedroom.” Peter reached the bottom of the stairs and pushed through into your living room. It was dark, quiet, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He navigated the furniture without hesitation, crossing toward the hallway that led to your bedroom, still carrying you like you weighed nothing. “Unless you have objections.”

You didn’t have objections.

The bedroom door swung open. The bed was made, with dark sheets, too many pillows, a throw blanket folded at the foot because you liked the texture.

Peter set you down on the edge of the mattress with unexpected care, your legs dangling, your feet barely touching the floor. He stood between your knees. Water dripped from his hair onto your thighs.

“Last chance,” he said. “Tell me to leave. Tell me to go back to the roof and get the rest of the intel like a professional. I’ll do it. I’ll walk out right now.”

You looked up at him. At his chest, rising and falling with breaths that were too controlled to be calm. At his cock, half-hard and hanging heavy, glistening with hot tub water. At his face… that face you’d missed for three weeks, the stubborn jaw, the tired eyes, the mouth that had kissed you soft and then urgent and then soft again.

“Ask me the fourth question,” you said.

Peter’s breath shuddered out of him. “How do we stop Jean Grey if the Phoenix takes over?”

“We can’t. Not yet. But there’s a containment protocol being developed by Doctor Strange. Mystic dampeners. They’re not ready, six months, maybe eight, and until then we monitor. We watch. We hope she stays in control.” You reached up and caught his wrist, tugging him closer. “That’s your answer. Now pay.”

“Price?”

“Touch me.”

His free hand found the strap of your swimsuit and dragged it down your shoulder. The fabric peeled away, wet and clinging, revealing the upper swell of your breast. He traced the newly exposed skin with one fingertip, light, circular, teasing and you shivered.

“Where?” he asked.

“Surprise me.”

Peter knelt.

The motion brought his face level with your chest, and his hands. Both of them now found the straps of your swimsuit and pulled them down your arms in tandem. The one-piece slid to your waist, then lower as he hooked his thumbs in the fabric and eased it over your hips, your thighs, your calves, until it pooled on the floor at your feet. You were naked on the edge of your bed, and he was kneeling between your legs, and the way he looked at your body. At your breasts, full and dark-nippled and tipped upward by the angle of your spine made your stomach clench.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. Not like a compliment.

Like a fact. Like he was naming something he’d always known and was finally allowed to say aloud.

“You’re so beautiful, and you know it, and you use it, and it drives me crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“Insane crazy.” His palms settled on your thighs, spreading them wider. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of your inner thighs, close to where the heat was building, close but not close enough. “You showed up in the hot tub with that look on your face and those lips—god, your lips—and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew I’d break.”

“You didn’t break.”

“I’m on my knees. I broke.”

You laughed, breathless. “That’s not breaking. That’s participating.”

“Then I’m participating.” His hands slid higher. His thumbs traced the crease where your thighs met your hips, and his gaze dropped to what he was about to touch, and you watched his expression change, soften, sharpen, focus as he really looked at you.

Your pussy was bare, clean-shaven, the skin smooth and brown and slightly darker than the surrounding flesh. The outer lips were full and closed, a seam that ran from the top of your cleft down toward the tighter pucker of your ass, and when Peter’s thumbs brushed either side of that seam, you felt yourself flush with heat. Your lips parted slightly under the pressure, revealing the first glimpse of pink inner flesh, glossy, already wet, not from the hot tub.

“You’re slick,” he murmured. “That’s not water.”

“I know what it is.”

“How long?”

“Since you took the mask off. Maybe before.”

His thumbs spread you wider, and the cool bedroom air kissed your inner lips, and your hips jerked involuntarily. He made a sound, low and appreciative and held you open, studying the architecture of your arousal like it was a scientific paper he needed to memorize.

“Your clit’s already swollen,” he said, and the clinical observation delivered in that hushed voice made you throb. “Right here. Peeking out.” One thumb moved upward, barely grazing the hood. “Does that feel good? When I talk about it?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” His thumb circled, feather-light, nowhere near enough pressure. “Tell me what you like.”

“I like—” Your voice caught as he repeated the motion, clockwise this time, still too light. “I like when you describe things. What you’re seeing. What you’re going to do.”

“Okay.” Peter leaned closer, and his breath ghosted over your clit, and your fingers clenched in the sheets. “I’m looking at your pussy. It’s open now, your outer lips are dark and full, and your inner lips are pink and glistening, and there’s wetness pooling right at your entrance. I can see it. I can smell it.” He inhaled, and the sound was obscene. “You smell like sex and chlorine. You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“I have.”

“I’m going to touch you now. Not with my tongue. Not yet.” His thumb returned to your clit, tracing the hood with slightly more pressure, and your back arched. “With my finger. Right here. And you’re going to tell me question five, where Cyclops fits into the Phoenix equation.”

You laughed, strangled. “You’re negotiating during—”

“You started it.” His thumb circled again, and your thighs trembled. “Answer the question.”

“He—Scott—he’s her anchor. Their bond is what keeps her tethered to her humanity. If he dies, she loses control. If they’re separated for more than a few months, she gets unstable. He’s her weakness and her strength.”

“Good.” Peter’s thumb pressed down, finally, and your clit pulsed under the attention, and the moan that escaped you was louder than you’d intended.

“Good girl. That’s what I needed to know.”

The praise hit you like a drug. Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the damp curls, and he hummed approval against your thigh.

“You like that,” he said. “Being called good.”

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re being a brat. Even when you’re teasing me and making me jump through hoops. You still want to hear that you’re good.” He pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, wetter this time, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“That’s okay. You can be both. You can be a tease and still be my good girl.”

The words vibrated against your skin, and your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure, more contact, more. Peter obliged by replacing his thumb with his mouth—one long, flat-tongued lick up the seam of your pussy that ended at your clit and sent electricity arcing through your nervous system.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Mm.” He did it again, slower this time, his tongue parting your inner lips and curling into your entrance just barely. “Question six. What’s the Phoenix’s ultimate goal?”

“I can’t… I can’t think when you’re—”

“Can’t think, or don’t want to?” His tongue circled your clit, and your vision blurred at the edges.

“Answer the question, and I’ll give you something to really lose your mind over.”

“Rebirth,” you gasped. “The Phoenix wants cosmic rebirth. Burn the old universe, seed a new one. Jean is fighting that impulse constantly.”

“Good job.” Peter’s mouth sealed over your clit, and he sucked gentle, rhythmic, devastating and your orgasm built out of nowhere like a storm front rolling over the horizon. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your fingers pulled his hair. He didn’t stop, didn’t ease up, just kept sucking with that steady, patient pressure until you shattered against his tongue.

The climax rolled through you in waves, each one triggered by another flick of his tongue, another gentle suction, until you were trembling and gasping and pushing weakly at his forehead because it was too much and not enough simultaneously.

“There,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips wet and shining. “There’s one.”

“One?”

“One orgasm. I’ve got more for you.” He rose from his knees, and his cock was fully hard now, jutting upward toward his belly, the head flushed dark and glossy with the first bead of pre-cum. “But I want to be inside you for the next one. Any objections?”

You shook your head, still catching your breath.

“Words. I need words.”

“No objections. Yes. Please.”

Peter smiled, and it was warm and kind and still slightly wicked, the smile of someone who had discovered a new favorite hobby and intended to pursue it with dedication. “Good girl. Lie back.”

You scooted up the bed, and he followed, positioning himself between your thighs. His cock hung heavy, the tip grazing your belly as he leaned down to kiss you, soft again, reassuring, his tongue sliding against yours and sharing the taste of your own arousal.

“I’m going to tease you first,” he whispered against your mouth. “You teased me all evening. It’s my turn.”

“That seems fair.”

“I’m a fair guy.” His hips shifted, and the head of his cock dragged through your wetness, sliding up between your pussy lips without penetrating. The sensation was electric, smooth, hot, the ridge of his head bumping against your clit with each pass.

“Feel that? That’s what you do to me. I’m dripping already. Look.”

You looked. His cock was slick with your combined arousal, pre-cum mixing with your wetness, the head glistening every time it appeared from between your folds. He repeated the motion up, down, up, down,and the sound it made was obscene. Wet. Slick. Shlick-shlick-shlick with every stroke.

“Hear that?” Peter’s voice was strained now, the first cracks showing in his composure. “That sound. Your pussy is making music for me.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please put it in.”

“Not yet.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your clit deliberate circles, bumping and massaging in rhythm and your hips bucked. “I want to watch you squirm a little more. You had me negotiating. Now I get to take my time.”

The head of his cock dragged lower, pressing against your entrance barely, just a suggestion of pressure before sliding away. Your inner lips clung to him, reluctant to let go, and the emptiness when he pulled back was a physical ache.

“Peter.”

“I’m right here.” Another pass. Another bump against your clit. “Ask me a question. Your turn.”

“Why did you really miss me?”

The question surprised him. His rhythm faltered, and for a moment he was just Peter again, vulnerable, unguarded, his cock sliding to rest between your folds with no intent behind it.

“Because you see me,” he said quietly. “Not Spider-Man. Not the suit. Me. Peter. When I’m with you, I don’t have to be anything except what I am.”

You pulled him down into a kiss before he could say more, and he sank into it, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance and this time—this time—it stayed.

“Now?” he whispered.

“Now.”

He pushed inside.

The penetration was slow, deliberate, a centimeters-at-a-time advance that let you feel every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat transmitted through the flesh currently claiming space inside your body. Your pussy stretched to accommodate him, tight, wet, welcoming and he watched your face the whole time, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp.

“You feel—” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again.

“You feel like coming home. I know that’s cheesy. I don’t care. You do.”

“Deeper.”

He pushed deeper, and your inner walls fluttered around him. The fit was perfect, full without pain, stretching you in a way that made your toes curl against his calves.

“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Taking all of me. You’re so good at this. So good for me. Your pussy was made for my cock, you know that?”

The words—the degradation wrapped in praise, the crude language in that gentle voice sent an electric shock straight to your clit. You clenched around him, and his eyes fluttered shut, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.

“Say it again.”

“Your pussy was made for my cock.” His hips drew back, then thrust forward slow, deep. “You take it so perfectly. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

“I have.”

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

He thrust again, harder, and the sound your bodies made when they met was a wet slap that echoed off the bedroom walls. His pace picked up, but it wasn’t frantic it was controlled, measured, a rhythm designed to keep you on the edge without pushing you over.

“Question seven,” he said, and you stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re still—oh—” He’d angled his hips differently, and the new position rubbed his pubic bone against your clit with every stroke. “You’re still doing the intel thing.”

“Multitasking. What’s Jean Grey’s connection to the Shi’ar Empire?”

“She—god—she destroyed one of their galaxies. They’ve got a kill order on her. Xavier’s been protecting her from—from—”

“From?”

“Assassination attempts. Three in the last year.”

“Good.” His rhythm increased, and your second orgasm was building, coiling tight at the base of your spine. “Good girl. You’re doing so well. Come for me.”

“Not until you—”

“Come for me,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in your chest. “Right now. On my cock. I want to feel it.”

The command tipped you over.

Your second climax hit harder than the first, deeper, a full-body convulsion that started in your pussy and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white at the edges and all you could hear was the sound of your own voice crying out his name. Peter didn’t stop thrusting, working you through it with steady, even strokes that milked every last spasm from your body.

When you came back to yourself, he was still hard inside you. Still in control.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Now let’s try the mating press. I want to see how deep I can get.”

His hands found the backs of your thighs and pushed them upward, folding you in half, your knees approaching your shoulders. The shift in angle pressed his cock impossibly deeper, and your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you and thrust simultaneously.

“Ready for question eight?” he asked.

You were never going to survive this man.

His grip on your thighs tightened, not painful, just present, a grounding pressure that reminded you exactly who was holding you in place. The mating press folded you in ways your yoga instructor would approve of, knees bracketing your ears, your calves draped over his shoulders, and Peter above you like a promise he intended to keep.

“Actually, no more questions,” he said.

The words landed somewhere in your chest and spread hot. You blinked up at him, sweat-damp curls, flushed cheekbones, eyes dark and focused and tried to summon something clever. Something teasing. The part of your brain responsible for banter had short-circuited somewhere around the second orgasm.

“No more intel?” Your voice came out breathier than you intended.

“I have enough for now.” He drew his hips back, nearly withdrawing, and the emptiness made your inner walls clench around nothing. “Everyone and thing can wait.” A pause. His cockhead rested against your entrance, not pushing, just there, a blunt pressure that made your toes curl. “Right now, the only thing I care about is this.”

He thrust back in.

Deep. Deeper than before, the new angle from the mating press sent him grinding against your cervix, a sensation that teetered between discomfort and ecstasy and landed somewhere in the yes-please-don’t-stop category. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The breath had been punched clean from your lungs.

“There it is,” Peter murmured, and his hips rolled in a slow circle, his cock stirring inside you like he was testing the fit. “That spot. You feel how tight you are right there? How your pussy clutches when I hit the end of you?”

Your hands scrabbled for something to hold— his biceps, the sheets, anything solid—and settled on his forearms. The muscles there were corded steel under velvet skin. “Peter.”

“I know.” Another slow withdrawal. Another deep thrust. “I know, sweetheart. You can take it.”

The rhythm he set was merciless. Not fast, not yet but thorough, each stroke a full retreat followed by an advance that bottomed out with a wet slap of skin on skin. The sound filled the bedroom: slick, rhythmic, punctuated by the creak of the mattress and the hitch of your breathing. The city lights through the window painted stripes across his shoulders, across your thighs, across the place where your bodies joined.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, the movement constrained by the press of your own thighs against your chest. Peter noticed. His gaze dropped to watch the jiggle, your dark nipples pebbled tight, the full weight of your tits shifting with every impact and his rhythm stuttered.

“You have no idea what you look like right now.” His voice had gone ragged, the controlled tone fraying at the edges. “Folded up under me. Taking my cock. Your tits bouncing every time I move.”

“Tell me.”

“You want the narration?”

“I want you.” Your nails dug into his forearms. “Stop holding back.”

Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, or the realization that you could see through the Pleasure Dom act to the strain underneath. He’d been controlling himself since the hot tub. Keeping the rhythm measured. Keeping the questions coming. Keeping his own need banked like a fire he wasn’t ready to feed.

But you’d had two orgasms. He’d had none. And his cock was rock-hard inside you, throbbing with every heartbeat, the head swollen and sensitive and leaking pre-cum that slickened your channel with each stroke.

“You want me to let go?” he asked.

“I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. His hips snapped forward, harder this time, a thrust that shoved you up the mattress half an inch and knocked a gasp from your throat. “Like that?”

“Yes. Yes.”

The next thrust was harder. Then harder again. The controlled pace dissolved into something more urgent, more honest, the rhythm of a man who’d been patient long enough and was done pretending he didn’t need this. His cock drove into you with a force that made the headboard knock against the wall—thump-thump-thump—and you grabbed for the slats behind you, bracing yourself against the onslaught.

“This what you wanted?” His breath was hot against your ear now, his chest pressed to the backs of your thighs, folding you even deeper into the press.

“Wanted me to stop being nice? Stop asking permission?”

“I wanted—oh fuck—” He’d angled his hips and the new trajectory dragged his cockhead across your G-spot with every stroke. The sensation was electric, a live wire sparking somewhere behind your pubic bone. “I wanted you to stop thinking.”

“Thinking’s what I do.”

“Not tonight.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers tangling in sweat-damp curls. “Tonight you’re not Spider-Man.

You’re just Peter. And Peter gets to feel good. Peter gets to come. Peter gets to fuck me until he can’t think anymore.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His rhythm faltered. His forehead dropped to yours, and for three heartbeats he was completely still, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

“You get to feel good.”

His hips jerked. “Again.”

“You get to come inside me.”

A groan tore from his chest, low, and desperate, completely unguarded. He started moving again, but it was different now: less controlled, more instinctive, the rhythm of a body chasing sensation rather than orchestrating it. His cock pistoned into you with abandoned precision, each thrust driving deep and fast and god, the sound of it, the wet obscene slap of his balls against your ass, the creak of the mattress, the headboard knocking a staccato against the wall.

You clung to him, your hands on his shoulders, his back, his ass, anywhere you could reach and let yourself be fucked. There was no other word for it. He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t performing. He was fucking, raw and urgent and completely absorbed in the feeling of your pussy gripping his cock.

“You feel—” Peter’s voice cracked. “You feel so good. So wet. So tight. I can feel every inch of you.

Every time you clench. Every time you—” He thrust again, and your inner walls spasmed around him.

“yeah, like that. Just like that.”

“Close,” you managed. The word was barely a syllable. A warning and a plea.

“Me too.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, swollen now, slick with your combined arousal, so sensitive that the first touch made you flinch. “No. Don’t pull away. Take it. Take what I give you.”

The pressure of his thumb circled your clit in counterpoint to his thrusts—down when he pushed in, up when he pulled out—and the dual stimulation was too much and not enough and exactly right.

Your third orgasm built differently from the first two. Slower. Deeper. A pressure that started in your toes and climbed your spine and settled somewhere in the base of your skull, white noise and static and the distant roar of blood in your ears.

“Peter, I’m going to—”

“I know. I can feel it. Your pussy’s fluttering around me. You’re going to come on my cock again. Third time tonight. My good girl.” His thumb pressed harder, circles smaller and faster. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm detonated.

Not a wave this time, a detonation, a bomb blast that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingers were numb and your vision was white and the only sound in the universe was your own voice keening his name. Your pussy clamped around his cock in rhythmic convulsions, squeeze-release-squeeze, milking him, and Peter’s answering groan was the most honest sound you’d ever heard him make.

“Fuck. Fuck. Your pussy is—you’re gripping me so tight—I’m going to—”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me. I want to feel it.”

His control snapped.

Peter’s hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, and his whole body went rigid above you. His cock pulsed, once, twice, a third time, and you felt each jet of cum paint your inner walls in hot, thick spurts. His face was buried in your neck. His breath was ragged. His hips kept twitching, tiny involuntary thrusts that milked the last drops of his release deeper into your pussy.

Time stretched.

You floated somewhere outside yourself, aware of your heartbeat slowing, of Peter’s weight settling more heavily on your folded body, of the wetness between your thighs that was both of you combined. His cock was still inside you, softening now but still present, still connected.

“I can feel it,” you whispered. “Your cum. It’s warm.”

Peter made a sound—half laugh, half groan—against your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Worth it?”

He lifted his head. His eyes were hazy, post-coital, the sharp edges dulled by endorphins and exhaustion. But underneath the haze was something softer. Something that looked a lot like the vulnerability he’d shown in the hot tub, multiplied by a hundred.

“Worth it,” he said. “Worth everything. Worth three weeks of silence and every fight we’ve ever had and every fight we’re going to have. You’re worth all of it.”

Your heart did something complicated in your chest.

You ignored it in favor of practicality. “You’re heavy.”

“Sorry.” He untangled himself with exaggerated care, easing your legs down from his shoulders, slipping out of you with a wet sound that made both of you wince. His cum followed, a slow trickle that slid down your inner thigh and onto the dark sheets. Peter watched it happen. His expression flickered. “I should—do you want me to get a towel?”

“In a minute.” You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Stay.”

He stayed.

Peter lowered himself onto the mattress beside you, and you turned onto your side to face him. The sheets were a disaster. The room smelled like sex and chlorine and the faint citrus of your diffuser still puffing away on the nightstand. Outside, the city carried on without you, sirens in the distance, the drone of late-night traffic, the glitter of lights that never went dark.

None of it mattered.

His hand found your hip, thumb tracing idle circles over the jut of bone. “I meant what I said. In the hot tub. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Then why do we keep doing this? The on-and-off thing. The fights. The three weeks of silence.”

You considered the question. Considered the answer—the real answer, not the deflection you normally reached for. “Because we’re both terrified.”

Peter’s thumb stilled. “Of what?”

“Of this.” You gestured between your bodies, the inches of space, the tangled sheets, the shared warmth. “Of something that actually matters. It’s easier to walk away when things get hard than to stay and risk losing it for real.”

Silence. Then a slow exhale, warm against your collarbone.

“You’re terrifyingly smart,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you’re right. I’m scared. I’m scared all the time.

But I’m more scared of…” He stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “I’m more scared of not having this. Of waking up one day and realizing I let the best thing in my life slip away because I was too scared to hold on.”

Your throat tightened. “Peter.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just—I wanted you to know. No more off cycles. No more three-week silences. If we fight, we fight. But we don’t disappear. Deal?”

“Deal.”

His smile was small and tired and the most beautiful thing you’d seen all night. He leaned forward and kissed you, soft, closed-mouth, impossibly tender given everything your bodies had just done to each other—and you kissed him back with the same gentleness.

When he pulled away, his eyes had sharpened slightly. The post-coital haze was lifting. The scientist-brain was rebooting.

“I have one more question,” he said.

“You said no more questions.”

“This one’s not about Jean Grey.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“How do you feel about round two?”

The laugh that burst out of you was startled and genuine and so loud it probably woke your downstairs neighbor. Peter grinned—that boyish grin you’d fallen for two years ago, the one that made him look nineteen again instead of twenty-three going on ancient.

“You just came,” you pointed out.

“I’m twenty-three. I have superhuman metabolism. Give me ten minutes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

..

OH LA LA LAAAA- I’m so happy that I’m back writing. Here’s to better times and newer stories 💋.

[Edit Credits: m9stics on TikTok]

"Hey, birthday girl," Connie smiled at you as he slipped a "birthday princess" sash onto you.

"Oh my god, you did 3D flowers on your nails again, it's so pretty," Sasha exclaimed, taking your hands to examine your freshly manicured XL nails more closely. 

“You can put all the artificial things you want on your body, it won’t change your impending death. Technically, we’re not living beings, we’re dying beings.” 

Your eyes, which had been lowered to observe Sasha’s enthusiasm, lifted to meet the emerald gaze of the most annoying and sexy man on the planet.

“Hey, Eren,” you greeted him, sitting down next to him.

“That’s what Cioran said in On The Heights of Despair. It was his first book, in 1934. You should read it.”

“I’m not reading your negative bullshit, Eren.”

“He suffered from severe insomnia that made him walk the streets all night,” Eren ignored you, crossed his arms over his chest, and sank back into his seat. His eyes shone, as they always did when he talked about philosophy. “He realized, deeply and not superficially like you and we do, that we were truly going to die at any moment, and that our whole life was a way to distract ourselves from our doomed end. To be born into a meaningless world, to die meaninglessly, to be forgotten meaninglessly.”

“What a ray of sunshine,” you rolled your eyes, casually looking at your nails. You hoped he wouldn't notice how your thighs tightened when he heard his deep voice up close. “I hope you didn't get me this for my birthday.”

“Hell nah,” he let out a low chuckle, “you're too pretty to be depressed. I bought this. You reposted something like this on TikTok many times.” 

All the joy in the world could be found in your eyes when Eren gave you a Blythe doll that looked exactly like you in your natural state. Same brown skin, same eyes, same hair, same usual sexy style of dress. A Blythe doll cost over $200 to be customized to someone's wishes. It was so thoughtful, and exactly what you wanted as someone who collected dolls.

You pulled Eren close despite his grumbling and covered his cheeks with lip gloss-covered kisses.

“Now, you need to eat me out. I don’t give a fuck about dolls anymore.”

His lips curved into a teasing smile. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, it’s my birthday,” you insisted, kissing his cheek again.

You and Eren had been flirting for months but had never taken things further. This was it.

───────

“When you really think about it…” Eren said gruffly, “What differentiates us from humans isn’t language, as Socrates would say, but our consciousness. Not consciousness in the metaphorical or biological sense, but in the existential sense. It’s our doomed capacity to question the meaning of our existence that differentiates us from animals. Albert Camus said that it’s in front of the world’s silence, when we question ourselves, that the absurd is born, which he theorized in his three major works. And…”

“E-Eren!” you whined. “Focus on this damn pussy:” 

A mocking sneer escaped his lips. “My fingers are deep in it, baby.”

 Sitting in the back seat of his car, your legs were spread wide, supported by your hands under the inside of your knees. You had kept your crop top on, which accentuated your chest; he had removed your skirt and thong. Soft moans slipped from you every time Eren’s fingers touched that spongy spot inside you.

“What do you plan to do about the weight of the meaninglessness of our existence?” He plunged them in and out, his lips parted, looking at you with dilated pupils.

“I think you should eat this and you’ll find meaning in your life,” you mumbled and grabbed his hair to push his head into your tight heat.

His mouth watered, ready to get messy.

“Hell yeah,” he groaned, his breath hot and warm over your center. He dragged a languid swipe of his tongue over you, collecting your arousal. Your legs trembled, you closed your arms around his cheeks. He raised his feverish green eyes to you, a loving glint in them, as if silently saying, “that’s all I want.” When his tongue lapped through your folds, his hands gripped your hips to grind your cunt into his mouth.

You tugged on his brown hair, running your fingers through his soft locks.

As he watched you intently as he ate you out, you wanted to put on a show for him.

You pulled off your crop top, your breasts bouncing with the movement. Eren moaned against you, gripping your hips tighter. He drove his tongue deeper, exploring every inch of you, eager to please you, eager to hear your moans louder. You kneaded your breasts and pinched your pierced nipples in front of him, the fire between your legs growing, your breath quickening.

He swiped his tongue up and up your slick folds until he reached your clit, brushed it before wrapping his lips around it, sucking greedily, causing you to gasp. 

“Stop, Eren, I’m so sensitive from your fingers…”

“I almost forgot I could do this. Camus is messing with my skills, damn it.” He released your hips and shoved two fingers up your cunt while caressing your throbbing bud in circles. They didn’t have time to make a few back-and-forth movements before your whole body was wracked with spasms and shivers, his name the only sound in the car.

“Nihilists who think nothing has value have never tasted this, I swear.” Eren stood up to kiss you, then pushed his fingers into your mouth. His eyes softened at the sight of your cute expression as you sucked on them. His birthday princess.

He bought it for you while grabbing his cigarettes at the gas station, leaning over the display with that lazy, sleazy grin and saying, “C’mon, hon. Grab a color. You always look real cute when you’re workin’ on one of these.” Then, lower, just for you: “Get the biggest one they got, sweetheart. You always handle it just fine.”

And now, Joel is slouched in front of you, on the built‑in bench with sweat all over him. His shirt was tossed somewhere behind him, leaving the broad, heavy spread of his stomach bare to the thick summer air. Sweat beaded along the crease where his belly met his ribs, sliding down in slow, shining trails. 

He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear, another unlit one rolling between his fingers, and a beer sweating on the table besides him. He looks like he’s been here for hours, like he’s slowly melting into that furniture.

His eyes aren’t even on the shirt you’re holding in front of him. Instead, he sighs dramatically, like you’re the one inconveniencing him.

“Sweetheart, you’re talkin’ like I marched into your place with a whole god damn laundry basket and dumped it on your bed. It’s one shirt. One. And it ain’t even that bad. Smells like a hard day’s work, that’s all.” He shrugs. 

You stop pacing just to stare at him.

“It smells like a gas station bathroom.”

“You’ve ever been in a gas station bathroom, baby?” He chuckles hazy. “‘Cause if you had, you’d be thankin’ me for bringin’ somethin’ in your house that smells better than that.”

You groan, rolling your eyes and toss the shirt at him. It lands across his stomach and he doesn’t even flinch. Just lets it sit there like a napkin he’s too lazy to move.

“And another thing,” you say, pointing at him. “Stop leaving your cigarettes in my apartment. They’re everywhere. On the counter. On the floor. In my plants. One was in my plants, Joel.”

He snorts. “They ain’t lit. They’re fine.”

You push the lollipop off to the side, letting it sit deep in the hollow of your cheek. Joel’s eyes flick to the way it bulges your cheek out, the stick tapping against your lip every time you speak. 

“They’re dirty,” you snap. “They’re gross. And you leave them everywhere like some kind of—”

“Like some kinda man who ain’t got a trash can in his van,” he interrupts, gesturing around the cramped space. “Look at this place. You see a trash can? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s a damn good one.”

You throw your hands up. “You’re impossible.”

Joel leans back even further, belly rounding, thighs spread, looking like he’s settling in for a real long, and real comfortable argument. (His favourite thing to do).

“Impossible? Sweetheart, I’m a delight. You just dramatic as hell. You get all worked up over nothin’. A shirt here, a cigarette there—“

“And my leftovers,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t forget those.”

Joel pauses, squints, then nods slowly as he remembers shoving your leftovers into his mouth all at once the night before.

“Oh yeah. Those were good.” He licks his lips. 

“They were mine.”

“They were sittin’ in my line of sight,” he counters. “And you know how I get when I’m hungry. You can’t just leave food around me like some kinda test. That’s entrapment.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped. “Entrapment?”

“Damn right. You left ’em right there on the counter, all innocent‑lookin’, like they weren’t beggin’ me to eat ’em. What was I supposed to do? Walk away? I ain’t no saint.”

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. How one person can lack even an ounce of responsibility or respect is beyond you. It feels like talking to a child who hasn’t learned the basics of common sense yet.

So, you pace again, muttering under your breath, waving your hands, ranting about boundaries and hygiene and how he’s slowly turning your apartment into a landfill, because apparently turning his own van wasn’t enough and he has to turn your—

“Keep goin’, baby. I like when you get all fired up. You start walkin’ around, talkin’ fast, wavin’ your arms…gets you all worked up.” His voice drops into that long, lazy drawl he uses when he wants to get under your skin.

You whip around. “Don’t.”

He grins wider.

“You never take anything seriously. Ever. Not the mess, not the cigarettes, not my space, not the fact that you treat my apartment like a damn storage unit—”

Joel exhales a long, dramatic sigh, head tipping back against the wall.

“And you know what? I’m done. I’m done letting you walk in, eat my food, leave your crap everywhere, and act like it’s all just—just—”

Joel lifts a hand, palm out, like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “You’re wound up tighter than a damn banjo string. C’mon now. You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it. I just get comfortable. ’Cause you make it real easy to get comfortable.”

You stop pacing just long enough to glare at him. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be so comfortable. Maybe we shouldn’t even be hooking up at my place anymore. Maybe you should just stay in your van and keep all your trash to yourself.”

You don’t even realize what you’ve just said until it’s out. It hangs in the air, heavy and sharp, your mouth gaping open. Joel also goes still for half a second—just long enough for you to notice—then he huffs a laugh, low and amused.

“There she goes,” he mutters. “Sayin’ things she don’t mean just ’cause she’s mad.”

You spin back towards him.

“Don’t—” you start, throwing your hands up. “Don’t do that thing where you act like you know everything. I’m not mad, I’m just— I’m just tired of you acting like you can do whatever you want in my house.”

So, you start pacing again, words spilling faster than you can even organize them.

“And you never listen, Joel. Ever. You just sit there with that face, like you’re above it all, like nothing I say matters, and I swear it drives me insane—”

The lollipop shifts in your mouth, knocking against your teeth. You pause mid‑sentence, annoyed at the sudden sweetness hitting your tongue again. You pull it to the other cheek with a sharp click.

“—and this stupid thing keeps getting in the way,” you mutter, waving the stick vaguely before you shove it back between your lips

“And—“

Your eye catches on something tiny.

Tiny and wet. 

Sitting just below Joels belly. His hand is wrapped around it, covering the pulsing veins you know all too well, while it keeps releasing generously amount of white fluid from the tip. 

Joel was jerking off. Without you noticing, he pulled the waistband of his down away—and then (somehow) sneakily pulled his cock out.

His posture shifts, his breathing grows heavier, his eyes darkening—fixated on you with a hunger that makes your stomach flip. His hard cock is free, tip smudging against the underside of his belly, leaving small, sticky droplets of pre-cum on his skin. 

Fucking bold. 

“What are you—are you fucking serious right now?” Your eyes look at him up and down. 

He doesn’t even look guilty. Heck, not even surprised.

Because what else do you expect from a man who uses pussy as his fleshlight and laps around your folds like it’s his last meal on earth? 

He tilts his head, eyes slowly dragging over your tank top, your chest, the lollipop you’re still absentmindedly chewing on.

“What?” he drawls, voice thick. “You’re walkin’ around in that tiny little shirt, no bra, nipples all perked up, suckin’ on that damn lollipop like you don’t know what you’re doin’. I’m only human, baby.”

“Joel,” you start. “You’re such a—”

“A pervert?” he offers, grinning. “Yeah, sweetheart. You knew that when you let me in.”

You’re too stunned to speak.

He keeps moving up and down lazily, while his eyes are half‑lidded and fixed on you with that slow, filthy amusement he always has when he knows he’s getting to you.

He doesn’t even pretend to care. He never does.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice thick and lazy. “Finish your little rant.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost aches, but you keep talking anyway.

Or at least, you try to. Because with Joel, it’s always a power play. He watches you fight for your composure like it’s for his entertainment, taking in every twitch of irritation as if it’s something he needs for to stay alive. He lives for this—your stubborn attempts not to react, and the way you inevitably do.

Your words start to trip over each other the moment you hear his low groan. Not because you’re giving up, but because you know exactly where this goes. You’ve been down this road with him before. You know the slope, the heat, the way your body starts to anticipate him before your mind catches up.

He is still jerking off, slowly.

“You’re—you’re just so disgusting,” you say, but it comes out more frustrated than anything else. “You can’t just—Joel, seriously, I’m trying to talk to you.” 

“Ain’t stoppin’ you,” he murmurs. “Keep talkin’.”

You look away, trying to pace again, trying to hold onto the thread of your irritation, but the heat in the van is crawling under your skin, and the only thing you start to hear is Joel’s breathing picking up. You try to not look at him—him and his leaking cock, rock hard, pulsing with each—

“Oh, you done?” he interrupts your thoughts. 

You don’t answer. Because you can’t. He has you wrapped around his finger.

“…Thought so.”

You exhale, long and shaky, more frustrated with yourself than with him.

Then he says it.

“C’mere then.” 

You stand there for a moment, jaw tight, fingers flexing at your sides, trying to pretend you’re still deciding.

And you can’t believe that Joel’s hunger—his shamelessness, his filth, all that god damned sleaze he wears like a second skin—always has an effect on you.

But let’s face it: you wouldn’t be in his van if you didn’t have the same messed‑up, dirty, feral thoughts running through your head just like he does.

“Sit.” 

And that’s what does it for you. 

The way he says it like he knows exactly that you’re going to. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until you’re already stepping towards him, tugging your pants down as you go. Your panties slipping with them, pooling at your feet by the time you reach him.

You lower yourself, holding into his shoulders while Joel grips the tip of his cock, lazily playing with your folds, nudging against your clit, and then—slowly inching his way into your cunt. You sink down on him, breath hitching as you feel your walls being stretched around him.

“Slow…slow…don’t let your attitude hurt my honeypot.” He murmurs, looking down.

You stop halfway to give him a scoff. 

As you start to sink slowly again, cunt swallowing the last bits of his pulsing cock, you hear his voice again: “There she is,” smug. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?” 

He chuckles when you drop onto his lap, hard enough to make his belly move.

You shoot him a glare, shifting on his lap, trying to get used to the burning stretch. “Shut up,” you mutter—which only makes his smirk deepen.

“All bark, no bite.”

Joel’s eyes stay on you as he leans back, arms folding behind his neck while he settles comfortably on the bench. The smug look on his face tells you this was his plan all along—getting you on his lap just to watch you crumble for him.

But you’re not backing down. You know exactly how to make him crumble too.

You breathe out, hands stabilising on his shoulders as you lift yourself up and sink down again. You swallow, already feeling his tip nudging against that spongy spot inside you. 

You can see Joel’s jaw tighten, like he’s fighting not to break that smug smirk on his face—but you know him. He’s crumbling inside.

“Mhmm, always thinking with your cunt, that’s how I know her.” He nods. “Thought you were gonna keep up that little tantrum all day. But nah, you see cock and balls and your mind goes blank.”

You lift, and settle down again. Harder this time. 

“And you always use your cock and balls to get you out of every single argument and confrontation,” You rock your hips. “But yea, i’m the one that thinks with her cunt.” 

Joel bites back a groan when your hips start to get used to a rhythm, riding him in a steady, controlled pace. 

“You’re cute as hell, baby. Look at you, all worked up and pretendin’ you’re still mad.” He drawls lazily. “Go on, keep talkin’ your little talk—I’m lovin’ every second of it.”

You can hear it in his voice—the way he holds himself back from not gripping your hips, from not letting out a sound, from not pushing you against the table and fucking you until you forget your own name. 

You smirk, lifting yourself up and sinking around him again, repeating the process, fueled by a sharp, reckless need to prove you’re not the one breaking first. 

“Oh, now she’s hopping.” He smirks, fingers suddenly sliding up to curl under the hem of your shirt. He starts to tug it higher—and you smack his hand away like he’s lost his damn mind.

Joel’s eyebrow furrow. 

“Lemme see my girls.” He mutters. “C’mon now…don’t leave me hangin’. I’m starvin’ over here.”

“I know. That’s the fun part.” You nod, smug. 

“Hm. She thinks she’s real funny today.” He taps your thigh, amused. “Go on then. Let’s see how long this pussy can keep that up.”

He leans in, quieter. “Cause I already can feel her fluttering.” 

You swallow, but continue to move your hips.  His chest starts to rise in heavy, uneven breaths, sweat glistening along his stomach as he tries to keep his hands where he put them—laced behind his head, knuckles white with restraint, trying, oh so hard, to ignore your cunt clenching down on him. 

The long‑forgotten lollipop taps against your teeth as you smirk down at him, suddenly aware you can use it to tease. You pull it from your mouth, a thin strand of sweetness stretching before it snaps, and you drag the candy across his lips with deliberate slowness.

He exhales sharply, eyes narrowing up at you.

“You’re real funny,” he mutters, but he still parts his lips, letting you press the candy to his mouth. 

His jaw works once, slow, like he’s tasting more than just sugar—eyes still locked into yours. 

And while he sucks on the candy, another idea to break him sparks in your mind.

You lean in and bite into his neck, teeth sinking into skin—hard enough to leave a mark, sharp enough to make him jolt and make his cock switch. 

The lollipop slips from his mouth, clattering onto the table as he lets out a rough sound he clearly didn’t mean to make. And you know, you got him this time. 

“Hey,” you say, “I wasn’t done with that.”

“Ya know, most folks apologize after takin’ a chunk outta someone’s neck,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Not you. No, you’re sittin’ here mournin’ a piece of fuckin’ sugar.”

“You liked it. You groaned.” You say it quietly, a smile on your lips as you trace the grey stubbles along his neck.

“I like a lot of things, hon,” he murmurs, slowly melting at your lips against his neck. “What more I like is this pussy wrapped around me. Heck, ain’t even close yet. Keep goin’.” 

Joel lands a sharp spank on your right ass cheek, forcing a sound from you that cuts straight through the calm front you were trying to hold. A moan. 

He chuckles.

“There she goes,” he mutters. “Knew you’d crack.” 

You set your jaw, brows pulling together as you start to pick up your pace, going up and down his cock with a sharper, more deliberate movement. You’re done playing around—and he can tell.

“That’s it, ride all that anger out.” He says but you see that the sudden intensity knocks a rough breath out of him, his head tipping back, hands twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grab you. 

And then you slowly start to feel it—your slick dribbling down the sides of his cock, walls fluttering and spasming; every roll of your hips giving away a squelching sound and Joel can feel you holding back. 

Your lips form into a straight line, eyebrows still pinched and your cunt can’t do nothing but soak into his lap, your body completely betraying you. 

“Let me help you out, pretty girl. Looks like you’re startin’ to lose it.” He murmurs, before you feel the pad of his thumb going through your messy folds and then touching your aching, little clit, sitting just between the mess—switching. 

You release a whine, stopping your movements on his length to take a deep breath so you don’t come on the spot. He doesn’t stop, his thumb keeps rubbing lazily over your nub, determined to make you more sensitive. 

You try and swat at his hand again, stubborn as ever, but he just shakes his head with that slow, lazy little smirk that always gets under your skin.

“Nuh‑uh,” he drawls, voice low and maddeningly calm. “You wanted a challenge, didn’t you?”

You grit the words out through clenched teeth, “Fuck you.”

He just chuckles—like he’s been expecting that exact crack in your voice.

“Oh, I know,” he coos, eyes half‑lidded, savoring the moment you finally slipped.

His thumb on your clit speeds up, massaging tight, little circles around the nub and pushing that dry, cracked texture of his digit into your flesh, over and over again. 

Your breath stumbles, trying to keep moving your hips. 

And before you even expect it, Joel tugs at the hem of your shirt, flipping it upwards and releasing your tits to him. His hand immediately lashes onto one of your nipples; already sensitive and pebbled as he pinches the little nub between his fingers. 

That, unfortunately, does it for you. 

Your hips stutter, you stop your rhythm while your hands hold onto his chest, breathing through the stimulation and trying so hard not to come. 

Joel smirks. His thumb slowing down, fingers leaving your nipple to slowly caress down your sides. 

“Knew you’d burn yourself out tryin’ to beat me. You always do. Come on now…breathe. I got you. You did real good, pretty girl.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Let me take it from here.” 

Your whole body goes slack, the last of your stubbornness draining out of you as his hand cups your cheek. You try to glare at him, you really do, but the warmth in his voice makes your breath hitch instead. “Don’t…” you mumble, cheeks hot, “don’t talk to me like that.” There’s no real bite behind it. You’re melting, and he knows it.

“Mm‑hmm…that’s what I thought,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your lips. “All that stubbornness and look at you now.”

His voice drops, warm and maddeningly sure of himself. “Breathin’ all shaky, tryin’ so hard to pretend you’ve still got some fire left.”

He tilts your chin up gently, eyes soft but smug.

“You don’t. Not with me. And that’s alright, baby. I got you.”

Something in you just…folds. Because he’s right, and you hate that he’s right, and you hate even more how gentle he sounds when he says it.

You feel your resistance slip, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to hold onto.

And you can’t ignore the tight coil in your stomach, pulled so taut it feels ready to snap. Your gummy walls clinging around his cock for dear life, while your clit throbs in anticipation. 

You need him. 

“Buckle up now, honeygirl… let me show you how this is really done.”

With that, Joel’s grip settles on your hips—solid—fingers digging into your flesh as he starts to pound into you, hard and rough. Your body moves on top of him, tits moving up and down, head lulling from side to side. You try to stabilise yourself on his shoulders, sudden moans and whines leaving your lips. 

“Easy now…that’s it. Let me hear you.” He murmurs through gritted teeth. “Don’t hold back on me, darlin’. I want every sound you’ve been tryin’ to swallow.”

His hips snap harder from underneath, swollen cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot in you, making your head spin and shaky sounds slip past your lips. You tip your head back and catch Joel’s dark eyes on you, focused and intent, studying every little detail of your face.

“Joel—please,” you don’t know what you’re pleading for. 

Joels hands grip you even rougher, knuckles white as he leans forward until the top of his head settles against your chest, his hair brushing your skin as he exhales roughly. 

“I know,” He rasps against your skin. “Cunt is soft as warm honey now, baby. I can feel you letting go.” 

He eases his head away from your chest, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek with surprising gentleness. 

“Turning into butter in my hands, huh? Aren’t you, sugar?” 

He pulls you in, brushing a gentle kiss against your lips like he’s trying to settle you.

“My sweet girl.” 

That steals the breath right out of you. For a second you freeze, thrown off by the sudden softness—then everything in you loosens, warmth flooding through your chest as the words sink in.

Joel feels it; your walls clenching on him, flooding his lap with the same wetness he loves to lap on whenever he eats you out. 

“Daddy’s honeypot is sucking me in so nicely.” 

“Don’t call it honeypot…” you whine. 

He lifts an eyebrow, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I’m callin’ it that,” he says, like it’s already settled. “Cause that’s what it is. Daddy’s honeypot.” 

You moan out, louder than before and your head falls on his shoulder. His thrusts speed up once again, Joel pressing himself deeper, tighter as if he already knows that you’re on the verge of coming. 

“Mmm… there it is. Sweet, messy thing,” he says. “I can feel you tremblin’. Come for me, sweetheart. I got you.”

You gasp, hiccuping his name as you nuzzle into him closer, sudden waves of your orgasm rushing through you. Your belly tightens, your body locks in and your fingertips curl into his skin. 

Joels hip stutter, thrusts followed by squelching sounds of your come and while you try to ride your high out, you feel Joels cock throbbing rapidly—finally spurting his warm release into you. 

“There we fuckin’ go…” he groans out. “This pussy is heaven.” 

His thrusts slow down, grip softening on your hips as you breathe through the last waves of your release, nuzzling into his neck and placing a few kisses here and there. 

Joel sinks back, dragging in a sharp breath, then another, his chest heaving as he tries to steady himself. 

“I’ll be damned… we’re sweatin’ like whores in a church.”

You huff out a tired laugh against his neck, your forehead nudging into the warm skin there. Joel tilts his head just enough to brush his jaw against your hair, a small, worn‑out sound rumbling in his chest. 

After a moment, he reaches blindly towards the table besides you, fingers closing around a cigarette pack. He shakes one out, sticks it between his lips, and lights it with a low groan.

He takes a long drag, exhales slow, then mutters around the smoke, “Lord…my damn back’s gonna kill me tomorrow. Ain’t twenty anymore, that’s for damn sure.”

Then, you start to push herself up, moving sluggishly, like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to work yet. But Joel has other plans. Before his cock is even halfway out your cunt, he pulls you back in, making you sink down around his softening cock again. 

You gasp, eyebrows pinching, looking at his unbothered face. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere. Not ‘til I say so.” He murmurs besides the cigarette. 

You tries to push at his shoulder, but it’s weak, more symbolic than anything. “You’re such a pain.” 

And then you nuzzle right back into his neck. Your breathing evens out almost instantly, soft and steady, your whole body going slack as sleep pulls you under.

Joel shifts the cigarette at the corner of his mouth, glancing down at you with a tired huff.

“Figures,” he murmurs around the smoke, voice low and rough.

He leans back against the couch, sunlight catching in the curl of smoke drifting past his face, and just watches you sleep—peaceful, quiet, completely gone—wishing he could have this forever. 

Sleazy!joel Masterlist

This is not really proofread so please ignore the mistakes yall🫣 anyways…i’m planning a little special valentines day fic for our @/coffeguitar babies hehe <333